Page 13 of Morally Corrupt

"I have a competition for college." I keep my explanation short, knowing he doesn't really care. He scoffs at my words, not because I'm going to the competition, but because he's still pissed at me for attending college.

"Don't do anything to embarrass me." He stops next to me, and I make myself look meeker.

"Of course, Father."

"Good," he huffs out, leaving.

I take a deep breath, thankful the meeting went well. All my plans are contingent on keeping both my identities separate.

The following day, I leave early, heading straight to Penn Station to take the train. It takes an hour and a half to get to Philadelphia, where I'm supposed to meet with Vlad at the Rittenhouse Hotel. Before leaving the station, though, I go to a restroom and change my clothes, donning my Artemis disguise — leather pants, a leather jacket on top of a black shirt, and a long red wig. I holster two guns in the waistband of the pants and hide two daggers in my boots. With everything in place, I put on a pair of sunglasses and swing the backpack on, exiting the station.

The hotel is a short walk from the station, so I swiftly check in under an assumed name and head to the room. Not surprisingly, Vlad isn't here yet.

I do a quick scan about the room, familiarizing myself with the layout. Like many others, this mission involves some fake seduction on my part, luring the victim to the room, and then doing the killing. Whenever we have such missions, Vlad takes the role of coordinator while I become the bait. I roll my eyes at the designations, although I have to begrudgingly admit that he is the brains behind our missions. Alas, at least I get the kill.

It's proven to be a point of contention many times — who gets the kill? We have many games we play to establish who will be the one to pull the trigger, or in his case, the knife. We're both incredibly competitive people so the games can become . . . intense.

My phone rings and I see a text from Vlad. He's running late.

Cursing under my breath, I decide to head to the bar for some refreshments. I have enough time until our victim, a business executive, is set to arrive at the hotel. Before I leave the room, I take out a key and open the small locket I carry around my neck; I sprinkle a little white powder on it. I bring the tip of the key to my nose and inhale, needing my daily dose of energy. Making sure there's no white residue, I leave the room.

I'm in the hallway, waiting for the elevator when I hear some disturbance. I tip my glasses lower on my nose, trying to see who's causing the commotion.

A burly man in his thirties is dragging a girl around by her hair, all the while cursing her out. Her features are drawn in pain, and she seems resigned to whatever he has in store for her.

They move to pass by me, and maybe it's my boredom, but I put my foot forward to trip the man. He sees it just in time, though, and stops.

"What the fuck, bitch?" He shifts toward me, and the girl yelps in pain.

"Didn't your mother teach you how to treat a lady?" I raise an eyebrow at him, my eyes moving over the girl's figure and noting the various bruises.

He throws his head back and laughs. At this point, I grow annoyed, so I just wait for him to dig his grave even more.

"Lady? This?" He smirks arrogantly and shoves the girl to the floor. He turns his attention to me, looking me up and down. "You don't look like a lady to me, either." He drawls and I have to roll my eyes.

"Really?" I ask drily, begging him to make a move.

"Right, you're one of those biker chicks, aren't you? The ones that like it rough." His smile grows as he lifts one hand to touch me. It doesn't get that far. I catch his hand mid-air, and I bend it at an odd angle, hearing a couple bones break.

He yelps in pain, and a smile tugs at my lips at the sound, not unlike the one the girl made.

"What the fuck!" He tries to jab me with the other arm, so I lift my foot and I kick him in the chest — hard. He falls down next to the girl. I'm about to give him some more of his own medicine when the girl covers him with her body.

"Leave him alone!" she cries, and I stop, flabbergasted.

"You . . . You're defending him?" I ask, almost in disbelief.

"He's my husband," she replies, cooing all over the motherfucker's body.

"Who beats you."

"You don't know anything!" she says accusatorily, helping him to his feet and moving out of reach. He's shooting daggers at me, but I guess he's not much of a tough guy now with a broken wrist.

I let this one slide, since the girl's chosen her own fate. She could have asked, and I would have gladly killed him for her.

I shrug, putting it out of my mind. Her loss.

The elevator doors open, and I go to the ground floor. I plop myself at the bar and order a dirty martini.

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