Page 1 of Unravelling The Hitman: A BWWM Romance

1

Deacon

The beach chair creaked as it accepted me into its arms. A gentle breeze stroked the fringes of the coconut trees like guitar strings, teasing a soothing melody from the fronds. Moonlight slipped past the clouds and spilled over the sand.

My gaze drifted to the Caribbean Sea a stone’s throw away. The waves were dark, quiet, lethal. Reminded me of myself seconds before a kill.

I tipped the bottle to my lips and drank deeply, enjoying the warm sensation that lingered in my throat as the brew went down. This moment, this… stillness, it was what I’d worked so hard for.

Solitude.

It meant more than money to me, more than diamonds, more than…

Rustling blared from the monitor at my elbow. My beer returned to the table with a thud and I twisted around. Lifting the screen that revealed footage of a dark bedroom, I adjusted the sound filters and studied the little bundle lying in his crib.

Reid rolled around some more before he ended up right back where he started, sleeping with his little bum pointing to the ceiling and his face squashed into the pillows.

I studied him a second longer to make sure his chest was pumping and then set the monitor away. That kid could sleep through a hurricane.

And he had.

We’d battled a storm last year, all on our own. I was scared Reid would put up a fuss. Lord knew, the moaning winds and the rain bashing against the roof of our villa had been enough to unsettle me.

But that little kid? He’d curled up in his bed and rested until the waves calmed and the storm had passed. He was brave like that. Took after me.

Satisfied that Reed was safe, I exchanged the monitor for my beer and planted my feet back on the stubby wicker table.

In the distance, the sea crashed against the shore. Frothing waves rushed the sand. I stared at the dark horizon, amused by the unpredictability of life.

If someone would have told me ten years ago that I’d be walking into my mid-thirties with a toddler, I would have laughed them straight to the barrel point of my gun.

My dream was—had always been—to buy myself a secluded little island and live out the rest of my days alone.

Two years ago, that dream had broadened slightly to make room for one more.

It often amazed me. Someone tiny enough to fit in the palm of my hand had me wrapped around his little finger.

At two years old, Reid had grown much bigger than my hand, but his hold on my stone-cold heart had gotten stronger.

I liked to think that my life started when his did. Sure, I used to walk, talk, and breathe, but I wasn’t alive. I felt nothing. In my line of work—no—in my previous line of work, attachments invited death. Betrayal was a given. I reveled in my numbness.

But Reid changed things.

I had something to live for.

Someone to protect.

He was both my greatest weakness and my strength.

I finished the beer and gripped its neck between my fingers. Swinging out of the chair, I plodded inside and slid the bottle into the crate near the kitchen where I kept the empty cans. My gaze slid over the room, taking notice of the shadows.

My two-story villa boasted an open-floor plan. Kitchen. Stainless-steel appliances. Basket of fruits. Gleaming island counter. Living room. Plush black sofa. The flat screen TV. Shag rug. To my left was a cramped office shielded by a small, hardwood wall.

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