Page 1 of Cruel Pawn (Cruel Duet #1)

Priya

O nline dating usually made killing people so much easier.

People lived their whole lives for everyone to see, post by post, story by story, and dating profiles were a gift to people like me.

It made building a picture of them, their routine, and their weaknesses easy.

I guessed over the years, I’d become spoiled, because after two futile weeks of trying to uncover something, anything useful about Arden McFadyen, my latest mark, I had nothing to show for it except a lip I’d drawn blood biting in frustration and a photo pinned to my wall with my least favourite knife.

It did remind me to upload some banal, smiling selfies to my persona’s social media, though, so it wasn’t all pointless.

According to Silvio, my only friend, and the only person in the world who I valued the opinion of, people who didn’t have Instagram profiles were either rebels, clinically insane, or serial killers.

Ding, ding, ding—he was correct on all counts.

It did make me wonder why Arden didn’t have social media, though.

I knew he was from a wealthy family who’d put their name to an insurance company—fucking vultures.

Maybe he feared being conned or taken advantage of online.

Annoying, since I wanted to con him and take advantage of him.

He was also connected to the Marshall family of gangsters, career criminals, and killers, though not actually involved in any of the fun stuff.

I was starting to think Arden shared nothing online because his life was so dull.

He was present in other people’s lives though, albeit tangentially.

I found him at a Christmas party splashed all over Raegan Marshall’s feed, and a little light stalking uncovered him with Stefan Marshall, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders, both laughing like devils at something out of view.

The captain read: SAINT’S GONNA KILL US, BUT WORTH IT.

The next photo showed a pool with a flailing man caught mid-splash.

Damien Marshall. Better known as the Saint.

The bogeyman of London, whose name spooked even people in my line of work.

Shame my target wasn’t that guy. He’d have been more fun to take out. But oh, well. Killing Arden paid my bills and added a nice chunk to my revenge fund. Buying information then hiring a team of kickass killers to help me murder whoever took out my family did not come cheap.

So here I was, lurking by a park’s iron fence and watching the coffee shop across the busy London street, waiting to time my appearance to the precise second it would have the best impact.

I could see him through the shaded glass of Weasel Bean, the local coffee shop—the bastard shopped local and supported small businesses, and that did not fit with the rich, entitled party boy I’d expected when I first started researching him.

I’d been following him for two days now, not that he did anything particularly exciting.

He went out for coffee every morning, worked, stopped for lunch in the afternoons, returned home at five p.m., and that was it.

No lavish parties, no nights at a club rife with writhing bodies and thumping music, no sneaking out to commit murder. So why did someone want him dead?

That wasn’t technically my business, but it was like a hangnail. I kept trying to grab it with my teeth and rip it off to find what laid beneath—could be blood, could be nothing. Who the hell was Arden McFadyen?

I watched him as he shuffled in line, almost to the counter now.

He was handsome-ish, but not in a conventional, perfectly symmetrical way.

That bothered me too, because he was interesting to look at.

A face made of sharpness and angles and raw-boned, masculine beauty.

High cheekbones, a strong brow over eyes so dark brown they were almost ink-black, a straight nose that led to lips currently turned down in a frown, ending at a pointed chin.

I could cut myself on a face like that. It annoyed me that I wanted to.

My jobs didn’t usually involve people worth looking at.

Arden was definitely worth looking at, even when frowning.

A black, fitted shirt stretched across his chest, clinging to biceps that hinted he was toned and muscular beneath, though not overly big.

I kept my eyes fixed on him as he shuffled closer to the counter, reaching for my phone and dialling the only contact I bothered calling.

“Oh, god,” Silvio exclaimed in greeting. “Is the world ending? Are you dying? Are you already dead and your ghost is calling me? Why are you calling me?”

“Crisis,” I explained, not taking my eyes off my target. Normal, uninteresting Arden, who had ties to the mafia but no actual blood on his hands, and yet no social media presence. Rebel or mentally ill or serial killer? I was ripping at the hangnail again. “My mark is… intriguing.”

“Intriguing,” Silvio repeated, with a heavier dose of cynicism and attitude than the word required. “How?”

“He’s a mystery. He’s almost impossible to find online yet he lives an ordinary life. He makes his money from a spa subscription box for cats for fuck’s sake, but someone hired me to kill him.”

“Usually means he’s a bad dude, Rook.”

“Exactly.” The Rook—that was the only name anyone knew me by.

Well, anyone except the monster who raised me from the gutter and trained me to be this.

Dangerous. Lethal. Efficient. “He’s ordinary, but he’s my mark.

It could be that he’s in someone’s way, maybe an inheritance or company takeover or—”

“Oh, fuck,” Silvio interrupted me. “Not good. He’s not a mystery, Rook. He’s a puzzle and you know how you get with puzzles.”

“Exactly. That's why I said crisis. I want to take him apart to see what he’s made of.”

“Rook, I’m saying this because I love you. You need to walk away from this. You’re damn good at what you do, but one day you’re going to slip and get caught.”

I rolled my eyes. Unlikely.

“And getting obsessed with someone you’ve been hired to kill is slipping.”

“Fine.” He had a point. “I’ll just get close and kill him, keep it nice and simple.”

If I happened to sate my curiosity along the way, so be it.

“Rook,” Silvio warned, his concerned voice bathing my insides with warmth. “Be careful. I’m serious. And call me later.”

“I’m always careful.” Silvio was right, though. Arden was a puzzle, and I loved puzzles. Through the coffee shop window, I watched Arden pick up his coffee—something iced and topped with whipped cream—and turn to leave. “Gotta go, Silv. Tolerate you.”

He snorted. “Yeah, love you too, Rook.”

I straightened my black coat, swallowing back bitter irritation at not knowing what sort of woman would entice my mark.

Usually, I’d adjust my styling, hair, and makeup to appeal to each job, but the only women I saw Arden with were the Marshall girls, and they were basically children.

So, I’d had to guess. That word wasn’t usually in my vocabulary.

Neither was the word improvisation. I’d been one second away from wearing something low cut and attention-grabbing, but this was a man whose company provided spa products for cats.

I’d settled on a long black wool coat from my own wardrobe with a blood-red skater dress and dark tights.

I had a room full of costumes for this purpose, and instead I was wearing my own damn clothes.

The glasses were fake, though. I’d made a leap that men who owned cats liked geeky, librarian girls.

I expelled a rough sigh as I jogged across the street.

Guess I was about to find out if I was right.

Time seemed to slow as Arden walked towards Weasel Bean’s exit, and I neared the pavement outside.

I should have worn something that bared cleavage.

I should have curled my hair instead of leaving it half-straight-half-wavy like it naturally fell.

I should have stolen someone’s cat and used that to grab his attention.

Fuck, that was a damn good idea; why did I only think of that now?

If this failed, at least I had a backup plan.

I supposed I could have just snuck into his home, drugged him, and killed him, but that took all the enjoyment out of it.

I loved this part of it. Getting close, building a persona, playing a role that fit perfectly into their lives.

Be it an assistant, a mistress, a girlfriend, a funeral director (don’t ask), I wove myself into their lives seamlessly.

Except Arden’s damn cat company wasn’t hiring, and my attempts to get one of them fired had fallen apart.

Since when was theft not a sackable offence?

Arden forgave the man. He was a maddening puzzle, and it took serious effort to wipe the glare from my face.

Most men preferred their women smiling and sweet, so that’s what I would be.

I pulled up the corners of my mouth like I was thinking about something that made me happy.

Men’s screaming pleas for their lives. A bank account with six zeros.

A game of chess with a worthy opponent. A library full of unlimited information at my disposal.

Meet cute coming in three… two… one…

I staged the moment perfectly. Nothing to see here, just a pretty, easily distracted woman. Definitely not someone who meticulously planned to slam bodily into a tall, well-dressed stranger. God, how tall was he? Over six feet?

I tipped my head to stare up at his striking face, widening my eyes in surprise, letting my mouth pop open. “Oh my god,” I rushed out, “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

I braced for his sharp features to harden with anger, waited for him to snap at me to watch where I was going, or maybe demand I replace his drink—honestly, valid—but his big brown, long-lashed eyes had widened in surprise like mine. Huh, where was the rich boy attitude?

“Oh, no, your dress,” he said with a wince, brushing at his black shirt where coffee made the fabric slick and shiny, a little frothy cream smeared on him and considerably more of it desecrating my dress. I should have worn something I liked less.

“It’s fine, it was all my fault,” I insisted, wiping at the stain with the sleeve of my coat and trying not to think about the damage to the expensive wool.

Time to go in for the kill. “My head’s all over the place, my cat just went in for surgery and he’s like my baby, so I wasn’t paying attention at all and—”

Got him. I kept my face slack with regret, but I wanted to grin at the way his face softened, sympathy making his doe eyes soft.

It shouldn’t have been possible for a face that sharp to turn so gentle and sympathetic, but there it was, melting right in front of me.

(Well, in front of me and a foot higher.)

“Don’t worry about it,” Arden said with a forgiving smile that made something disastrous happen to my heartbeat. “It’s only coffee; I can get another. Family is irreplaceable.”

I tried to mimic his softness, moulded my face with kindness and sugary sweetness. “You see cats as family, too.”

“They’re better family than humans,” he agreed without any suspicion or wariness.

This man had a shocking amount of money to his name and came from affluence and luxury.

He drove a car made by a brand I’d never even heard of.

He had a watch on his wrist—I saw it from the corner of my vision—that was so expensive it could pay for a whole year’s rent.

In London. But here he was waving off my apology, happily chatting about cats of all things.

“Let me buy you a new coffee,” I offered. “It’s the least I can do.”

He considered for a second, his eyes on my face. It took effort to keep my expression in place, to not let a scrap of annoyance through. “Alright,” he agreed after a moment, “but only if you join me.”

Holy shit. It worked. Maybe Arden liked sexy librarian types after all. Or maybe he was willing to entertain someone who wasn’t his type because she was a cat mummy.

I pretended to contemplate it for a second, letting my eyes graze his appealing features, his sturdy shoulders, the wet black shirt clinging to his chest.

“Alright,” I relented, as if I would ever give a different response. “But if you turn out to be a secret serial killer, just know my cat will scratch your eyes out.”

His laugh was low and attractive, a sound like whiskey and velvet and darkness.

I probably should have listened to Silvio and walked away from this job. Instead, I indulged the desire to solve the puzzle of Arden McFadyen and followed him into the coffee shop.