Page 8 of One Kill

“Don’t call me that. I’m a grown ass woman capable of ripping out your balls.” His chuckle makes me groan into the phone. “I’m serious, Murph. I’ve got a thing. I don’t have time to fuck around. What do you need?” Taking out the mascara tube from my very small bag of makeup accessories, I hope and pray it’s not all dried up. The last time I used it was for a gala Marco forced me to attend when Enzo bolted to England and I had to stand in as his right-hand woman.

For three years I had to be at Marco’s side for any and all events. My ears were constantly on the ground, my intel knowledge was overwhelming, and as much of an honor it is to be the don’s most trusted soldier, it was like a prison sentence for me.

Thankfully, during those years, he began trusting Ray Martino, his new underboss, more and more. And once he got a real bodyguard, he gave me a choice.

I chose a demotion back to capo of the Reapers—the cleanup crew—with the condition that I step in for undercover shit when needed. Like an idiot, I accepted since I clearly didn’t know what the fuck I was getting myself into.

“Duly noted. Hallie wants your phone number so she can get in contact with you. I told her I’d ask first.” He pauses, like his next words are pained. “I didn’t want to assume.”

Fuck, there goes that heartburn again.

“Assume what? That I’d just ignore the fact that the baby I thought was dead is actually a beautiful, thriving young lady?” My words are sharp but my tone is as calm as the Dead Sea.

“The last time I assumed something, I ended up hating you for years, so yeah, Jaybear, I’m asking you first. You wanna be in our—” He cuts himself off and it’s not until he speaks again that I realize why. “Be inherlife or not?”

Opening the medicine drawer, I take out the antacid and pop one in my mouth. I’m never eating fried foods again.

“Just give her my number, Murph. It’s not a big deal, okay?” Fuck, my mascara is a little chunky but it’ll have to do. Can this day get any fucking worse?

A little voice inside my head reminds me that my daughter is alive and well, and that should make me happy. It does, but my emotions are so deeply buried inside the darkest recesses of my soul that I don’t even know if I’d recognize love or happiness if it punched me in the face and knocked out my front teeth.

“All right then. You gotta answer when she calls though, Jaybear. She’s been a teenager for two minutes and it already feels like thirty fucking years of sass and tantrums.” I chuckle at that because of course the child that I created would make her parents’ lives a living hell. “She reminds me so much of you… every fucking day.” His words are low, nostalgic even, and it makes me pause for a second.

“Murph?” His name on my lips is so quiet I’m not even sure I said it out loud. In fact, I don’t even know why I said it in the first place. I have nothing to follow it up with.

“Yeah?” The hope in his voice feels like a gulp of smooth bourbon running down my throat and warming my insides.

This is ridiculous.

“Quit calling me that.” I hang up, his laughter ringing in my ears. When I look back up at the mirror, I see myself smiling. A genuine, happy smile.

For a second, I contemplate that look on my face. It changes everything about me, taking almost a decade off my features.

Huh. Weird.

Shaking off the moment, I go back to my regularly scheduled program and scowl at myself for even pretending to be anything but a stone-cold killer with zero emotions. Okay, maybe not zero… I do love my boss’s wife and her dog, Polo.

Right. Marco. I need to get my head in the game.

Twenty minutes later, my conversation with Murphy is pushed way back in the recesses of my mind as I step out of a taxi, one red heel touching the ground as a valet holds his hand out to me. Time to fuck some shit up.

My knives are holstered around my inner thigh, the blades made of carbon material so it doesn’t wake up the metal detectors I know are at the entrance. I look like any other blonde patron, dressed to the nines and ready to spend a shit ton of money.

Except, the only thing I’m here to do is ruffle some overly sensitive egos.

The first thing I notice as I wander around the newly opened casino are the cameras. Making a mental note of their positions, I smile at the one above a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only”. I swear, it feels like whoever is behind the camera is daring me to test my luck.

Not yet, Satan. Not yet.

I could probably make a ton of money here. My poker and blackjack skills are on point, but that’s not my mission. However, I’m not ready to scream out who I am just yet if the blinking red eyes planted all over this place haven’t already figured it out.

I’ve been here for a good ten minutes now and no one has approached me except for the waiters offering me a flute of champagne from their perpetually full trays.

It would be strange not to have one in hand, so I walk around and pretend to sip once in a while. Drinking from a glass is never a good idea when you work for the mafia. Sure, years ago, no one would have known who I was. They called me the Shadow for a reason, but four years standing next to the mob boss of New York City made my face one to remember. Someone important enough to become a target.

So, no. I don’t drink the champagne.

“Miss?” I turn when someone places their hand on my upper arm. My first instinct is to stab the motherfucker for touching me, but then I remember where I am and what I’m doing.

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