Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 170747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 683(@250wpm)___ 569(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 683(@250wpm)___ 569(@300wpm)
Samuel is leaning against the wall in the hallway, a file in his hand. When I emerge, he turns away and walks down the hall, ducking into the living room. I close the door, and he tosses the file on the coffee table.
“I think I have something,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his jaw.
I take a cigar from my pocket and fall onto the couch before lighting it. “Go on.”
“You know how Nero Verdi became the capo of New York.”
“When his brother was taken out.” I lift a brow and wait. He steps forward and opens the file, turning it to face me. It’s a crime scene photo, a picture of Lorenzo Santos’ pale face. And in the center of his forehead is a bright red lipstick imprint. “Ángel de la Muerte. Unfortunate for him.” The angel of death, or as some call her, the kiss of death due to her infamous calling card, is a Russian assassin—though she works for anyone, for the right price. She’s good at what she does, and she’s become more of a whispered myth than reality, though she is very much real. The Italians certainly didn’t make that public knowledge.
“You know she’s not cheap, so someone wanted him gone, badly.”
“You think Nero did it?” I shrug. “It’s not very Italian, but it is Nero.” God knows, the man has no morals. I half suspected his involvement anyway.
“Well, it appears she’s been busy.” He moves the picture from the top and spreads out three more. Three dead bodies. One face down on a table and two more on the floor. There’s another crime scene photo of a shattered window and then shell casings on the concrete floor of a parking garage, next to a card. The Queen of Hearts, a red lipstick print on the back.
I frown as I glance at the pictures. “Who are they?”
“Bernado Caro and Franco Lama, both Italian capos. And Marco Fiore, Caro’s second.”
“Who has it in for the Italians?”
He shrugs. “Could be anyone, but these guys opposed Nero Verdi to take over as capo.”
I narrow my eyes on the images in front of me and tap my finger over my bottom lip. “It’s risky for her. The Italians won’t like that she took out four of them in a month.”
He arches a brow. “Exactly. She’s never killed so many from one organization before.” No, because she’s neutral ground with no real alliances. Sure, she’s owned by the Russians, but she’s freelance. And money wouldn’t be enough of a motivator, not to someone like her.
“It’s not her. It has to be a setup.”
“Or maybe it is.” Samuel drags a hand through his hair and smirks. “If he had some serious collateral on her.” Anna.
I lean back against the couch. “She wouldn’t let him live long enough to use it.”
“Maybe, or maybe he’s playing her.”
Very little is known about the assassin. She’s very choosy in who she’ll have dealings with. Those who do know what she looks like wouldn’t dare breathe a word because she will not hesitate to end them. She takes her anonymity very seriously. The rumor is that she’s the daughter of Nikolai Ivanov, one of the Russian Kingpins. Could it be that Nero is involved with him? Is Anna collateral against Nikolai?
Whatever is going on, Nero is in with some serious people. I only hope he’s not going to drag Anna down with him.
21
Anna
I try to move, but the collar at my neck cuts into my skin as the chains bolted to the floor pull tight. Heavy footsteps echo around my mind, much louder than they should be. Shiny shoes appear in my line of vision, and I slowly lift my gaze. I know this scene, I’ve relived it hundreds of times, but it’s changed. This is not the master. Instead, the man standing before me is the boss of the Sinaloa cartel. His three-piece suit is exactly the same way it was at the police station, the silver streaks in his hair appearing less severe in the darkness of the room.
“How pretty you look like that; naked and on your knees for me.” They are the master’s words, but coming from this man’s mouth. The toe of his shoe nudges the inside of my knee before he shoves my legs apart. “Yes, so pretty.” He smirks, dropping to a crouch in front of me. He drops his gaze to the floor, and when he looks up again, it’s the face of the master. That sick smile pulls at his lips as he drags his thumb over the corner of my mouth. I close my eyes and silent tears track down my cheeks. “So young. So untouched.” I’m far from untouched. I hear him shift, and then the clink of his belt, the lowering of a zipper. He grips my jaw, squeezing so hard that his fingers sink into my skin. “Open up for me, amado.”