Page 1 of White Wings of Desire

Prologue

Evelyn

If only he knew what was waiting for him, a death so sweet and yet so poisonous.

Seducing my target had been easy; the guy was desperate for some action, as if he didn’t rape a poor girl just last night.

Now, in his hotel room, he has me pinned to the sofa, his lips pressed to my neck, his tongue lapping at my skin, trying to make me feel good. But to be honest, his actions remind me of a dog hungrily licking peanut butter from a toy, trying to get every last bit from the hard-to-reach corners. Fortunately, with his technique, I'm confident he won't leave any hickeys, no matter how hard he tries. And boy, does he try.

I force a moan, pretending to be turned on by his attempts, when, in fact, it's the furthest from pleasurable and nausea crawls up my throat. Who on earth gave him the idea that this feels good?

He slides his hand up my thigh, pushing my dress up higher. I reluctantly spread my legs and his hand dips between them. I pray for the effects of the poison to kick in fast. The mere thought of his filthy fingers touching my cunt makes my stomach twist in disgust; I may need a bleach bath after this to feel clean again.

To my relief, it seems my prayers have been answered. Just as his fingers brush beneath my thong, touching the smooth skin of my outer lips, his breathing falters, and he begins to choke. He pulls away from me, falls off the sofa, and kneels beside me, clutching his throat as he fights for air. His eyes are blown wide with fear and confusion, and his face is pale as he spirals into a state of panic.

With my newfound freedom, I straighten up, smoothing out the soft fabric of my dress. I grab a tissue from a nearby table and gently dab it against my neck, wiping away the excess saliva left on my throat. While the nausea fades, the sensation of his saliva is enough to make my skin crawl. I rise to my feet, my heels clicking sharply on the polished wooden floor, echoing the sound through the hotel room. When he tries to reach for me, I use all my strength to shove him out of my way, putting more distance between us.

"You... bitch," he finds the strength to say between gasps; the veins in his temples throb, and his nostrils flare as his face turns a shade of deep crimson, a reflection of his rage. He finally seems to understand the gravity of the situation. I watch him reach for his phone, probably to call for help, but I step on his hand, my heel piercing through his skin.

"No one's coming to save you," I say with a smile, pushing my dress up just enough to tease him with the sight of my thong covering me as I draw my pistol from the lacy holster that wraps tightly around my thigh. With my heart pounding in anticipation, I check the magazine, making sure each bullet is in its proper place. Glancing at the man in front of me, I see the fear in his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, I'm filled with a twisted sense of satisfaction. Up until a few minutes ago, he had no idea who he was dealing with, but now he's fully aware of the danger he's in. I reach for my purse and pull out the silencer. With a skilled flick of my wrist, I screw it onto the pistol, making sure it’s securely locked onto the barrel.

A sudden tug on my dress gets my attention, and as I look down, I see that the disgusting piece of shit has crawled over to me and is clawing at the fabric of my dress.

"You can't kill me." His voice is weak, and he tries to reach for my pistol with what little strength he has left. Rolling my eyes at his pathetic plea, I push him away, grabbing him by the jaw and forcing his gaze to meet mine.

"Honey, you're already dead," I say with a chilling calmness, making sure my words get through to him. Forcing him down, I step on him, pressing the tip of my heel into his chest, drawing a painful groan from him. "You will never hurt another woman again." And I pull the trigger. A single shot pierces his skull and ends his miserable existence. Blood splatters all over my dress, leaving behind unwanted stains, and his body goes limp; his hectic movements die down, leaving the room in an eerie silence. "I just bought that," I mutter to myself and purse my lips in a pout at the sight of my now dirty dress.

Thankfully, it's red, so the blood won't be too obvious on my way back home. I head for the bathroom, and while rinsing out most of the stains on my dress, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror; my face is covered with blood as well.

I sigh. Feeling exhausted and drained, I raise my hand to my face, drawing a line of crimson red across my cheek. There's a weight in my chest as if a block of cement has been tied to my heart and is dragging it down. I am sick of this life, of the constant violence. "I’m done," I say to myself in a quiet voice. I've made up my mind. It's time to move on. I want to be free; I want to reclaim my life and find a way to be someone else, someone better, someone that others can be proud of. It won't be easy to leave, and I know the consequences of my past won’t simply disappear. But I want to build a future that's worth living.

Chapter 1

Evelyn

It's been a year since I left the crime group I worked for and my instincts haven't gotten rusty since; they're still constant. There is an eerie vibe in the air tonight. Something doesn't feel right.

A flicker of a red light in an apartment of the older brick building across the street catches my attention. The lights in the apartment are off; the tenants either aren’t home or probably asleep. It is most likely just their fire alarm or coffee machine; or maybe I’m just drunk. My head is throbbing with every heartbeat and I should hurry up and go to bed. But I can’t shake the nagging gut feeling that something is wrong.

Overall, tonight was great. My friends just left after a fun girls’ night in, and I’m alone with the mess we made. I've had to keep them at arm's length for many years to protect them from becoming potential targets on my behalf. But now that I'm finally free, I can be a typical– well, not so typical– twenty-six-year-old and live my life to the fullest. I left the proper way, making sure I had the Boss's approval. There is no bad blood, quite the opposite; both the Boss and the other superiors understood my reasons for leaving. I'm young and I want to live a normal life, maybe get married, and perhaps even have children in the future. I'm not the first to leave for these exact reasons, and I won't be the last. It's been a solid year of smooth sailing, so why now?

I maneuver through my apartment’s spacious, bright living room, collecting the empty food containers and stuffing them into a trash bag. The smell of greasy fries and other treats fight with the lavender air freshener in a battle for scent dominance. Every now and then I steal a glance at the balcony of the apartment where I saw the red light.

Moving on, I pick up the empty bottles of wine and head for the open kitchen. I walk around the island counter, which overlooks the living room, and have a perfect view of the building across the street. The moment I turn my attention to the balcony once more, the red light flickers back on, the beam forming a perfect straight line. Soft particles of dust dance around the flash of light. Frozen in place, my heart rate quickens. My eyes drift down to where the light falls on my body: my chest, a little to the left, aiming straight at my heart.

By the time the reality of the situation hits me, it is already too late. The impact of the bullet hitting the window creates a loud smashing sound, paired with the dangerous sound of cracking glass. I scream and drop the empty bottles, which shatter at my feet on the tile floor. I drop behind the counter, crouching in the mess of green shards. Covering my ears with my hands, I try to muffle the deafening sound of rounds trying to break through the bullet-resistant glass. My heart is pounding against my ribcage, each beat echoing in my ears.

The shooting eventually stops. Whoever it is must be reloading or waiting for a sign from me. Crawling to the end of the kitchen island, I peer around to check out the aftermath of the shooting. A wave of relief washes over me when I find that the windows are still intact, cracked, but holding on. Despite the awkward conversation with the glazier when I requested that particular glass, it was a wise investment. I have to thank Riley for the suggestion. Through the now heavily cracked glass, the sniper will most likely have a hard time identifying where I am.

Turning to my other side, my eyes land on the door at the end of the hallway that leads to my bedroom. My heart rate slows to a controlled pace as I push down my fear and force myself to calm. I will not be intimidated by the person targeting me. I am a professional, just like they are. I crawl toward the other end of the counter, and just as I reach my destination, the red dot flashes back to life right in front of me, pointing at the wall. The air gets stuck in my throat, and I freeze.

The dot starts to move, slowly at first, then more frantic. He is looking for me. When the dot reaches the other side of the kitchen, I take the chance, push myself off the floor, and run toward my bedroom. I scream, my heart stops beating for a split second, and I almost trip as the gunshots pick up again, the bullets penetrating the glass in sync with my steps. When I reach the room, I rush to the windows, dragging the curtains shut in case someone is waiting for me on this side. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins, my chest is heaving, and my breaths come in short gasps.

Who is this motherfucker?

I drop to my knees in front of my bed and drag out the gun case hidden underneath. With shaky hands, I enter the code. “Damn it!” I curse under my breath as I repeatedly enter the wrong numbers. Then, with a subtle click, the lock snaps open. I slide the top half up, revealing my once-trusted companion. I load the bullets into the empty magazine before sliding it into the pistol with a click.

With the firearm ready and loaded in my hand, I can finally take a moment to breathe. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, feeling my lungs inflate and then deflate with each breath as I try to regain control. Evelyn, calm down. I need to think straight. Someone is after me; they are in the building across the street. It would take them about five to ten minutes to get from where they are to my apartment, if they are alone. If they have a partner, someone may already be outside my apartment waiting for me to make a move.

---