Page 9 of Retribution

“Isolde, that’s not nice,” Nico chuckles as his butler opens the door.

“I’m not paid to be nice, Mr. Domino,” I grunt, inclining my head at the butler before I walk to my car.

I find that renting works best for me, I simply use my fake name for anything I need. Even then, the only thing that’s not forged is the name Isolde. It’s easier for me to keep track of when I’m predominantly in the States.

Isolde Roman. I don’t remember my real last name, not anymore, and it’s frowned on in society not to have one. It’s been lost in the past along with so many other things.

Sighing, I drive to a diner to catch a bite to eat, do some research, and see who my first mark will be from these three alphas.

Finding a corner where they’re less likely to bother me, I place the folder on the table and pull out my computer. A lot of hitmen either have coding skills or people they can reach out to when needed. Since I’m a loner, I taught myself how to find the information I need. All of my forged paperwork was bought through the dark web, and I found someone willing to teach me how to code.

It doesn’t mean I didn’t pay out the nose for the privilege, but it just fueled my desire to learn as quickly as possible. To this day, I have no idea who my teacher was. Everything was done with voice changers and masks in a private classroom on the internet.

Regardless, I learned what I needed to and then we cut ties. A curious part of myself wonders who that hacker was, but I understand the need for anonymity.

A group of bikers come in just as I order a glass of orange juice and an omelet because I’m starving, and I pretend to not see them as I go through my Alpha hit list. Maybe I can leave Alesso for last and hope that he’ll return to the States if I start killing his pack.

It’s worth a shot.

The bikers are loud as I pull up Lucas Reid. It appears that he may have a home in Michigan, so I begin to look for the address. You’d think that Nico would think to give me all the information that I need so that I could do this faster, but he’s always been a dick.

Before his father died, I would always marvel at how different they are from each other. Nico is very protective of his brothers, and they live in a separate home from the ex-patriarch about ninety percent of the year.

I got word that Nico’s father was recently relieved from this earthly coil. After a little digging, I found out that the old goat was killed with the pointy end of a knife because he was trying to stick his dick inside the wrong person. Since I don’t condone rape, I don’t have any kind of remorse or sympathy for him.

Rape is never acceptable. Especially when he paid for the pleasure.

Making a face, I find out that Lucas is a pharmaceutical company CEO in Indiana, not Michigan. Huh. That doesn’t seem too nefarious. I have an odd feeling about this as I continue to work, my fingers flying over the keyboard.

“Miss?” my eyes rise to see a large alpha in front of me in a leather cut and jeans.

“Yes?” I ask, confused as to why he’s here.

“You look like you’re working hard. We wanted to let you know that we’re paying for your tab. No, there’s no strings attached, we just wanted to do something nice for someone,” he says, knowing that I’m confused.

“Why?” I ask. “People don’t do things like this for shits and giggles.”

“We just lost someone, and we’re headed out to give him his final ride,” he says somberly. “Trace loved surprising the fuck out of the meanest looking person in a diner, just because he could. So yes, he did it for shits and giggles.”

Biting my lip, I nod.

“I’m sorry for your loss, and I appreciate that you think I’m the meanest person in the diner…I think,” I say.

The alpha smirks. “You look like you could easily kill my club without blinking an eye.”

“I’d probably smile a bit,” I smirk, playing along.

“Perfect,” he says, nodding. “Mission accomplished. She accepts, boys, now let’s ride out!”

This is one of the most confusing conversations I’ve ever had in my life. The club members all nod at me as my omelette is dropped off at my table, and the waitress simply watches them.

“Trace was special,” she says softly. “He’ll be missed.”

“It seems so,” I say, overwhelmed by the ghost of someone I’ve never met but touched so many people.

I have emotions, I simply don’t express them to the world. I feel things deeply, chaotically, and in a rampageous way. Equilibrium is hard for me to find because of it, which is why I spend so much of my time working.

I would find a hobby, but I wouldn’t know where to start. My identity revolves around killing people, and while it happens infrequently, if I find out that person is innocent, there is hell to pay. My mark disappears, I kill someone who deserves it to offer as my proof, and then the person who paid me to kill them goes on my shit list.