Page 3 of Wicked Angel

Somehow, that one promise was the best condolence I could’ve ever asked for.

1

GAVEN

7 years later …

Expensive sports cars were a luxury I didn't usually allow myself to enjoy. Though I could readily afford anything and everything that I wanted, the Aston Martin purring beneath me was far too ostentatious for my line of work. It commanded attention—something I only used as a method of distraction. It wasn't necessary, however, to remain inconspicuous when my business was to be conducted face-to-face. So, for the moment, I enjoyed the feeling of the rumbling engine as the speedometer reached a hundred miles per hour and then ticked past that.

I tightened my fingers around the taut leather of the steering wheel and wove the speeding vehicle in and around all obstacles in my path. Packed city streets gave way to trees and green landscapes, all blurring past the windows as I pushed the little car faster.

It wasn’t long until I rolled up to a country estate that could rival a military compound in size. The two men standing vigilant in front of the tall iron fence turned to meet my gaze through the windshield of the car. Smirking at them, I waited as another guard leaned out.

“Name?” he barked, eyeing me with suspicion and distaste.

“Gaven,” I drawled, lowering my sunglasses to look the man over, “Belmonte.”

There was an obvious brutality already settled into the guard’s youthful face. A long scar marred the side of his cheek, from his chin to the corner of his eyebrow. It wasn’t surprising. Any man in this business who was lucky to make it past thirty likely felt much older than that.

At the thought of getting older in this career, I started to wonder if retiring was in the cards for me. It had nothing to do with the money; I had more than enough, that was for sure. But I was depraved enough to enjoy the work that I did—thrived on it—so I doubted I’d be stopping any time soon. Not unless something more interesting came along.

The guard blinked at my name and quickly leaned back into the guardhouse, his fingers flying over the keyboard of his computer. “I apologize, I didn’t recognize you. Welcome, Mr. Belmonte,” he said after a moment.

“I’ll let it slide this time,” I said calmly. “Though, I suggest you amend your tone in the future.”

The buzzing soundof the gate opening drew my attention. “Of course, sir,” the guard replied quickly. “Mr. Price is awaiting your arrival at the mansion.”

“Thank you.”

The security guard gave me a quick once over, his lips thinning before he nodded respectfully. Leaving the window down, I slid my sunglasses back on and pressed gently on the gas, letting the car roll forward, past the gates. The only noise that filled the interior of the vehicle as I drove farther up the drive was the soft breeze mixing with the rumble of the engine.

It only took a few minutes to reach the top of the courtyard circle drive, and I threw the car into park before climbing out. The face of the mansion was elegant. Each nuance of the extravagant stone was lavish and the lawn was groomed to immaculate perfection. Anyone looking on from the outside would assume a wealthy family resided here, and they wouldn’t have been wrong. A wealthy family did live here—one of the wealthiest in the United States but also one of the deadliest.

The ornate wood and glass doors opened as I approached. Two more guards walked out to hold them open for me. Noting their presence but ignoring their stone-cold expressions, I stepped into the entryway toward the older man waiting within. I’d been here a time or two in the past, but Raff had obviously done some renovations since my last visit. It was wider now, showcasing an impressive circular staircase leading to the second floor. My steps echoed off the shiny marble flooring that had once been a rich hardwood the last time I’d been a guest at the Price estate—almost seven years ago now.

My eyes focused on the pepper-haired man standing next to a large painting hung between the walls of two doorways, one leading to a guest lounge of sorts and the other farther into the mansion. Raffaello Price was just as I’d seen him the year before at an intimate business gathering in Sicily. It was rare for a man such as myself—a born American, non-Italian—to be invited to such gatherings, and I had the feeling that it was thanks to him.

Raffaello Price was sturdily built with a dark-colored suit clothing his fit frame. I took him in, noting the calculating gaze that trailed over the art, the shrouded almond-shaped eyes hinting at his Italian and Welsh descent. Despite the wrinkles that now creased the corners of his eyes and the white sprinkled through his hair, he seemed to exude the cold confidence he always had.

“Gaven,” he greeted warmly. I smiled as he turned toward me, offering me a firm handshake. “It’s been a while, my boy.” Amusing as it was for the man to call me “boy,” despite my many years of service, I didn’t comment. Hell, I’d been working for the man for nearly a decade or more at this point, having started as a cleaner for one of the families he allied himself with at barely twenty. It was because of him, however, that I’d managed to move up and become something more. More dangerous. More deadly. And far more prosperous than any cleaner. His voice was rough, like a smoker after thirty years of enjoying his favorite Marlboro several times a day.

“It has,” I agreed. "It's good to see you, old man."

While my statement was true, and our banter was genuine, Raff was still the head of the Price Family. Deadly and well-connected with friends in lots of high and low places and whatever it was that brought me here today, I knew what was to come if I ended up on the wrong end of Raff’s scope. While I gave him my attention, most of my focus was on the several armed guards that remained within Raff’s line of sight.

He chuckled as he dropped my hand and gestured for me to step through the door that led to the main part of the house. “Thank you for coming, my friend. We have much to discuss."

“Do we?” I inquired. “Is there a job you have lined up for me? I must say, if you wanted me to kill someone, you could’ve just gotten to me through the usual means."

“No.” He strode forward, forcing me to follow. “This isn’t about a contract, though I hear your business is doing quite well these days. Heard about the Perelli girl. Didn't know you and Jason didn't get along."

I shrugged. "He was an offensive man," I replied blandly. Business was business, and regardless of my personal views of Jason Perelli and how he ran his business, his daughter’s contract had been too good to pass up. Plus, unlike Raffaello or the majority of other mob families, I didn’t find a woman in power to be as shocking. Times were changing, after all. The very fact that America Perelli had managed to get ahold of me and offer a contract to take out her father had proven that she had what it took to be a Queen in a criminal world ruled by men.

"Yes," Raff agreed. "He was quite brash and rude, even to his betters." Only a man like him would be so arrogant to see himself as above an equally dangerous family. "Regardless, very intriguing, that girl. Never would have thought she had it in her.”

“You met her then?” I asked.

Raff nodded. “Only once. She was a mousy, quiet thing though. I thought she would have befriended my daughters if Jason hadn’t kept her away from his world. Perelli should have had a son, we could've joined houses. Or if I had one…”

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