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I spend so many hours of my life hidden in musty closets. Seriously, you’d think the sorts of men I’m sent to kill would air out their fancy suits once in a while, but no.
After snooping around this mansion for hours last night, I can officially say: money does not buy taste. There is such a thing as too much gold leaf.
It’s not him. Not the oil baron. As soon as I get a good look at his shape in the darkness, it’s clear—from the broad shoulders to the shifty behavior. The blade of my knife glints in a shaft of moonlight as I lunge, setting it against the stranger’s jugular and purring in his ear. “Hello, darling. You’re not the man I’m supposed to kill.” There’s a long pause. The man’s frozen, shocked upright, his chest heaving as he vibrates with the effort of keeping still. One false move, and his blood will splatter the ugly wallpaper. It could only be an improvement to the interior design. Honestly, who
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It helps knowing people’s weaknesses in my line of work.” Mine too. But sliding my palm over this stranger’s muscled form, I haven’t found a weakness in this man yet, except maybe turning his back on the closet. And who can blame him for that? There’s no way he’s really here for the poker game, though.
“Call it a professional courtesy. This job has been months in the making.” A professional courtesy? I do like that. It makes it sound like I have coworkers, like I don’t feel like the loneliest girl in this whole city on some nights. Even my fellow criminals tend to avoid me. I guess the knives make them queasy. “If you warn him about me, I’ll kill you too.”
Or I could let him go. Show him professional courtesy. Every time I think those words, warmth spreads under my rib cage. A coworker? For little old me?
“Anietta,” I mumble instead like an idiot, a blush spreading over my cheeks where the con man can’t see. “Ah. The Anietta.” Our heartbeats thump audibly in the pause, mine fast, his slow. He’s not scared of me at all, is he? “It’s an honor to meet you.” He doesn’t even sound sarcastic. Oh god. I don’t know how to process this.
My knife might be at his throat, but I’m the one having a meltdown back here.
And Flynn must sense the motion, because he pulls my wrist gently away from his throat, then turns slowly to loom over me. Gosh, he’s tall. I’m surprised I didn’t need a box to threaten him. I blink up at the first person who’s ever seemed truly pleased to meet me, the knife I would have sliced him with dangling uselessly from one hand.
He’s older than I expected. Mid-thirties, maybe, with sharp cheekbones and a feral glint in his eyes. Dressed in a ghostly white button-down shirt and dark pants, he looks like he’d be at home with those wrinkly old board men out there. Like he carries a briefcase and makes phone calls from the back of a glossy black car.
His voice, though? There’s something rough about his voice. He hasn’t quite sanded all the edges o...
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“Well, now.” Flynn’s teeth flash white in the gloom as he grins. “No one warned me that you’re such a beauty.” Gah. I croak a reply. “I think the blood splatters put people off.” His grin widens. And he’s still holding my wrist, keeping my knife away from him, yes, but also tracing circles on my pulse point with his thumb. I know that he’s a charmer, that he clearly makes a living from manipulating people, but god, if he stares at me like that for much longer, I don’t know w...
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“I’ll kill him once you’re gone,” I manage to add. Those eyes twinkle down at me. “That’s very kind of you, Anietta.” I watch, dazed, as Flynn takes the hand still holding my knife and lifts it to his mouth, the blade bobbing in the air. Warm lips graze the back of my hand, his eyes holding mine the whole time as he bows over my knuckles like a gentleman. “Much appreciated,” he says, the words vibrating into my skin. Jesus.
It was barely anything, a whisper of a kiss, but my skin tingles and heat roars through my veins. I sway on the spot, mind fuzzy, pressing harder against him, and Flynn’s mouth quirks like he’s amused. “Look at you, rubbing against me. You’re practically purring, Anietta. You’re a little murder kitten, aren’t you?”
No wonder those crusty old men lose all their money to tricksters like Flynn—he took one glance at me and it’s like he’s paged through my operating manual. Step one: Make a personal connection. Step two: Say pretty things. Step three: Give the first gentle touches I’ve had in years. And bo...
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“It truly has been a pleasure, Anietta.” His voice is hushed, but I love how Flynn says my name. It sounds so musical in his accent. Lilting and lovely.
Silver streaks of rain flash past the dark windows like shoals of fish, and I wonder idly whether the pretty little assassin carries an umbrella.
The table I choose is far away from anyone else. There’s an abandoned coffee cup and an old newspaper on one corner so I clear the area, brushing down each seat ready for Anietta.
She’s dressed all in black, her clothes close-cut, and there’s no obvious sign of her knife. No blood speckles and not a single hair out of place. Christ, but that was quick. Something told me I might see her again, but already? I barely left the mansion thirty minutes ago.
That’s the danger with cons. Folks part with their money in an excited haze, but then their common sense kicks in. They start asking questions, though far too late.
If she plans to kill me, this would be a good place to do it. No one’s paying us any attention, and the train security camera is clearly broken, dangling from a twisted cable at the end of the carriage.
“They’re often like that.” I tilt my head, trying to gauge her mood. Is she smiling because her job went well? Or because she’s about to finish me off too and loves the chase? Or hell, is the assassin just happy to see me? Lord, I hope that’s it. For more reasons than one.
“I meant no one will mourn him. I know you’re a professional, kitten.” I’m pushing my luck by calling her that again, but I can’t resist. She is a kitten. An adorable, hissing little feline.
Ah, shit. She called off her job for me? In our world, that’s a big fucking deal. The sort of thing you’d think twice about doing even for someone you’d known a long time. And meanwhile this girl knows me for five minutes then throws out all her plans?
I’m still holding her hand. She’s still letting me. As her fingers warm up in mine, I can hardly believe my luck.
Or maybe she’s not going to text me and I’m a tragic old fool.
Unknown number. Obviously. Three emojis: a house, a tea cup, and a pair of eyes.
She shrugs a lot, this girl, but I will get some preferences out of her even if it kills me.
“You should lock them when you’re not using them.” Well… not if there’s any chance of her coming through them again. “I will,” I lie.
“I have shortbread too,” I offer, still caught off guard by her presence. I’m usually so smooth, so in control of every interaction, and this girl has broken all my rules and sent me into a tailspin. Instead of pulling her strings, guiding her in the direction I want, I’m lost. Scrambling to keep up, to not make a complete fool of myself or, you know, wind up dead.
“Will you come again?” Has a man in his thirties ever sounded so tragic?
My hand hovers over the flowers as I pick out the best tulip, the one with the brightest petals, the straightest stem, then pluck it from the vase. “Here.” She takes it from me slowly, like I’m holding out a stick of dynamite, but the flush crawling up her throat gives her away. She’s pleased. Another rush of triumph crackles through my veins.
So she could kill me? Eh. Lots of things could kill me. I’m a walking bundle of reckless choices, and my Ma always despaired at my chances. If she was still alive to see me romancing an assassin, she’d box my ears.
“I like flowers,” Anietta whispers. “No one has ever given me one before.” She clutches the tulip close, the rain pattering against the kitchen window. “Thank you.” Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. She likes flowers? I like flowers. It’s a match made in heaven, and if she sticks around, I’ll bring her a new bouquet every day.
Sometimes, if he’s home, I’ll knock on the balcony doors and wait for him to let me in. If he’s out, I slide them open anyway and wander around inside, since he laughs and refuses whenever I tell him to lock them. And sometimes, when I want to see him so badly that my heart’s a bruised little lump but I’m too moody to make good company, I watch his apartment from the rooftops opposite, snacking on my food truck dinner and wishing I could be a normal person for once.
If I were normal, I could do more than shrug when he asks me out for a drink. I could knock on his front door instead of scaling his balcony. I could accept the flowers he gives me with more than stunned silence, a painful lump in my throat. I keep them. Every single one. And as they’ve started to wilt, I’ve pegged them one by one to a clothesline strung across my bedroom, drying them out so they’ll last a while longer.
his curtains are all open. He’s started doing that for me, too, since he figured out I’ve been watching. I’m glad about that, but I’m less happy that he’s stopped walking around without a shirt.
He’s started texting all in pictures too, like he’s learning a foreign language. I refuse to think about how sweet that is. I can’t handle it. Flynn: Cat. House. Flower.
“Anietta, there aren’t enough emojis in the world for this lecture. If you’re cold, will you please get your beautiful ass into my apartment and warm up? I’ll make you tea with extra sugars. I’ll wrap you in blankets.” I grin at my knees, teeth chattering, as he goes on, ranting and raving in my ear. “I’ll heat up your taco for you. Hell, I’ll order you ten more, I’ll rent your own private taco chef, but for the love of god, will you please stop lurking on rooftops and come in here where I can take care of—”
Invitation accepted.
but now we can share it. Half a bean burrito for a fresh flower. An even trade. See, Flynn O’Malley won’t get tired of me with deals like that.
because we both know it’s an empty threat. Even if I weren’t ten times deadlier than Flynn, he’d never hurt me.
