6. Julian
JULIAN
Ibarely make it back to my hotel before my stomach revolts.
The bathroom door slams against the wall as I stumble inside, dropping to my knees in front of the toilet just in time. Everything comes up, bile and acid burning my throat as my body tries to purge something that can't be vomited away.
Isabelle Montague.
Her name echoes in my head like a death knell, and I retch again, my hands gripping the porcelain so hard my knuckles go white. When there's nothing left, I stay there on my knees, breathing hard, my forehead pressed against my forearm. The tile is cold beneath me. I can't move.
The woman I've been obsessing over for two days, the woman whose body I've mapped in intimate detail, the woman I just fucked for the second time, is my target.
The coincidence is so impossible, so cosmically fucked, that part of me wants to laugh. What are the odds? What are the actual fucking odds that out of all the women in all the clubs in all of Ibiza, I'd end up in bed with the one person I'm being paid to kill?
But I'm not laughing.
I'm kneeling on a bathroom floor in a cheap hotel, trying not to vomit again, because the universe has just played the cruelest joke imaginable.
Finally, I force myself to stand. My legs shake slightly as I move to the sink, gripping the edge of the counter for support. I turn on the tap, cup my hands under the stream, and rinse my mouth out. The water is lukewarm and tastes faintly metallic, but it washes away the acid burn in my throat.
Then I look up at the mirror. A stranger stares back at me.
Same dark hair, same hard jaw, same eyes that have seen too much. But there's something different now, something I don't recognize. A crack in the armor I've spent all these years building, a fissure that's letting something dangerous seep through. Fear, maybe. Or guilt.
Or something worse—something that feels uncomfortably close to caring.
I grip the counter harder, my reflection wavering slightly as my vision blurs. I blink hard, trying to force myself to focus, to think clearly through the panic clawing at my chest.
Isabelle Montague.
I don't have any other information on her. The broker was supposed to be sending it to me when I got to New York. I just have her name for now, but that's all I need to know that this is fucked up beyond belief.
I have no idea why someone wants that girl dead, and I never will. I don't ask questions; I do the job. It makes me an effective killer and means that, when someone wants to know who to go to instead of putting out a contract for anyone to pick up, my name gets thrown out there more often than not.
I never ask questions. That's the rule. That's how I've survived this long in a profession where curiosity gets you killed. Someone wants a target eliminated, they pay me, I do the job, clean and efficient. No moral considerations, no second-guessing, no attachments.
Except now I have an attachment.
Now I know what she tastes like, what she sounds like when she comes, the way her body trembles when I bite her neck.
I know the exact shade of green her eyes turn when she's aroused, the way her breath catches when I pin her wrists above her head, the gasp she makes when I push inside her.
I know how good her pussy feels and how she smells when she's slick with sweat, all feminine musk and perfume.
My cock is stiffening again just thinking about it, and she made me come three fucking times tonight.
And I know her name.
Isabelle.
My hands were around her throat. My fingers pressed against her windpipe, feeling her pulse flutter beneath my grip like a trapped bird.
I could have done it right then—squeezed harder, cut off her air, watched the light fade from those beautiful green eyes.
I had her right where I needed her. It would have been easy.
It would have been the perfect opportunity.
I wouldn't have even had to fly to New York to track her down, like I was supposed to.
The universe dropped her in my lap—fucking literally.
But I didn't do it. I couldn't. Because in that moment, when I should have been completing the contract, finishing the job, all I could think about was the way she felt clenched around my cock.
The way her arousal spiked despite the fear, her body betraying her even as her hands flew to my wrists.
The way she looked at me, confused and maybe a little scared—but not as scared as she should have been—and still so fucking turned on that I could feel her getting wetter.
And instead of killing her, I came inside her.
Instead of finishing the job, I ran.
I slam my fist against the counter, the impact sending a sharp jolt of pain up my arm.
The mirror rattles in its frame but doesn't break.
I want it to break. Want to shatter it into a thousand pieces so I don't have to look at the man staring back at me—the man who's just committed the biggest fuck-up of his career.
I fucked a target. I fucked a target, and I let her go. Hell, I didn't even let her go; I left.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Fifteen years. Fifteen years of perfect execution, of never missing a target, of building a reputation as the most reliable contractor in the business. They call me the Grim Reaper, because when I accept a job, the target is already dead—they just don't know it yet.
Until now.
Until Isabelle fucking Montague walked into that nightclub and collided with me on the dance floor and fucked me senseless, just like I did her.
I turn away from the mirror, unable to stand my own reflection any longer, and stride back into my room, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
I swear I can still fucking taste her. Still feel her clenching around my cock as I choked her, like she fucking liked it.
Three times, and I'm half-hard from the memory.
I sink onto the edge of the bed. My duffel bag sits on the floor, packed except for the clothes I'm wearing. I was supposed to fly to New York tomorrow. I was supposed to complete the contract, collect my payment, and then ride that money for a few months until I took another job.
Now I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do.
I put my head in my hands and try to think.
Try to find a way out of this that doesn't end with her dead.
Or me. Technically, I could back out of the contract, but whoever called the hit is going to be pissed, and they might retaliate.
Not to mention the hit to my reputation.
I've never backed out of a job. And regardless of whether I kill her or not, Isabelle Montague's fate is sealed. Someone will kill her.
It might as well be me.
But fuck, I can't imagine following through on it.
I can't imagine the terror in her eyes when I go to pull the trigger or loop the garrotte around her throat or sink the knife in, however I decide to do it.
I could get close to her again easily, but how the fuck do I know I'll follow through?
I'll end up inside of her again, and unhinged as I can be, I've never killed someone while they were bouncing on my fucking dick.
I almost did it tonight. And I failed. I feel like I might fail again.
My phone sits on the nightstand, silent and accusing.
I stare at it for a long moment, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.
I know what I have to do. Know what the smart move is, the professional move, the move that keeps me alive and maintains my reputation.
But I can't help wanting to reach for the phone to call my broker and call this off.
Finally, I pick up the phone. My hands are steady as I pull up the encrypted messaging app and type out a message. That steadiness is a lie—inside, I'm falling apart—but years of training have taught me how to compartmentalize, how to function even when everything is going to shit.
Need to discuss the NY contract. Call when secure.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
The response comes faster than I expect—less than two minutes later, my burner phone buzzes with an incoming call from an unidentified number.
I answer on the second ring. "We have a problem."
"Julian." The voice on the other end is smooth and professional, with a faint Eastern European accent.
Maddox has been my broker for years, connecting me with clients and handling the logistics of payment and information transfer.
We've never met in person. I don't even know if Maddox is his real name. "What kind of problem?"
"The New York contract." I keep my voice level, emotionless, even as my heart pounds against my ribs. "I need to back out."
Silence. It stretches for so long that I think the call might have dropped, but then Maddox speaks again, his tone carefully neutral. "That's... unusual. You've never backed out of a contract before."
"I know."
"May I ask why?"
"Personal conflict." My throat feels dry. "I can't complete this one."
Another pause, shorter this time. When Maddox speaks again, there's something in his voice I don't like—something that sounds almost like pity. "Julian, do you know who brokered this contract?"
My stomach drops. "No."
"The Capetti family. New York mafia." He lets that sink in for a moment before continuing. "This isn't a standard contract. The client is someone with connections in the organization, and the target..." He trails off. "The target is apparently a loose end that needs to be tied up."
Fuck.
I've worked with the mob before, and often.
Irish, Italian, Bratva, I've done it all.
And I know those contracts are the ones you do not fuck up, beyond question.
It's never good to make a mistake, but a mistake involving the mob means death.
They don't fucking play around. And I've heard of the Capettis, even though I haven't worked with them before specifically.
They're not people you say no to. They're not people you disappoint.
And I just told my broker I want to back out of their contract.