1: Busted

[Enora]

“You’ll be dead in two minutes.”

The man, whose time of death I’d just pronounced, pulled his face from a stripper’s cleavage and looked at me with eyes full of disgust, as the disco lights flashed green, red, and blue on him.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, his Russian accent thick.

“Me?” I smiled, because I thought it was only fair for a soon-to-be corpse to be surrounded by cheerful faces. “Enora, but some call me Portatore di morte.” (Bringer of death).

His eyes widened, fear coating his features at the name. “Morte?!”

“Some call me that too,” I nodded, glancing at my black watch. “You’ll be dead in thirty seconds.”

He shoved the stripper aside, causing her to crash into another clubber.

“Suka!”(Bitch!) he roared, jumping to his feet.

He reached for something in his pocket when a loud bang silenced the room. Warm liquid splattered on my face, and a body hit the floor.

The club erupted in chaos as people scrambled to flee. But this wasn’t a normal crime scene—it was a mafia war. The body would vanish in minutes.

I looked down at him, his dark eyes wide open as blood leaked from the bullet hole in his forehead.

“Rest in peace.” I didn’t need his name, only his face.

It somehow made the burden of taking so many lives—or at least, delivering the news of one’s death to them—easier.

And to be honest, none of the people I’d delivered their deaths to since I was fourteen were innocent. Most were traffickers, drug dealers, rapists, and murderers. They all deserved it in one way or another.

I wasn’t much different from them either.

This is the world I was born into, where shedding human blood was no different from slaughtering animals during Thanksgiving.

A world where I was nothing but the bringer of death, seducer of men, and someday, a bargaining prospect for my papa, Carlos Patrizio.

He was the bloodthirsty leader of the Italian crime family in New York, and I was his only daughter.

I took a bottle of whiskey off the table beside this man’s lifeless body, poured myself a shot, and said a silent prayer for his soul.

Another bang came from outside. I gulped my shot, enjoying the burning sensation as it trailed down my throat.

“Enora!” I heard Ricco, my father’s right-hand man, call out to me.

There was urgency in his voice, and with the repeated screams and gunshots outside, things were about to get messy.

I poured another shot of whiskey, made the sign of the cross, and shut the man’s eyes.

Then I turned—and froze.

Piercing blue eyes locked onto me, sharp and murderous. My breath hitched.

Nikolai Lantsov stood just twelve steps away, his dark scowl cutting through the air like a blade. Both his hands rested casually in his pockets, but the threat in his gaze was unmistakable.

His height was intimidating from afar, and I was certain he would tower over me if we stood close.

My eyes strayed to his chest, then to his shoulders. He was so muscular it made me wonder if he was really forty-two.

And his face—there was no way I could forget it, the face of my family’s sworn enemy.

I hadn’t met him before, but my papa had several pictures of him in his office. He had appeared on the news several times for his famous whiskey brand—the one I drank three minutes ago.

He was also famous for having the largest clubs in New York.

A laugh almost escaped my lips because only those born in this world knew Nikolai Lantsov for who he really was; dark, evil, vile, and a bloodsucker.

Not very different from my father and me.

I pulled out my Glock from where it was strapped between my thighs, being sensual to distract Nikolai while keeping my gaze steady on him.

A wicked smirk found its way to my lips as I raised the metal, pointing it at Nikolai.

One of his guys entered just then, removing his own gun and pointing it at me, but dropped it when Nikolai raised a dismissive hand with a slight smirk.

Was he daring me?

What the fuck was he thinking? That I wouldn’t have the balls to shoot him?

I cocked my gun to warn him, but that only had a negative effect as he started toward me.

My hand started quivering, my gun suddenly felt too heavy to carry.

Cold blood rushed to my brain, and I could hear the drumming of my pulse in my ears with every step he took as he closed the distance between us.

This isn’t good.

Why wasn’t I pulling the trigger? His presence was intimidating, his dark aura possessing everything around him, including me.

My legs itched to pace backward as he neared me, but I forced myself not to move an inch away.

There was no way I’d let him see the effect he had on me. Fuck, I hated how the presence of this ruthless crime lord was affecting me.

My father would spit curses to the devil if he had any idea how much of a failure I was right now.

I hadn’t finished handling the turmoil in my head when my gun came in contact with a certain hardness. The only thing between me and Nikolai right now was my stretched arm and the .45 it was holding.

Nikolai’s jaw twitched. His eyes had flames in them, and I could see the veins in his neck swell.

“What is it, malysh?” (little one?) His voice was terribly thick with a Russian accent to spice it up—just like the man whose blood splattered on me minutes ago—only, the man’s voice had no spice that made my blood rush.

What the hell was I thinking? I was standing in front of the most notorious mafia boss in New York, yet I was thinking of spice and deep-voice-effects.

Get a hold of yourself, Enora.

“I’ll shoot you if you fucking move one more time.” I meant it, and although I’d rather never have blood directly on my hands, it was better to kill than to be killed.

And knowing the men in our gruesome world, death would be mercy after being kidnapped, drugged, and fucked without your consent several times.

And from everything I’d heard, a man like Nikolai Lantsov could do a lot more than that.

He opened his mouth as if to say something but was interrupted when someone shot in our direction, missing bursting his brains by only an inch.

We both ducked. I looked in the direction of the shooter and saw it was Ricco.

Nikolai attempted to take something out from his suit vest. I kicked his hand and tried to make a run for it, but strong warm hands gripped my legs.

Panic set in, I tried to kick him with my other leg, but he gripped it too, dragging me to himself with such speed that my Glock fell out of my hand.

Ricco and the other guys stopped shooting when they saw I’d been captured.

Nikolai’s hand wrapped me steadily to himself. This wasn’t the moment, but the warmness of his body was ridding me of my senses.

His earthy scent filled my nose; my brain started to dissect the ingredients his perfume was made of. Sandalwood, patchouli, and rosewood.

“Let the girl go,” Ricco’s grumpy voice demanded. He was a large, tall guy with a fittingly large muscular belly and curly raven hair.

“Pochemu ya dolzhen?” (Why should I?) Nikolai asked. His voice possessed a calmness that sent chills down my spine. “You’re the ones who crossed my territory.”

“Take me, let the girl go.”

“No!” I shook my head at Ricco. “Don’t—”

“You are mine now, malysh (Little one),” Nikolai growled.

“You do not speak unless I ask you to.” His grip tightened on my neck. “Drop your weapon,” he ordered, eyes on Ricco.

I shook my head again, notifying Ricco not to drop his weapon. He looked hesitant for a while before stretching his gun out on the floor.

“Good. Now, who do you work for, malysh? Patrizio?”

“I haven’t heard of that name before,” I lied.

My father had once said it was best to be discrete in an attack like this. In his own words, it didn’t matter if I was dying, as long as it was not an open war between the two mafia families in New York. I’d rather die in the attack than betray him.

There was no mercy for anyone who did that, even if that person was his daughter.

“Do understand, milyy(darling). I cannot let both of you walk out here alive.”

Nothing in the world could have prepared me for what happened next.

There was no warning, no bang. But there was a thud, and there was blood, spreading on Ricco’s chest, and life faded away from his face.

I’d always thought Ricco was immortal, just like my father and the devil who had his arms wrapped firmly around my neck.

I wanted to scream, shout, but it felt as if watching Ricco’s blood paint the ground seeped away every ounce of energy I had left.

“Keep this in mind, malysh,” Nikolai said in a rough tone. “The next time I see you will be the day you die.”

I nodded, holding back tears that were meant for Ricco, and making my own promise to Nikolai.

‘The next time I see you will be the day you die, Nikolai’