Page 11 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

Guess not.

Could it have been…?

No. Ignore that thought. Don’t go back down that road.

The key card to the room is in my pocket. Gun, silencer, and full clip are in the box. My contact will be ringing my phone when Totti’s lieutenant leaves the bar, headed up to his hotel room, where I’ll be waiting. Then it’s game over. Job done. I don’t have time to be thrown off my game by my fickle imagination.

The elevator climbs slow. I should be replaying the plan over in my mind, but I’m fucked. That fucking laugh is ringing through my head instead. The melody, the chiming bell quality of it…

There’s a woman in the elevator cooing at the dog in her purse, babbling baby talk to her “Pookie.” If it wouldn’t fuck everything up, I’d paint the elevator with her blood and put the dog out of its misery.

But there is a job to do. So instead, I smile and nod at her.

When she finally steps off on her floor, I can breathe again without inhaling the perfume she bathed in—a musk that smells like it was drained straight from a skunk’s ass.

The fourteenth floor is as opulent as the lobby with its crystal chandeliers, plush carpet, and overwrought flower arrangements perched on polished tables between room doors.

I step out. Stride down the hallway. My forged key slides into the lock of Room #1409. A little green light flashes as the latch clicks.

I’m in.

There are rose petals on the floor leading from the door down the steps into a seating area, up another set of steps into the bedroom. About a thousand candles—in globes, in cups, on tables, the three-inch sill that runs along the top and center of the wall, next to the windows, and forming a path from the living room to the bedroom.

Strange. I’m not much of a rule follower, but all these candles seem like a fire hazard.

I pour myself a bourbon, drink from the crystal glass, rinse my DNA away and wipe my prints, then replace the cup on the tray. Not my first time hiding in a hotel room, waiting for my mark to come in. There are plenty of places to wait. Bathroom, balcony, under the bed.

Tonight, I choose the closet that looks out into the suite’s master bedroom. There are two suitcases inside it. One is flowered and feminine; the other is a black Samsonite. I choose the black one first and flip it open.

Holy shit.

Ball gag. Cock rings. Sleeves, vibrators. Lube and a whip. All of it brand new. Also, a couple pairs of pants, some socks, and two shirts, all drab and boring. It’s like someone ordered a My First BDSM Starter Kit.

I chuckle.Oh, Giordano, you poor Italian bastard.If I were a woman, the only I’d want in my body less than that fat old Italian’s shriveled dick is a foot-long dildo with ominous purple spikes on it. I’ll be doing the world a favor by putting a bullet through this son of a bitch.

One of the secrets to what I do is knowing how to fold myself into tight spaces and stay there, teaching my body to respond in the second I need it. It requires hydration. Muscle training. Determination. And a whole lot of mind over matter.

But despite me having all of that in spades, two hours later in this damned closet, I’m cramping up. That’s probably because I went out with Alek, drank until I could convince myself that every stripper looked likeher—probably why I’m imagining her laugh today—and I brought one back to the house to fuck my past away.

Stupid.

I hear the bells that the Dezarian is famous for—wedding bells to announce another couple taking the plunge. Always makes my teeth grind. I also can’t help but think that, on May ninth, unless something extremely drastic changes, they’ll be ringing for me.

Fuck. When I thought about getting married, I was young. High school. I thought Mom would be there. Plus, I had the girl of my dreams.

Now, I have only the mob princess my father picked. My stomach is rolling. Mom would’ve never let this happen.

She would’ve made sure I had the life I wanted. Instead, I ended up watching her die. I arrived just in time for her last breath.

* * *

Ten Years Earlier

“Mom! Mom!” My whispers feel like screams, straining my throat, making my gut ache. She curls her fingers around mine. “Don’t go, Mom.” I need her. I don’t know how to be without her. I don’t know where I’ll go, how I’ll live. She’s the only family I have left.

Or at least, that’s what I’ve always been told.

“Listen to me, Tomas.” Her voice is weak and my heart is breaking with each labored breath she struggles to take. “You’re not going to be alone.”

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