Chapter Three

CRUE

“ L et’s get this done quickly,” I growl at Mark when I find him lingering in the hallway between the men's and women’s bathrooms. He’s lazing against the wall with his back pressed against it, and a lit cigarette hangs from his hand, as if we aren’t here on a job.

“Not gonna ask how it went with that ginger firecracker?”

I don’t have time to indulge his teasing tone. My timer for these kills started ticking the second the ginger firecracker whisked Fia away. If I still want to finish these kills and be out in time to catch them, we’d better get moving.

“Heard enough from her.” I pat him on the shoulder as an indication to follow me.

“What? Really?” He sounds surprised. Maybe it’s excitement.

Who cares? Emotions muddy the senses. This wasn’t the right time to rib him about the best chance he’s had to get laid in weeks.

“No,” I shut it down. “She was preoccupied with Fiametta after the chemical cocktail I fed her.”

“Taking Matteo’s words to heart, are we?” Mark hooks an arm over my shoulder and starts walking out of sync, as though he’s had way too much to drink. “Break that poor girl in a million different ways before you kill her.”

I won’t confess it to Mark, at least not yet, but I beat Matteo to the punch on this one. Fiametta Napoli became my plaything the second she stepped out of the Sanctuary Club. Finding out she’s Lorenzo Napoli’s daughter only sweetened the deal. I can have my toy, rough it up, and when it’s broken and boring, I’ll throw it away and move on.

“Shut it,” I reprimand him in lieu of an answer. “I want you tip top until we’re done.”

“Whatever you say, boss man.” Mark lets his words start rolling longer, emphasizing his false inebriation as we reach the bathroom door.

I’ll give him credit where it’s due. Mark’s a good actor. We don’t do it often, but under conditions such as these, where we want to appear as inconspicuous as possible, it’s a valuable tool in our toolbox.

It has always come naturally to me. I suppose that’s because I’ve been acting normal my whole life. In my youth it was falsifying emotions of happiness, irritation, or grief. Mimicking the other children, after our teacher gave us tasks or orders. As I grew older, it became a matter of survival.

The fact that I can kill with a grin on my face, as well as my eagerness to be sent from one battle to the next, raised more than a few eyebrows. A handful of tests and checks later, some blonde bimbo doctor labeled me a psychopath and suggested removing me from the army and placing me in an institution for my own good.

My commanding officer didn’t buy her bullshit and kept me on to finish my tour, before releasing me to do as I chose with a firm nudge toward the mental health options. But what self-respecting monster would try and hide his demons inside a prison in his mind?

Instead, Mark and I opened a hunting shop. It’s a perfect cover for guys like us. I started blending into society as Crue Amos, American every-man. Luckily, I don’t have to play the role often. No one comes into our store to strike up a conversation or to make friends. They’re all like me. Jumping from one kill to the next.

“Can’t we move any faster?” Mark’s gone fully into his character now, and I can barely make out the words he’s trying to use. We burst through the restroom door and rush to one of the stalls. “I’m about to piss myself.”

“Almost there, buddy. Hold it a little longer.” I take the time to scan our surroundings. There are three guys in the bathroom. Our two targets, who are standing side by side at the urinals, and a third, unfortunate bystander washing his hands. He has about thirty seconds to get out of here.

“She’s gone. Looks like we can call it a night.” The meatier of the two says.

“No trouble from the masked crusader, either. All in all, I’d say it’s a good night,” the shorter one replies.

Mr. Meat and Short-stack have a name for me? How sweet.

“Wha’ the fu’ are y’ doing?” Mark starts our mock fight as we reach the stall. “I’m not goin’ in with you.”

He’s loud and obnoxious and he’s drawing everyone’s attention to him. Exactly as planned.

“You can’t stand on your own feet, man.”

“I’m pissing at the wall.” He tears himself off of me and starts fumbling over his feet toward the urinals.

Last chance, little man in the mirror. You better start running.

I chase after Mark and extend my hands out toward him as he reaches our targets. As soon as I’m near enough, I give him a hard push that sends him firmly into Mr. Meat. Mark slams against him and, even though the other guy is big, Mark has fifty pounds on him and slams him into the urinal.

All hell breaks loose.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Meat roars, yanking his cock through the zip and inspecting the piss stains accumulated on his trousers from the urinal.

“Oh, you know,” Mark’s voice is back to normal, “having some fun with it.”

He grabs Mr. Meat by the neck and drives his head forward into the wall. Short-stack recoils from the scene, with his dick still dangling out of his zipper. He’s well-trained enough to know he should go for his gun first but doesn’t have the iron edge needed to do so amid the confusion.

My time to shine.

I slip my hand beneath my leather jacket and bring it back out after pulling a shimmering silver dagger from its sheath. I launch toward Short-stack before he clears his holster and press the tip of my blade into his throat.

I hate that I can’t have my usual fun with these two. Take my time. Watch the fear flicker in their eyes and listen to the all-empowering sound of their drawing their last breath. The guy at the mirror hasn’t moved away and, if I want to deal with him before he disappears out the door, a quick flick of my blade into Short-stack’s jugular will have to do.

“Holy shit, you killed him.” The guy squeals, recoiling away from me.

“I did.” I remove my blade from Short-stack’s neck, and flick it hard, to remove any excess blood. There’s nothing worse than a slippery blade. “You should’ve run when you had the chance, Fuck-Face.”

Mr. Meat, Short-stack and... Fuck-Face. Not every nickname’s going to be a winner.

“I won’t tell anyone. Promise. I don’t even know what you look—”

“Oh, shut up,” Mark groans. He, and Mr. Meat, have come down from the wall in the time it took me to handle Short-stack. Mark has moved from slamming him against tiles, to slamming him directly into the urinal. Given how Mr. Meat’s face is caved in, I’m pretty sure he’s dead already. But what kind of friend would I be, if I took the joy out of killing for Mark? “Your whimpering is drowning out the sound of this guy’s head smacking against the porcelain. And I’ll tell you what, son, it’s a much better sound than the dogshit they’re playing out there.”

I catch up to Fuck-Face quickly and wrap my gloved hand around his throat. I’m not going to torture him. Hell, if I could feel anything at all, I’d probably feel bad for what I have to do to him.

As it stands, he’s a complication.

I don’t like those.

“I’ll make it as easy on you as I can,” I whisper, trying to muster up as much raw emotion as possible to make his journey to the afterlife slightly easier.

With one hard thrust of the dagger, I drive the blade between his ribs and pierce his heart. Another perk of owning a hunting store, I suppose. No one asks questions about how you know anatomy so well.

“There, there. It’s all over now.” I keep my gaze locked on his. I missed it on Short-stack, but I won’t let his light extinguish without catching a glimpse of it.

“Alright, we’re done here.” Mark drives the heel of his hefty boot into what was once Mr. Meat’s nose. He does it again for good measure.

We’re off without another word, leaving the brutal aftermath for some poor soul to find. We head straight for the exit.

“What’s next?” he asks, as the first gust of fresh air washes over us.

We’re barely out the door, and I’m already scanning the street for the rest of my night’s delight. It only takes one up and down sweep of the street to find Fiametta. She has an arm hooked over the ginger firecracker’s shoulder, and they’re both leaning against their Uber driver’s car for support.

Maybe I was a little heavy handed when I dropped my sleepy pills into her drink. Oh well, the more she’s had, the less she’ll remember about what happens tonight.

“Go home and rest. I’ll see you at the store on Monday. Don’t be late. We’re getting in that order of buckshot and bait. I don’t want to deal with those pricks alone.” An order for him, but not for me.

Matteo’s dossier includes Fiametta’s address, but I prefer to hunt the old-fashioned way. There’s no better thrill in this world than tracking a target, be it man or beast. Discovering its habits, evaluating its weaknesses, and creating the perfect strike to bring it down.

A file full of information would definitely make it easier, but there’s no fun in being spoon fed.

“Shouldn’t we lay low or something? We just killed two guys.” Mark’s concerns are valid, but irrelevant. Breaking the rigorous order and structure of our routine of the past eighteen months would be more suspicious than carrying on as normal. Besides, we were wearing masks when we killed two of Lorenzo Napoli’s goons, no one’s going to bat an eye at their deaths. The only complication that may arise might come from Fuck-Face’s not leaving when he had the chance. I won’t lose any sleep over him, though. Casualties of war happen every day, and when the cops find Napoli men lying dead in pools of blood and piss, they’ll just think of him as the unlucky victim of some turf war.

“Sure. Until Monday. Buckshot and bait,” Mark echoes my words.

I give him a pat on the shoulder. It isn’t much of a reward for a job well done, especially considering what I’m getting, but it will have to do.

We part ways, with Mark heading up the street, where he left his car a few blocks away. I walk calmly to my BMW, get into the driver’s seat, and watch as her friend struggles and manages to get Fiametta into the car.

I follow them from the club to her place.

Fiametta can hardly stand on her own two feet when they stop outside her apartment building. Her friend’s forceful pulls are the only thing keeping her moving, and she’s assisted by the Uber driver who has a deeply worried look on his face. The ladies disappear into the lobby, leaving the Uber driver waiting outside.

I spend the next forty-five minutes waiting for the firecracker to conclude her business upstairs, taking in my surroundings while I wait. The first thing that catches my attention is a Rentals Available sign outside the building opposite Fiametta’s. She lives in the nice part of town, full of tall buildings, with regal, elegant architecture. Most are apartments, but a few are triple-story houses with front lawns.

I haven’t seen a single bum loitering on the street, and the same security truck has done its route twice in the time I’ve been here. They must come out every half an hour or so, to ensure their streets remain clean and tidy.

Whether they are in secrecy or not, the perks of being a mob boss’s daughter are astounding.

Right, time to move , I urge myself as the ginger firecracker leaves by the front door. She gets into her car, and I watch her drive away, until her headlights vanish in the distance. To save myself the hassle of having to find exactly where Fiametta is inside this building, I grab Matteo’s notes and read the few that are related to her apartment’s interior:

Remington Building, apartment forty-eight. An end apartment with the main bedroom joining the fire escape to the street, and the second conjoined to the neighboring wall.

Master bedroom: en-suite bathroom. Walk-in closet. Access to main balcony.

Second bedroom: down a T-shaped adjoining hall. Bedroom on the right. Bathroom on the left. Smaller. Standard cupboards. No access to the balcony.

Open-plan kitchen, dining and living room, with an overhanging loft – part of which extends to a second, higher balcony. The other is cut off for staircase use.

Balconies, top and bottom, overlooking the street.

The already thorough notes are accompanied by a design and layout blueprint with measurements for each of the listed spaces. If only Matteo made it this easy for all of my targets, I would’ve finished his list weeks ago.

From the outside, everything matches so far. Now, let’s take a look at the inside.

I get out of my car and cross the street, breaching the Remington’s main door. An old man is snoring at the front desk, with a tiny box TV at his side playing decades old re-runs of Cheers, making slipping past him an easy task.

A familiar sensation raises the hair on my arms as I press the number four in the elevator. It’s the same feeling I always get when I’m alone with my prey, watching them silently from the shadows, while they cower and squirm or try their hardest to break free of their bonds.

It shouldn’t be surprising, but it is. I’m not here to kill Fiametta. I’m here to observe, gather intel, and start building my own report on her routine and habits.

So, why am I so excited?

That’s when I realize how worked up Fiametta has me, and I’m thankful I haven’t lowered my mask since I got out of the car.

Cameras . I didn’t bother looking for them when I walked into the Remington, and now it’s too late to scour the front and lobby. The elevator doesn’t have one, and when I step off onto Fiametta’s floor, I can’t see any along the ceiling. Maybe I dodged a bullet by blind luck, this time, but I can’t allow myself to be this reckless again.

The halls are empty, but that’s unsurprising since the clock just struck two A.M. I slip my hand into my leather jacket’s breast pocket and pull out my leather toolbox, before I walk the short distance to Fiametta’s door. Outside it, I grab the various items I need to pick the door’s lock and get to work.

I learned lock picking as part of my Special Ops training, and I’ve mastered the skill over my years of becoming New York’s most elite assassin. Slipping in and out of wherever I need to go is an important skill, and rudimentary door locks pose no challenge. Less than a minute passes before I hear the satisfying click of an unlocked door.

Since Fiametta will be sound asleep, and the firecracker departed not long ago, the deadbolt is unlatched, and the door swings open with a push. I step inside and lock the door behind me, on the off-chance reinforcements were called in at any point during my wait outside.

My first glance leads me to believe that all of Matteo’s notes were correct. The living room lamp is still on, as well as one in the dining room, and it gives me a clear view of it and with light fading as it enters the kitchen. Overhead, the wooden floors of the loft make up the ceiling, and through the tall windows I can see the narrow balcony it leads onto.

I almost want to find a flaw in his notes, and if I had brought my measuring tape, I might’ve gone through the flat, room by room to see if the blueprint is also correct. There’s time to waste, after all. Fiametta won’t wake from my chemically induced slumber for at least another seven hours.

As I didn’t know what to expect when I embarked on this venture, I’m surprised to see that her apartment is spotlessly clean. Everything in the living room has its place and is laid out neatly. If it wasn’t for the freshly wiped counter tops, I’d have thought she never used this space.

But Fiametta is daddy’s spoiled princess, and she probably has a score of maids who come in and out of this place to make sure it’s perfect for her.

Ignoring the spare bedroom for now, I head straight for the open door that sits between the dining table and kitchen counter. Although the combination of drugs I slipped into her drink has never failed me before, I still approach with caution. Every step I take carries the same wave of discomfort I felt when I first saw her. Unsteady heartbeat, pumping hot blood through my otherwise tepid body. And once more, it all seems to settle in my loins, forcing my cock to swell and stiffen uncomfortably in my jeans.

Her slow, steady breaths, accompanied by the occasional bout of light snoring, fill the otherwise silent void of her blackened room. It takes a moment for my night-eyes to kick in, as I travel from one corner of her room to the next. First, I find my way to the door leading onto the balcony, and test its lock. It slides open with the lightest of pulls. Makes sense. Why would she be concerned about someone getting in through it, when she’s on the fourth floor?

I creep along the tall windows on the far side of the room and inspect the window leading out to the fire escape. She’s smart enough to keep this one locked, but a quick look tells me it’ll be easy enough to slip something long and thin inside to unbolt the window if needed.

Her room doesn’t say much about her personality. Apart from the clothing monster growing in the corner, it’s minimalist and sparse. Even some of the items that are haphazardly placed on shelves are of no value in gaining an insight into who Fiametta is. There are no family photographs and no trinkets that carry real meaning, just things that are there for the sake of being there. Maybe that’s a look into her mind in itself. Maybe she isn’t bothered by material things.

As I am making my way back through the darkness, I nearly trip over the mountain of clothing piled up on the floor that I saw from the door. I stumble forward and catch onto a tall chest of drawers to stabilize myself, knocking everything atop it over in the process.

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself with annoyance, rearranging the items to an upright position. I have no idea how it looked before, so here’s hoping Fiametta won’t think twice about it in the morning.

All those thoughts are stripped clean from my mind when I hear Fiametta utter a soft sound from behind me. I snap my head in her direction. The noise disturbed her but didn’t break her sleep.

Good. I haven’t been myself during this entire expedition, and I don’t want to resort to threats or violence to keep her calm. But now that I have her in my view, I can’t look away again. I’m drawn closer to her, this time giving the clothing monster a wide berth, until I’m standing right next to her sleeping body.

I kneel down beside her. I watch her thin, white duvet rise and fall with the rhythm of her breathing. I listen to her soft coo and gentle snores. For a very brief, and fluttering moment, I could see myself enjoying this sight and these sounds for a lot longer than just tonight.

If Fiametta really was just an innocent stranger disembarking from the Sanctuary club for whatever reason, there might’ve been a chance at something more. What that means to a man like me, I can’t say.

Those pure thoughts leave as quickly as they came. To my great annoyance, it’s not my mind that insists I get back on track with my task, but my throbbing cock, which urges me to pull away her blanket. To strip her naked. To shove myself into her mouth to lube up, before I force my way into her tight little pussy.

I’ve never denied myself the pleasure before, so why would I now?

I run my gloved hand up over Fiametta’s body, making my way to the end of the blanket resting just below her neck. I caress the grooves and lines of her toned body, and my fingers come to a stop on the crest of her breast, lingering at the sensation of her already hard nipples poking through the blanket.

Fiametta lets out a soft humming noise while I stroke the sensitive bead. Only a few moments ago, I was glad she remained sound asleep. Now? I’d love for her to wake up. I would love to have her stare deeply into my eyes as I draw back her covering and have my way with her.

These thoughts inspire my next actions. My hand snaps to her duvet’s opening and I yank it off her body with such force, a gust of wind blows in my direction. Still, she doesn’t stir.

I was definitely heavy handed in my delivery of her dose. Not that I had much choice in how much was dropped in. There was a very narrow window between the barman’s collecting my bill and getting back so he could take the drink to Fiametta.

Oh well, I’m not going to let that ruin my fun.

As the duvet falls to the floor, I’m given my first up close and personal view of Fiametta Napoli. She is sleeping soundly, dressed in a pair of lacy black panties and an oversized T-shirt that rides up her body to expose the bottom of her tits.

I lick my lips and swallow a mouthful of saliva as my eyes glimpse the sweet spot between her legs. Digging my knee into the bed, I lean closer and breathe in the lightly sweet, vanilla perfume she’s wearing. It tickled a nerve in my brain while we were dancing earlier together, and now it makes my cock strain agonizingly against my jeans.

I trail the tip of my finger over her exposed belly, which prompts another noise from Fiametta. It’s an almost silent whimper, triggered by gently tightening muscles being tickled. Her body won’t be numb from my drug. I designed it with the goal of knocking my targets out but leaving them with enough sense of touch to feel my blade pierce their skin. After I understood how well it worked, it became my weapon of choice for every circumstance, including taking a woman I want, when I wanted her.

It wouldn’t be fair for them not to experience the pleasure I’m indulging in for myself.

With the positives, come the negatives. And in Fiametta’s case, too much of a good thing has put her in a deep sleep she won’t come out of until the drugs wear off. If I understood the chemistry better, I could synthesize it to be better in times like these. But that’s for the nerds in the lab to figure out.

And not to steal from Mark, but he said it best.

Killing is what I do, and buddy, I’m damn good at what I do.

My finger slips lower until it hooks the waistband of her panties. I move my free hand to join it, and slowly peel away the lace material. It’s too dark to see what I’m looking for, but that won’t stop my exploration. I brush the back of my finger along her now exposed skin.

Even through the glove, I can tell she’s smooth. Cleanly shaven for her night out, on the chance of getting lucky. If tonight goes well, she’ll never realize she did.

I come to a stop before reaching her clitoris. If anything’s going to get close to that little nub of joy, it’s going to be my mouth. I’m not wasting this first intimate touch to a glove.

I slot one hand between Fiametta’s thighs and the other against my cock to give it the attention it deserves for bringing me this far. I spread her legs apart.

My touch is met with another soft utterance, this time closer to a moan than just a garbled noise. I pull down the front of my mask and descend to her thighs, slowly stroking the length of my erection as I go. My lips make contact with her thighs, rousing another moan from Fiametta. This time it’s deeper and more guttural. It plays in my ears on repeat, long after she falls silent again.

Does she want this as much as I do?

Trailing kisses along the curvature of her body, I head for her core. Her soft skin caresses my cheek as I move, and it feels fucking amazing.

Then, before I can reach my destination, a cellphone starts to ring on her bedside table, and the sound pulls me away from my prize. It’s Lorenzo, no doubt calling to ensure his daughter’s safety, after hearing that two men wound up dead in the club where she was spending the evening.

This has got to be some wicked trick that fate is pulling on me. I could end it all here and be done with this whole ordeal, even if it pisses Matteo off that I’m working out of order. But I’m also being cock blocked by the man I’m trying to hurt.

Hmm, she definitely has an interesting effect on me. It’s the first time I’ve thought about my job since I saw her. As soon the distraction forces my dick to release control of my mind, my good sense returns.

What am I doing here?

Killing Fiametta Napoli isn’t just another paycheck. It’s also my opportunity to get revenge for what her cunt father did to my mom. I’m risking too much by rubbing my dick through my jeans like an amateur stalker hunting his first college slut.

Next to her phone, and illuminated by the still ringing screen, I see something vastly out of place in this modern, minimalist wasteland. It’s an obviously well-read hard copy of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice . I open the front cover, and instantly see the notes and questions Fiametta has scribbled in it over the years. Thumbing through the pages, I see more notes scribbled throughout. Certain sections are underlined and have sticky notes stuck to them. Others have a rudimentary color scheme highlighting the words. From my limited understanding of Fiametta’s system, red seems to have some meaning but not much, orange and yellow inch closer, and green holds the highest importance.

One line in particular has a combination of all Fiametta’s of various systems. It’s underlined with a ruler, unlike some of her sloppier work before it. It’s highlighted in green with brackets etched in pen to block it out from the rest of the text. It lies beneath three sticky notes that are filled to the brim with her thoughts and feelings.

In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.

The first note is an analytical view of Darcy’s mindset. I read it, though the tedium makes my brain reject holding on to the information any longer than it must. The second is Fiametta fawning over the relationship Darcy and Elizabeth share.

It’s her final sticky note that gives me a deeper insight into her mind. It isn’t a rambling mess like the others, but focuses on one succinct point.

Can such a connection really exist? It reads. This purest form of love after rejection.

Interesting. None of these words can be about me. We only met a few hours ago. But they speak to me in a way I can’t rationalize. It’s as if Fiametta was given the gift of foresight and peered into the future to see me standing here, watching her sleep, while my own inner turmoil begins.

Out of everything I’ve come across, this old book has told me more about her than the environment she dwells in. She’s intelligent, a deep thinker, and she protects anything that holds meaning in her life.

With a final glance in Fiametta’s direction, I rise from the bed and head for the door. I leave her in the state I put her in, while want and reason battle in my head. Yes, she’s a target and my best shot at avenging my mother’s untimely death, but I also want to feel her tight pussy wrapped around my shaft.

I finish my inspection of her apartment, taking note of the entryways, exits, and places I can hide away in a pinch, if it ever comes to that. These are the important points Matteo’s notes couldn’t cover, and they’re the only ones that actually mean anything.

Once done, I reluctantly go back the way I came. I typically wouldn’t let a phone call scare me off, but for all I know, Lorenzo’s dispatched an army to check on his daughter.

I’ve had a taste of Fiametta Napoli, however short and not the way I really wanted.

And like a ravenous wolf tasting blood after a long period of starvation, I need more.