Chapter 5 Bargain Isla
Bargain
Isla
This is mortifying on multiple levels.
Firstly, this little closet is disgusting. He’s got me shoved up next to a bucket of dirty mop water that probably hasn’t been changed all day.
Secondly, I’m disgusting. I’ve been working since seven in the morning. I’m pretty sure I have pork fat on my face.
Lastly, and worst of all—this hot asshole just bested me on my own turf.
“I’m not striking any deals with a knife pressed to my throat,” I snap.
“Fair. But you almost killed me once, and I don’t want to push my luck.” There’s a smile in his delectable voice. A puff of his breath cools the skin of my neck, and I shiver. Again.
I mentally add that to my list of mortifications.
“Look, Rocha,” I say, turning just enough that I can see him from the corner of my eye. “I have a banquet to plate up right now, and I can’t blow my cover.”
My captor expels a long sigh that drifts across my pulse and shoots an electric pang of desire straight to my core. “What’s your name?”
I hesitate, but I also know he could tear open my chef’s coat and find the hidden tattoo above my heart to take it anyway, if he wanted to. “Isla.”
“Isla,” he repeats, my name rich and honey sweet. “I know you’ve got to prepare for your second shot at Nowak. So do I. But there’s a problem you might not know about.”
I scoff. “Oh yeah? Like you want the payout and I’m standing in your way?”
“No. Like Henrik Slange.”
My blood turns to ice. Slange might be the only assassin in our world scarier than the man currently pressing a blade to my throat.
Because Slange isn’t just exceptionally good at his job.
Slange loves his job. And he has a reputation for loving it most when he can capture a competitor and wrench their secrets from them through a painfully slow death.
I have a sudden urge to ditch this job altogether. But I can’t. I’m only three contracts away from requesting retirement. Three contracts away from potential freedom, or at least as free as someone like me can ever hope for.
“Slange is going to make it incredibly difficult to get to Tomasz Nowak,” Mateo whispers.
“I can’t do it on my own. And neither can you—he’s not going to let Nowak eat or drink anything during the meeting.
He’s too smart and too careful for that.
” My breath hitches as the knife lowers from my neck. “We need a better plan.”
I turn to face him. Christ, he’s so hot it’s physically painful to look at him.
And he’s standing too close. I take a step back and knock into the mop bucket.
Dirty water splashes over my pant leg. My eyes press closed on a long sigh, and when I open them, one corner of Mateo’s lips is lifted in a faint smile.
I fold my arms across my chest and glare up at this man who smells like bergamot and black pepper and bad decisions. “What’s your proposition,” I demand.
His smile stretches as though he’s fighting it and failing. “I’m betting edible poisons are not your only skill.” I shrug, and he flips his blade closed before pocketing it. “I have a lab. Access to supplies. If you can reformulate a poison gas, I’ll help you deploy it.”
My head tilts, my eyes narrowing. “And you’ll get me back out. Alive.” Mateo gives me a deferential nod. “And I’ll get the Nowak kill for my record.”
“We’ll split the record. And you won’t kill me and take my bounty.”
Tempting. Maybe I should have just let the poison run its course and claimed Mateo’s bounty when I had the chance. I can’t explain it—we claim bounties all the time in this job. But something about that felt . . . wrong. Just like the idea of stabbing him in the back feels wrong now.
“My employer has a bounty on Slange,” Mateo says, as though he can sense me weighing my emotions versus a hefty payday. “Seven million. I’ll split it with you if we get him too.”
A vision of a cute little bakery and beautiful patisseries behind glass cases dances through my mind as I stick out my hand and say, “I take five million. Final offer.”
Rocha’s smile unleashes, his warm hand folding around mine, his grip firm but comforting. “Deal.”
For a moment that feels eternal, we stand there in the dark with our palms pressed together. Somehow, I know I’ll never forget it.
Maybe that’s why I pull away first.
“So, umm . . .” I clear my throat, the air suddenly thick and hot in the cramped space. “When do we start?”
“What time are you done with your shift?”
I glance at my watch. “Four o’clock.”
“Then four twenty. Meet me at 78 Calle de Lagasca. Apartment 54.” Mateo gives me a decisive nod and turns briskly toward the door.
“But . . .” I glance down at my chef’s coat and apron, the white fabric stained with slashes of raspberry coulis. My damp pant leg sticks to my skin. When I look up, Mateo is watching me over his shoulder. “I’d like to shower and change.”
“There’s no time to waste.”
Before I can argue, Mateo opens the door and slips into the hallway, leaving me in the dark.