Page 1 of The Hitman's Forbidden Obsession

Chapter One

Dante

The woman behind the bar gives me a smile I don’t return.

Not because she isn’t pretty. She is. Young, polished, maybe a little too polished. Hair too neat. Smile too practiced. She’s been trained to serve luxury with a side of flirtation. It’s all part of the experience.

I glance away and notice from the corner of my eye when she turns her attention to the next customer.

I take a slow sip of my bourbon. Neat. Two fingers. It burns on the way down and I welcome the heat. Not because I need it, of course. I haven’t needed anything in years. But it keeps my hands busy while I wait.

The bar is all dim lights and darker shadows, tucked into the back of the kind of hotel that costs more per night than most people make in a month. The air smells like expensive perfume and ambition. It’s late, but not dead. People here don’t sleep until the deals are done. Until the secrets are buried.

And there are plenty of secrets here.

My table’s angled toward the room, the mirror behind the bar giving me a clean sweep of the entrance. I clock the couple near the fireplace. She’s laughing too hard, while he’s checking his phone every three seconds. The woman to my right is here to be noticed; but I’d bet good money the man she’s waiting for won’t show. The guy near the back corner is carrying concealed. He’s favoring his right hip, and too stiff in the shoulders to be a civilian.

I don’t look like a threat, and that’s the point. My suit is dark, tailored, forgettable. Not flashy enough to draw attention, but sharp enough that I blend in at a place like this.

People don’t look at me twice. That’s how I like it.

I’m here for a job. The kind of job that ends in silence and a still body. Nothing new. Nothing personal.

She arrives right on time.

I know it’s her before she even crosses the room. Mid-twenties, designer heels clicking too loud against polished marble. Red lips. Blown-out hair. That high-maintenance glow of someone used to getting what she wants without asking twice.

She’s beautiful. But cold.

Not like ice. Ice is natural. This is something practiced. A mask lacquered on thick. She’s trying too hard to project power, which means she doesn’t actually have any.

She spots me, and her posture shifts. Chin lifts. Hips sway. The look she gives me tells me she thinks she’s in control here.

She’s not.

She slides into the table across from me without asking, and drops her expensive clutch onto the table like it’s worthless. Her perfume clouds the air, sweet and suffocating.

“I didn’t realize you’d be so handsome,” she says, giving me a once-over.

I don’t answer. I just stare and watch her fidget.

She flags the server and orders a drink. Some limited-edition French champagne that comes with a four-digit price tag. I watch her fingers wrap around the stem once it’s delivered.

She doesn’t take a sip.

“So,” she says, leaning forward just enough to show off the sharp lines of her dress. “You came highly recommended.”

I let the compliment fall flat.

This isn’t a social call. She knows what I do. I know what she wants. There’s no need to pretend this is anything but transactional.

She holds my gaze for a beat too long, still trying to flirt. Still trying to control the room.

“Do you have the details I need?” I ask, drawing the topic of conversation back to business.

The woman sighs, clearly frustrated that she’s not getting the attention she feels she deserves. Then she reaches into her clutch and slides a thin manila envelope across the table.

“Her name is inside,” she says. “Photo. Adress. Routine. You’ll find everything you need. I want her... taken care of.”

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