Chapter 3
Iwasn’t used to visitors—not in my home or my life.
In the five years since I’d purchased this corner apartment in one of the historic co-ops across from Central Park, I had only welcomed five people inside. Two were my adoptive brothers, Gabriel and Matteo D’Angelo. Another was our now-deceased father, Giuseppe. And the last two, of course, were the pair of cleaners sent from the agency, Rose and Helen, who came every Tuesday morning.
Not that the women had any idea who I was. Not who I really was.
They only called me “sir” and referred to me as “the client.” That was how I liked it. The less people who knew my true identity the better.
The better for them, that was.
Most people, especially those involved in the New York underworld, went out of their way to avoid meeting me face-to-face. The superstitious ones didn’t even speak my name, afraid that saying it out loud might magically summon me like an ancient demon. And as ridiculous as that might sound, I honestly couldn’t blame them.
After all, I knew better than them all the things I’d done: all the houses, hotel rooms, and offices that I’d been the only living soul to walk out of; all the unsolved murders filling the NYPD filing cabinets that I was responsible for; all the funerals; all the blood on my hands.
The New York mob world had always been messy. Photos going back a hundred years recorded the bloody aftermath of a century of gangland justice—limp bodies sprawled across streets and alleyways, cars and walls splattered with blood and peppered with bullet holes.
Every now and again, the bosses felt they had no choice but to send a public warning. A wrong step by a rival family, an overly ambitious street soldier encroaching on another’s territory, a rat talking to the cops—that was all it took for someone to end up tomorrow’s front page news.
Street hits like that gave new blood an opportunity to prove their loyalty. Give a punk a gun, send him out on an ambush, and he’d come back a made man. Anyone could make an amateur hit like that.
But no one could do what I did.
Public spectacle had its place, but for every loud, brash, headline-making St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, there was a calm, quiet, surgical hit. The kind that was needed when the head of the family wanted to keep his business private. When he didn’t want any evidence left behind. The kind that left the cops and rival families scratching their heads.
That’s when the D’Angelo family called me, and with the debt of gratitude I owed them, I never said no.
Besides, I was very good at what I did.
Sometimes, it was a body with a broken neck found at the bottom of the stairs or an accidental drowning in a backyard pool. Sometimes, it was a home burglary gone wrong or a tragic suicide no one saw coming.
But more important than what was found at the scene was what wasn’t—bullet casings, fingerprints, hair strands, fabric fibers, footprints. No loud sounds for neighbors to overhear. No witnesses. No evidence.
Nothing to prove that New York’s own Angel of Death was ever there.
And when my work was done, I came home to the solitude of my apartment—the one place where I didn’t need to be vigilant, where there were no surprises.
Until today.
It wasn’t simply the new face at the door that surprised me. I always knew that was a possibility.
If anything, I’d been amused to see someone different. The women who usually cleaned my home every Tuesday were competent and efficient enough, but lately, they’d become a little too comfortable in their positions, as proved by Rose daring to question me earlier.
Besides, the new girl was at least fifteen years younger…and pretty.
Of course, that wasn’t the surprising part either.
The underworld was filled with beautiful women, many of whom would be considered hotter than the woman who’d just run out of my bedroom. Women with long legs and short skirts. Women with plumped-up lips and smokey bedroom eyes.
Those were the kind of women who flocked to my adoptive brothers. Any night we went out together would end with at least one or two of them wrapped around Gabriel’s arms and another on Matteo’s lap. It was like the poor creatures couldn’t help themselves.
Of course, there were always a few who looked my way, too.
The brave ones would curl their hair around their finger as they flashed their eyes my way. They looked at me the same way they’d watch a tiger in a cage, with equal parts fascination and fear.
The truly reckless ones, the ones who got off on brushing up against danger, did more than look. They’d rub their ass against me on the dance floor or trace their hand down my pant leg as I walked past.
Every now and again, I’d take one of those women up on the offer they were making with their bodies, taking them hard and fast in one of the club’s dark corners. But once they’d gotten their fill, they disappeared. They never ended the night hanging off me like they did with my brothers.
Gabriel liked to joke that “no woman likes curling up with icicle,” and he had a point.
My profession—my life—didn’t allow for shows of warmth or passion. Those things were weaknesses for men like me. Staying cold and methodical is what kept me alive and my brothers safe...and if that made everyone from innocent bystanders to the women at the club look at me as if I was more predatory animal than man, then so be it.
And in the end, that was what surprised me about this new girl. It wasn’t her simple beauty, glossy dark hair, or big, round brown eyes. It wasn’t her sweet heart-shaped face or those lush curves that looked deliciously soft.
It was the way she’d looked at me.
The way her pupils dilated with want instead of fear. The way her lips had parted on instinct. The way she’d grazed her teeth against them. The way she’d subconsciously leaned closer toward me instead of away the longer she stared.
She wasn’t some adrenaline junkie wanting a story to tell her friends about her adventure with a deadly animal. She was a woman looking at a man.
A man she was clearly very attracted to.
Screw all the fake lashes and pushup bras. The honest desire shining in the stranger’s eyes was the single sexiest thing I had ever seen.
And I wanted more of it.
Maybe that was why I’d covered for her—another surprise—when Rose came knocking. Though, to be honest, I never could stomach a snitch, and the older cleaning lady looked like she was itching for a reason to turn her new partner in.
A few minutes after Mary (there was no way that was her real name) fled my bedroom, I overheard Rose talking to her as they were packing up to leave.
“Here’s your pay for today.” There was a rustle of paper as Rose handed over one of the sealed envelopes that I’d left out on the kitchen counter for them.
“Thank you,” Mary said, her voice as soft as before. There was a slight pause, then, “Wait. This is too much.”
Rose tried and failed to muffle a cruel-sounding laugh. “You can always give me what you don’t want.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. “I’m just surprised.”
“I take it your usual clients don’t like you enough to tip.”
“Some do,” Mary said, ignoring the other woman’s taunt. “But never like this. Does this client always pay like this?”
“Don’t get greedy, girl,” Rose said, her voice taking on a sharp edge. “This is Helen’s regular gig, not yours.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
“Good,” Rose doubled down. “Because if I thought you were trying to poach our client, especially one with pockets as deep as this one, I’d have to do something about it. Understand?”
The hallway was dead silent for a second.
Anger began to coil deep within my belly at the sound of Rose’s petulant threat. That was the second time today she’d tried my temper, acting far too presumptuous.
Clearly, it was time to contact Jane and request a new crew.
Not that this place ever got dirty enough to need two cleaners. Just one would be enough.
And now I knew exactly which one I wanted.