Page 22 of Killing Emma

“She’s breaking me,” I mutter as I strip down and start the shower. “The woman is trying to break me.” I turn the lever to hot, the reasoning making my stomach sick. The way she reacted to me down there wasn’t a plot for getting under my skin—and if it was, maybe she’s truly more dangerous than I give her credit for.

I hear a scratch on the bedroom door, and groan, slipping out and swinging it open. “Sorry, bud,” I say to Major. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

He huffs, glaring at me as he heads for my bed, hauling himself up onto the bed. I shake my head at him, and then return to the bathroom, stepping into the shower.

I wince as the water scalds my shoulders, but I’m desperate to scrub myself free of her. Her fingertips grazing my skin was enough to make me feel as though I handed her my fucking soul down there. Not to mention, now that I know her grandmother’s name, I can start digging into who kidnapped her.

Emma doesn’t know that I don’t know who wants her dead. I have no idea who calls the shots, and the only way I’ve ever been able to find out is through blood, warring my way through hitmen until I find answers. However, there has to be another way, because in order for me to do it that way, I have to fail this job—and I don’t do that.

Washing myself, I rack my brain. I can’t go to Manny to dig. It won’t work. If he finds out that I’m curious, he’ll kill Emma himself…

But that would solve the problem.

However, I know at this point, I want the answers. I want to know why the woman in my basement has to die, and that’s the first time I’ve ever felt that way. I’ve never fucking cared. I press my hand against the tile, leaning my head against my arm.

Never show mercy, Luca, Victor’s voice echoes in my head. You kill them, and you move on. The moment you get attached, you’re setting yourself up for failure.

“You’d be so fucking pissed at me,” I groan, shaking my head as water droplets run down my face. “I’ve already messed this one up.” But I don’t want to fix it. Not yet. Not right now. I still have thirty-four days before I have to end her life.

And I’ll do it.

But my devotion feels weaker than ever. Do I just want to get my dick wet? Or is it the fact that she’s the first person to ever slip out of my grip once I had them? I don’t have the answer, but I intend to figure it out.

I push myself off the wall as dirty, fucking filthy thoughts of Emma slip into my mind. I wanted so badly to bring her lips to mine, to taste her mouth and every inch of her body. I wanted her to writhe against my face while I devoured her pussy in the dark, making her come over and over. Sure, I’d have to kill her, but at least she’d feel so fucking good beforehand.

I shut the water off, ignoring my throbbing cock beckoning me to get off to the fantasy of Emma Nightingale. As much as I know it would feel good, it would only feed my desire for her, and I have more self-control than that.

For now, anyway.

Sliding on a pair of boxer briefs and black joggers, I head for the bed, plopping down beside my brute of a dog. If I didn’t have him, I’d be alone, too.

Maybe that’s why Emma’s getting to me. Maybe it’s the fact that I relate to her loneliness, living in some mansion that might as well be a prison—one that you choose to stay in rather than merge with the outside world.

I reach for the remote and flip on the TV, scrolling to the news. Since taking Emma, I haven’t bothered to check for updates. A woman like her–wealthy, white, and beautiful–should be blasted everywhere. The whole world is going to wonder where she went. However, no news station mentions it.

So, I retrieve my phone from the bathroom and start digging, searching for any signs of her disappearance. Nothing comes up. Not one freaking article. Not one mention on social media. For some reason, it causes me to pause. Out of all the people I’ve killed, every single one of them have shown up on the news within a day.

But the most challenging one of them all, isn’t missed.

The thought is puzzling, considering the financial obligation it is for a man like me to take a life. It’s a costly venture, and usually high profile. I figured Emma was just that. I mean, sure, she never gets out… But I assumed it was the heartbreak from the estranged husband or something.

How long have you been a recluse, Emma?

I want to just hop up, walk downstairs, and ask her. However, I know the more I give into my urge to see her, the more storms I’ll face when it’s time to kill her. Killing wasn’t always easy for me. I wasn’t a born cold-blooded killer, I was made.

“Suck it up, boy!” I hear Victor’s voice screaming in my head. “This is what we do, and you’re gonna do it, too. We aren’t biased. We kill whoever they send.”

I shake it off, confliction burning in my chest. I know I’m a bad man, and I’ve been inclined toward violence my entire life… But I wasn’t okay with killing women—moms, daughters, sisters. Not until he made me. Now, people are just… people.

I don’t discriminate. As the TV plays, my phone begins to vibrate, and I glance down at the pocket screen in my hand. Fuck.

“What’s up?” I grumble into the phone.

“It’s almost nine, and you’re not out with us,” Manny burst into a drunk fit of laughter. “I’ve been going for days, bro. You gotta get out here.”

“Someone has to stay sober,” I say flatly, muting the TV. “You still at The Den?”

“Yeah, and Dezzie is in the mood…”

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