Falling for a Trained Killer

Chapter Four

WARNING: CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC VIOLENCE (18+)

“There is a man in that other room which I have been hired to kill by the Italian Mafia. And as a matter of a secondary nature: money.” Marcus pointed his cigarette in hand towards the safe. “That safe holds 40 million US Dollars.”

This was not a terrorist attack. This was an act of c*****e organized by the Italian Mafia in order to kill just one man and procure an insane amount of money. 

The cold blue stare as he does not take his eyes off of mine makes me think that he wants a reaction. I’m not giving him one. There was another shot. I close my eyes and take a breath. This is not happening echoes through my thoughts. But it is. This was definitely happening. Louis was dead. Irene, his secretary, dead. The brunette I tried to help in the red Prada dress, dead. There was a scream of a man and then another shot. I closed my eyes as I shiver again. The shots became less and less frequent. Each one making an echo of my heart beat.

“Afraid you are going to be next?” he asked.

That enquiry is doused with actual curiosity. Why ask such a question! And am I? comes to mind. 

His voice was so tranquil, just serene. This man is a killer and he was in complete control. I know that I am still trembling. I wish I could stop it to appear strong against this murderer. But I can’t. The shots stop and I hear laughter and a voice in Italian. Luuca; the Roman yelled from the other room his finalizing of the dreadful deed.

“E’ finita”. I hear in Italian; it was over. 

The two men walked into the office; blond military cut and the Italian psycho; Lucca. They both nod to Marcus walking past me towards the safe. That nod of respect can only confirm that Marcus was the head of this operation. The blond looks over me from head to toe. I recognize the feeling in his look. I am pretty. I know that but I am not arrogant. Perhaps my beauty is why I am alive. For their pleasure. Lucca, the Italian had nearly strangled me before eyes me as well, making his way to the safe that Marcus had just pointed out was their purpose all along. 

“What about this one?” Blond military cut asks referring plainly to me. 

The blond military cut has a Southern Accent. I want to say Louisiana? So, an American and an Italian were working for an Englishman. What kind of assassination was this? He was tall and lean, but certainly noticeably strong. His brown eyes are light, nearly hazel-green. Come to think of it, all three of them are all fit. They look like a team of Black OP soldiers dressed in Armani. 

He is asking Marcus what the plan for me is and I know that I am the only one still alive. Despite that, his question is riddled with curiosity too and almost a demand to know why I am still alive and in this room.

“Leave her be James. She was not on the list.” Marcus orders not once looking away from me. 

List? I think the guest list to this party could be the only thing they are citing. I was added only a few hours ago. Was everyone in that other room supposed to die and I was not? Why?

His eyes were such a cold color blue, callous, and unwavering. James reached the safe and turned the silver circular knob several times. Lucca’s brown eyes dart back at me and then finally pull away towards the window checking his gun. The deep brown of his irises are almost black and haunting with the evil of their owner. I have never before met a criminal, and now I am surrounded by three murderers. 

“Michele Arno is dead.” Lucca spoke. “My assignment here is compete.” 

Lucca’s thick broken English from an Italian background is unmistakable. Given his struggle to translate, it was pretty clear he did not speak English often. The raging madman I saw before has calmed down, but is just as menacing. 

“Of course, Lucca. You were welcome on the job.” Marcus answered. 

He said that statement with resentment as a matter of chore and to be polite. Not as an actual thank you. I get the feeling that Marcus does not like this Lucca at all, despite they work together.

The safe opens with a heavy metal click. Curiosity draws my attention at the amount of money James is putting into black duffle bags. Crisp green hundred-dollar notes are wrapped by rectangular sheets of white paper. He gives a single affirmative signal again to his boss. Marcus’ eyes are still precisely set on me. 

“It’s your job now Marcus. I will report the death of Arno to the Saltore’s.” Lucca took one of the duffle bags, “The rest of the money is yours.” He said acknowledging James before leaving through the office door.

I could hear another door shut off in the distance. The door to the apartment no doubt. There were just the two of them now; Marcus and James. I recognized the name he said. The Saltore family were an Italian mafia family based in New York. I had seen the name often in the news tabloids but I have never really read an article about them before and knew nothing of their crime activities.

Their leader Marcus, however, never removed his blue eyes from me as they dug through my soul. I look down, unable to handle his interrogating glare, and too afraid to look at anything they are doing. I am a witness to this crime. I am a witness to this m******e.

“Time to go James.” Marcus says suddenly turning away from me for the first time since we came into the study and putting his cigarette out on a crystal ashtray that was sitting on the desk he leaned against.

I looked at the butt of the cigarette. That could be used to identify him, couldn’t it? He seemed smarter than that. 

Is that it? They are going to let me go? A brief glimmer of hope ignites inside of me. Marcus approaches me as James passes through the room with the duffle bags. I turn to see him over my shoulder as he waits at the entrance of the penthouse door. James had lowered the bags at the door and now picked up two large red plastic bottles with orange handles that looked like gasoline. 

“I find myself in a difficult situation.” Marcus said running his hand through his thick black hair. Again, I smell lavender and my dread is almost removed by the scent of it. “I cannot leave any witnesses to this event. And you have seen my face.”

That glimmer of being out of this situation was gone like a sharp knife cutting me. 

“I will tell no one…” I began to plea as fear returned abruptly to my stomach in sheer terror that he is about to kill me.  

He ran his hand through his hair once more in contemplation. He completely ignored that I had even spoke. 

“Nor do I find myself in the position of wanting to kill you. You are a beautiful woman and I admired the little entertainment you provided for me on the balcony.”

My mind focused on that one word: entertainment. How was Louis hitting me entertainment! I felt a shift of anger rumble through me. A man hitting his partner is not entertainment. It is an act of violence. Whatever this killer is capable of his definition of crime and violence being entertainment is not the same as my own. 

“I tell you this not because I am willing to spare your life.” he spoke with a slight sigh. Supposedly this situation was actually difficult for him. “But given the choice I have little alternative but to take you with me.” 

Wait, what?

“You understand my predicament?” 

He was asking for permission? 

“If you put up a fight, understand, I will have no choice but to kill you.” He stepped closer to me and I did not realize that I was stepping back from him until I felt the knob of the office door jab into my back.

My body clenched with terror. I did not think of the gun at his side as I ran into the other room. I hesitated at the sight of the bodies. There was a pool of blood. I looked around the room at the red splatter and the bullet holes. Limbs flayed in different directions from where their owners had fallen dead and dyed their silk garments with black blood and flesh. Whisps of muddled hair caress the faces of the few women as well the many men, that were all here tonight. Twenty or so people lay before me with their eyes closed or shot upward back into their heads with their last impressions of their lives painted on their faces and my memory forever. My stomach drops like I was on a rollercoaster. Bile rises in my throat, and I want to vomit.

James is waiting eagerly at the door, black bags in hand, and is watching my dismay at the scene that surrounds me. I can smell gasoline. They were going to start a fire to cover any trace of what had happened here. That cigarette he put out in the other room did not matter at all. Escape, where do I escape? Marcus was suddenly behind me. How long had I just been standing there looking at this grotesque display of death? 

I feel his left hand cross slowly over my front shoulders. The soft caress of his shirt passes over my clavicles as he pulls my back against his chest. I feel his hard abdomen and the silk fabric against my bare back from the low swoop of my dress. I try to turn to look at him over my shoulder but he is holding me too tightly. I lift both my hands in an attempt to pull his arm away. One jerks at his forearm which doesn’t budge, and the other is on his Rolex. I can smell him; I can smell the tobacco from the cigarette mingled with his masculine scent. 

Something was in his hand. He placed it over my mouth. I try to scream. I hear a muffled cry escape my own lips and thought it sounded like the whimper of some cat, not my voice. I feel dizzy, weak, and tired. I began to fall back into his grip against my will. I knew he caught me and the room spins as he picks me up into his arms. The last thing I remember feeling is my head resting carelessly against his warm breast. I can hear a heartbeat. I thought I would hear nothing, thinking this man did not have a heart all. He is not a monster, he is human. 

“A new pet?” I hear James ask as I lost consciousness.