Darkest Deeds: Cavalieri Della Morte Read online

  “What do you want?”

  “I think you know what I want.”

  I do, but I’m sure as hell not going to be the one who opens that window and jumps out of it. “Maybe you should spell it out for me.”

  “Fine.” Gripping his hair, he lets out a growl of frustration. “You want it in black and white, here it is. Your father is one of the most notorious mob bosses on the East Coast…hell, maybe in the entire country. Not even taking into consideration the drug smuggling and extortion, we believe the Chernov Bratva is responsible for the disappearance of countless young women all over the southeastern United States. The FBI have dealt with the Italian mob for years, but the Russians have their own playbook. That’s where you come in. It’s almost impossible to get an undercover agent inside a Bratva. It’s easier to get someone from inside to come out.”

  “You want me to betray my own family?”

  “Your father is a murderer. He forces young women into prostitution at Seven then trafficks them,” he says, slamming the pen on the table. “For fuck’s sake, he’s not above selling his own daughter’s body. All you have to do is find proof of what he’s done. Get us something we can use to nail him, and I’ll forget tonight ever happened.”

  I lower my chin, sickness settling in the pit of my stomach. “You don’t understand what he’ll do to me.”

  “You’ll be under my watch the whole time, and after you testify, you’ll be put in the witness protection program. Think of it, Ava—new name, new state, new life. You’ll get to start over.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Well, you certainly have that right, but there’s one other thing I failed to mention.” There’s a glint in his eye as he clasps his hands together and leans forward. “I did some digging on you and found something that might make you a little more cooperative. Does the name Nikolai Garetovsky ring a bell?”

  Niko

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  One Week Ago

  Everyone dies sometime. No matter who you are or how much money you have, eventually, your time’s up. Depending on whose path you cross, it may come sooner than you expect. That’s where I come in. Once a name is on my list, that’s it. Game over. There’s no negotiation. No begging. No deals. The amount I’m paid determines whether the ending comes quickly or piece by piece. It makes no difference to me.

  Lucky for Robert Lancaster, it’s arriving in one clear shot to the head.

  All the lights are off on the tenth-floor office building except for one, so I walk straight toward it. I don’t bother hiding my presence. What’s the use sneaking around like some common thief? It’s not as if the end result will be any different if he hears me coming.

  Lancaster sits at his enormous desk like the pompous jackass he is, his fingers steepled while staring out a floor-to-ceiling glass wall that looks out over the French Quarter. I want to shoot him right now just for being a moron. Four satellite companies in four states and the idiot chooses to hide out in a city I know better than my own dick.

  Reaching underneath my black leather jacket, I pull my Glock from its holster. “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. You fucked up.”

  His body stiffens, and I wait until he turns around, his horrified eyes tracking every movement my hand makes. Just because I can, I lean my hip against the doorway and slowly reach inside my jacket, pulling out one hell of an impressive silencer. I take my time attaching it to the end of my gun because I’m a son of a bitch, and the fear on his face fuels my sadistic high. Once his knees start to bounce up and down, I have to fight the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. It won’t be long until he pisses himself. They all do.

  “Who are you?” There’s a tremble in his voice that shakes all three of his chins.

  “Penance.”

  His hands shoot up in surrender. “Look, you’ve got the wrong guy. I didn’t do anything. I’m just a stock broker.”

  “Do not insult my intelligence,” I warn through clenched teeth. “I may be a lot of things, Bobby, but wrong is never one of them.”

  My message must have been clear because all the color drains from his face and his hands fumble around for his checkbook. “Fine! Tell me who sent you, and I promise I can pay you double what they offered.”

  I don’t dignify that with an answer. I’m a killer, not a whore.

  In a moment of panic, he dives for the desk phone. I don’t bother telling him I cut the line before stepping foot in the building. It’d just piss me off to know he thinks I’m that careless.

  While he slams his pudgy fingers on every button, I release the safety on my gun and aim. I’m tired of his whining. “Bobby, you’re a piece of shit stock broker who jacks off with stolen money from decent people. While I think that makes you an asshole, it doesn’t concern me. Unfortunately, you stuck your dick in my boss’s whore, and that does concern me.”

  Pointing the gun at his forehead, I pull the slide back as he drops to his knees, crying like a little bitch. “I’ll do anything! Please!”

  “Arthur Calthorpe sends his best wishes for a safe trip to hell.”

  I squeeze the trigger while thinking of what I’m going to have for dinner. I’m not insensitive—I’m efficient. Know why? Because it only takes one shot to end Robert Lancaster. That’s all it ever takes because I’m damn good at my job. My conscience is clear as I disassemble my weapon and tuck it away. I don’t think of my targets as people. That way, I have nothing invested except extra work at the end for clean-up.

  Luckily for me, I’m leaving this one for the cops to find. Lancaster has so many people who want him dead, his murder will be a cold case before the end of the week.

  Avoiding pooling blood and bits of brain matter, I gather the shell casing and drop it into my jacket pocket. With a last sweep of the room, I leave what’s left of him, anxious to get home after a being out of the country all week.

  Once outside, a wave of unseasonal humidity smacks me in the face. Within seconds, beads of sweat roll down my forehead, plastering a chunk of dark hair over my eyes. I’m not used to this constant furnace bullshit anymore. Somewhat normal weather is one of the reasons I didn’t mind putting down a root or two in New Orleans when the Tabella Della Morte came calling. At least Mother Nature got off her period once in a while in the French Quarter.

  I’m halfway to my car when my phone rings.

  Speak of the voodoo devil.

  Biting the tip of my middle finger, I jerk my glove off and answer. “It’s done.”

  “I had no concern it wouldn’t be.” Arthur’s voice sounds slightly out of breath. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why, and I roll my eyes at the irony.

  I just killed a man for fucking one of his whores while he was busy fucking a spare.

  A more cautious man would take the compliment and keep his mouth shut. Then again, safety and silence aren’t really my style. “Then what’s wrong? Someone else lick one of your thirty-one flavors?”

  He lets out a low chuckle that’s anything but amused. “Careful, Niko. Don’t mistake my respect for tolerance. Each Cavalieri is invaluable but not irreplaceable.”

  “Right. Did you need something else?” I scan the perimeter of the parking lot, years of training kicking in. The need to keep moving constricts my chest, making it feel like it’s strapped to a ticking bomb.

  “Actually, yes. I need you to pack another bag and head to Lakefront.”

  Groaning, I unlock my car and climb in. Lakefront Airport is where Arthur keeps his private jet. This means more work and no sleep.

  “Why the hell would I do that?” Turning the ignition, I head west toward my Metairie apartment. My boss’s only concern may be a handful of ass, but I’m still in the process of covering mine.

  “You’re flying to Miami tonight.”

  I’d rather fly straight to hell.

  I press heavy on the gas, streets flying by right and left. “Are you fucking kidding me? I barely got into town last night and you handed me Lancaster. Can’t one of the o
ther guys do it?”

  “This is personal.”

  “So was Lancaster.”

  He sighs. “Not for me, Niko. For you.”

  A personal hit in Miami. I couldn’t be that lucky. “Who’s the mark?”

  “Ava Chernova.”

  My blood pumps at the last name, but the first one causes me to cross two lanes of traffic, nearly taking out every car in my path. Arthur calls my name as I pull onto the shoulder, but my head is spinning too fast to answer.

  “Niko? Did you hear me?”

  Arthur’s voice is like a gunshot, snapping me back into the present. Forcing all emotion out of my voice, I scrub a hand across my cheek, the roughness of my beard matching my mood. “I’m sorry, I thought you said the princess of the Miami Bratva.”

  “I did.”

  Is he fucking serious?

  I grip the steering wheel, trying to control my temper. “Do you understand the consequences of a hit like that? The minute her father gets word of this—”

  “Sergei ordered the hit,” he says, and the bomb attached to my chest explodes.

  “On his own daughter?” I don’t know if I’m shocked, vindicated, or fucking pissed.

  Arthur chuckles. “It appears that even the great Sergei Chernov has fallen victim to the Delilah effect.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Delilah and Sampson, my boy. Behind every great man’s downfall is a woman. Many men’s empires have crumbled because of a female’s betrayal. Let that be a lesson to never get attached to just one.”

  His words sink low and hard in my stomach, churning a deadly mix of acid and long buried emotions. Emotions that have dwelled in the darkest recesses of my mind just waiting to break free and rain hell.

  “What did she do?”

  “From what I’m told, she traded Sergei’s ass to save her own. After a raid on his club, Ava started acting strange, so Sergei had her followed. She was seen meeting with the same man a few times, so he ran the plates and found out they belonged to good old Uncle Sam.”

  “Feds?”

  “Betrayal never comes from a vengeful hand, Niko. It comes from a smiling face.”

  A hard lesson I learned early in life. One that has apparently come full circle.

  “In order to secure his alibi, Chernov will be in Texas until tomorrow comparing dick sizes with the Mexicans, so you’ll have time to plan,” he explains as sheets rustle in the background. “What happens between now and then is up to you.” He pauses, waiting for my response, and when the only thing I return is silence, he sighs. “Despite the bad blood between you now, I know you were once fond of this girl, Niko. However, I still need you to get answers out of her before completing the job. You know what that means.”

  Torture. Slow and painful.

  “Of course, I can always give this to Dagger. I know he’s the only one you’d trust to—”

  “No!” The word rumbles from my chest with brutal force and echoes inside the dark car. My chest heaves with labored breaths, but instead of rage, a black calm deadens me. “I’ve waited eight years for this, Calthorpe. I’ll put a bullet in anyone who gets in my way.”

  “I’d expect nothing less.” There’s a smug satisfaction in Arthur’s voice. “X will meet you at Miami-Opa Locka with your supplies.” There’s a brief pause, then he adds, “Remember, this hit is just for the girl. I know you have a separate vendetta with Sergei, but this is my business, not yours. Do we understand each other?”

  A vendetta that’s simmered for eight long years because of a weakness I can’t risk.

  “Yeah, I got it.” With my mind racing, I pull back onto I-10 and head toward Metairie. Just before I disconnect the call, Arthur’s gravelly voice calls out one last time.

  “Niko?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t fuck up.”

  Niko

  Miami, Florida

  It’s past two a.m. when X meets me at Miami-Opa Locka Executive Airport with a psychotic serial killer’s wet dream. A half dozen tactical knives, a Glock 19, a SIG MPX machine gun, a Kalashnikov rifle, three M67 hand grenades, zip ties, rope, enough ammo to blow away a small village, and one relatively small stun gun all rattle around in the open black shoulder bag. I glance up to see him grinning like an idiot as he stands in front of me, holding it open like he’s some fucking game show model.

  Picking up the stun gun, I give it a shake and raise an eyebrow.

  X shrugs, his smile faltering as he shifts an adoring gaze inside his bag of toys. “You never know when it might come in handy.”

  Sure. Because an armed Bratva guard will invite me in for tea so I can get close enough to light him up like a fifty-thousand-volt Christmas tree. Rolling my eyes, I throw it at him and he lunges for it like I just tossed his kid in the middle of rush hour traffic.

  Mudak. Asshole.

  I wouldn’t peg him for an arms dealer. Judging by his slicked back brown hair and blue preppy Wall Street suit, he looks more like a banker. However, the way a man presents himself means nothing. Hell, if I slapped on an eyepatch and set a fucking parrot on my shoulder, I’d look like a pirate. Doesn’t make me one, though.

  X motions for me to follow him. “Mr. Calthorpe has secured a car best suited for your specific needs.”

  My hands fist by my side as I follow him across the empty lot and around an abandoned shed. Darkness and seclusion are all that accompany us, and my instinct roars like a siren. Instinct is what’s kept me alive most of my life, so when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, I reach for my gun.

  If I’m going out, it’s not going to be in South Florida by some squinty guy with way too many teeth shoved in his little round head.

  He jerks on a dark colored tarp and motions in front of him. “Audi R10 okay?”

  “Holy shit.” Tucking my gun away, I move past him, itching to get my hands on the machine in front of me. V-10, 610 horsepower, zero to sixty in 3.2 seconds, 205 miles per hour on the open road.

  Black. Sleek. Dangerous. Built like hell. A sexy, wanton slut of a ride.

  “Arthur sprang for this?”

  “He said to spare no expense.”

  Questions fly through my mind, none of which have answers. Of course, not much of what Calthorpe does makes sense, so I shouldn’t be shocked at his latest show of extravagance. He’s a rich man possessing several bank accounts with enough zeros to do whatever he pleases.

  “So, I assume everything has been secured.” My hand twitches against the hood, and I can feel a vein pulsing in my forehead. It’s a familiar feeling—the same cathartic rush I always get right before an assignment. I’m ready for this. I need this.

  “Completely.” X stirs behind me, rustling papers with gusto. He rambles on about the safety features and design of the weapons…blah, blah, fucking blah.

  Tilting my head back, I stare up at the night sky and tune him out. While sinking one of these new blades right in his throat would improve my mood, I’m too tired to deal with the clean-up. “I was talking about recon on Ava Chernova.”

  X’s eyes light up, and I hate him only slightly less. “Oh, yes. Sergei has arranged for the security system inside her apartment to disarm tomorrow from midnight until roughly three a.m. As far as workplace security, I’m assured all guards will be occupied after her shift.”

  He clears his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching. He’s nervous, and with good reason. He thinks he’s playing with fire when it comes to Chernov, and he’s not wrong. However, if he thinks I’ll blindly walk into a trap, he can go ahead and fuck right off.

  “You’re telling me men who’ve sworn their lives to protect Ava Chernova are willingly leaving her like a sitting duck?”

  He nods like a bobble-head. “Sergei informed them they’re needed for a private poker game he’s hosting.”

  “He’s stacking the deck against her.” I lick my lips, the anticipation building.

  He raises an eyebrow. “You know your poker terminology. How often do you play?”
/>
  “Never. A Vegas politician owed a casino owner a lot of money. I make it a priority to know everything about everyone around me, Xavier.”

  All the color drains from Xavier Talton’s face, and I’m pretty sure if I breathed really hard, he’d fall over. I’m half tempted to try it when he shoves the folder clenched in his hand against my chest.

  “Yes, well, here are the layouts of Ava’s apartment and her father’s business establishment.”

  I knock his hand away. I’m too tired for this PC bullshit. “I don’t need a map of his whorehouse. I know the place like the back of my hand.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Gaheris, that was almost a decade ago. Structures change.”

  I hate being challenged, but he’s right, and I hate that even more. Gritting my teeth, I take the damn folder. “Got it.”

  “Speaking of Chernov’s business,” he says, drawing the words out with a wince. “Mr. Calthorpe thought you should know that Ava is employed there.”

  Sounds of cardboard and paper crumpling cuts through the silence, and I glance down to see the folder mangled in my fist. Quickly releasing it, I tuck what’s left of it under my arm. “She’s managing Seven?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You’re kidding me.” I throw back my head and laugh, although I’m not sure if it’s from amusement or some sick twist of fate. “The Pakhan Princess is a stripper in her father’s club?”

  He doesn’t answer me, and to be honest, even if he did, I wouldn’t hear him over the white noise buzzing in my head.