Kasien
Present
Lucien: Why did my money fly in with two dead bodies?
Me: They pissed me off. I added a hundred thousand for the troubles.
Lucien couldn’t care less about his people, thankfully. We sent the dead twins with the money, hoping he would accept the extra cash as an apology.
Lucien: I’ll fly out in a week. Keep the journalist alive till then, I want to see her.
Fuck. Fucking fuck.
Her new identity is almost ready. She was supposed to be gone anytime soon now.
Shit.
I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. This is getting more and more complicated.
She was supposed to be gone soon.
I wasn’t supposed to obsessively watch her through the cameras.
I wasn’t supposed to jerk off and spray my shower wall three times a day with a picture of her upside down on that sofa in my head.
And I most definitely wasn’t supposed to make her cum all over my hand last night. That was a huge mistake.
Also, it was the best thing I did in years. I couldn’t help myself. Jesus.
This is getting so out of my hands. I always follow a plan, and she always fucks it up. I can’t even concentrate when I feel her cunt on my hands all the fucking time now. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Why the hell does he want to see her? I could tell him she’s already dead, but he would want proof, and I haven’t arranged that yet. That’s too risky. If I don’t reply to him in two minutes, he’ll call me.
Goddammit. Think.
Okay, he’s flying in for the charity ball. I’ll take her there. Lots of people, lots of witnesses. I can sneak lots of my men there too. He’ll just play with her and that’s it, but if it goes sideways, the charity ball is the perfect place for it.
Me: I’ll take her to the charity ball then. See you there.
Lucien: Perfect.
Okay, we have a couple of days to finalize her new identity, papers, and fake her death.
That’s doable.
?
I’m standing in front of a mirror in our closet, trying to fasten my tie. Adrien is next to me, doing the same, but his hands are shaky and he struggles. I turn around, close the distance between us and fasten his tie with one controlled movement.
“What did you take?” I ask him, trying not to sound like an interrogator.
He just scoffs at me and rubs his hands on his face, then messes up his curls. He seems on edge. Again.
“Nothing,” he says, putting his hands on his hips before finally looking at me, his eyes a little bloodshot, dark circles under them. “Fine, I did one line. I was tired,” he admits and shrugs as if it was nothing.
I hate this. I hate that I can’t send him away like my sister, give him a normal life. But he would never let me, he would never leave me in this shithole. If I ever tried, he’d kill me before he’d ever leave me.
And I know that if it wasn’t for him, I’d die here already. We’re stuck together. The Varners ruined him, wrote his destiny before he could grow up. Same as mine.
This fucked up family.
We stare at each other, he’s probably waiting for another interrogation but I stay silent. When I grab my suit jacket, he does the same, checks his gun magazine and we head toward the door.
When old Devereaux needs someone from his own ranks erased, we’re always the ones he sends. As we walk through the manor to the garage, I guide him through the details of today’s evening.
“He’s supposed to be at the Moon Club, probably with two or three men by his side.” We get to the garage and get on our bikes, start the engines, then loud rumbling resonates through the big garage full of cars.
The sound of the motor finally puts my mind to peace.
“If necessary, we kill them too, but it’s not required. His head is a must though.”
I put on my helmet, Adrien doing the same. I turn the Bluetooth on and continue.
“Should be really quick and easy. He’ll be downstairs in the VIP. No cameras,” I explain when he responds, his voice resonating in my helmet as we ride out of the garage.
“Anything else? Does he have the Vermilion mark?” he asks.
“Left arm,” I say.
He chuckles under his breath.
Cutting those marks off is his favorite part – his private little revenge on every idiot who signed up for this life. It’s his thing and I’m not taking it away from him. He even tattooed his own Vermilion hallmark on his ass cheek, just so whoever cuts his out one day, has to grab him there.
Funny bastard.
I’d laugh, if the idea of him on a slab didn’t make my stomach twist. As if I’d ever let anyone get that close to him while I’m still breathing.
We arrive at the club, parking our bikes next to a small dark aisle where the fire exit is. That’s our quick getaway.
Inside, loud music blasts from downstairs, the air smelling like sex and alcohol. We descend the stairs and take one of the VIP booths.
We order a drink and sit down while inconspicuously checking the surroundings.
The target is two booths to the right of us, only two men with him.
Easy. They’re alone, watching the pole dancers swinging in the middle of the VIP booths.
We sip on our drink and smoke one cigarette each.
I check the whole ceiling, confirming the no cameras information I got.
Everything seems to be as planned.
I can’t wait to be back home and watch my security app till I fall asleep.
The club is so dark we barely see each other. It keeps the guests discreet. The only light is at the pole dancing stage.
Red LEDs illuminate the stage as the dancers make their moves, looking almost magical. The girls are beautiful, dancing to Labyrinth’s Mouth Everest, their hair flying around their bodies in small red lingerie and black dresses that can barely be considered dresses.
One of the girls is wearing white lingerie as she’s hanging upside down on the pole and slowly rotates on it, her amber hair flying all the way to the floor.
And once again, I can’t stop the images of Kiara in white lingerie and a silky dress flooding my mind. Upside down, her legs bent at the knees and rested on the sofa.
She looked like an angel.
She was wearing a white dress when she ran from me years ago. And a couple nights ago, she was wearing one again.
What is she doing to me?
I wanted to crash into that suite and fuck her brains out until she forgets her name.
Adrien nudges me with his elbow when I’m zoned out on the pole dancer in white lingerie, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Let’s get it done,” I say as I gulp the rest of the drink.
We grab the silencers, screw them on, and head out.
We walk around the other booths, nobody minding us, everyone having their fun in the darkness of this place. As we step into the booth we’re about to empty, the guys lift their heads from whatever they were looking at, surprised.
Lines of coke are on the table along with paper bills for the dancers, some of the bills rolled into tight tubes.
Just as we lift our guns, aimed at the target, ready to pull the trigger, a girl climbs out from under the table, our target gripping her hair and lifting her in front of him, shielding himself with her body.
My gun is now pointed right at her.
Fuck, we didn’t see her before. They had her on her knees under the table.
Shit.
Adrien gives me a quick panicked look. One of the other guys lifts his hands, surrendering, trying to slowly get out of the booth. He probably doesn’t have a gun or is too high to think.
The second man takes out his gun and points it at us.
Everything happening in a matter of milliseconds. Despite the girl, we have a clear shot on both of the men, taking it.
It’s a no brainer.
Just like that, the main target takes a bullet right between his eyebrows from me, and the other guy takes the same hit from Adrien.
But there was a third shot.
The girl is falling to her knees, blood stains starting to leak through her blue thigh dress.
No.
What?
No, no, no.
The guy had to shoot her at the same time we took our shot.
Why the fuck did he do that?
Adrien runs to her, catching her right before she falls, her body completely limp and the blood leaking so fast it’s clear she’s not going to make it. She was shot from behind, right in the chest.
I stand there, frozen, the wheels in my head spinning, burning, thinking about what we should’ve done differently, going through all the scenarios I played out in my head.
This fucked up situation was in none of them.
Why the hell did he shoot her? It doesn’t make any sense.
We’re always so careful about bystanders.
Always.
What went wrong?
I don’t get it. My eyes fly wide. She lies there like a discarded doll, her blue dress darkening with blood. Sound compresses, then thins—music, laughter, the bass—until all I hear is the wet, obscene bloom pooling under her.
Adrien’s sobs cut through me like glass.
“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re fine,” he hyperventilates while holding her, shaking her body in his arms.
She’s dead.
“Fuck, we need to—” Adrien is whispering, whimpering.
He’s having a panic attack.
“We need to take her to the hospital,” he blurts out through the sobs.
“We need to go, Adrien,” I say, my voice cold, grabbing his elbow and trying to pull him off the floor.
But he doesn’t want to let her go.
His white shirt is soaked with her blood. I quickly cut out the tattoo from the body of the target and put the disgusting piece of skin in my pocket.
“She’s dead, Adrien, let’s go,” I yell at him to snap him out of it and I pick him up, pushing him out of the booth and out of the club in seconds. He’s stumbling on the way out, holding his hair, trying to rip it out of his head while I keep pushing him outside the club.
We get to our bikes, Adrien takes his helmet, his bloody hands shaking, tears running down his face. I cup his cheeks with both hands, looking at him apologetically.
“It’s not your fault, I promise.”
He nods, eyes empty.
As soon as we get on the highway leading us out of the city, we push past the speed limit.
The lights are turning into a colorful blur, the bike rumbling under me.