KISS ME BEFORE YOU KILL ME

Zayn Cross had learned three things in life: never trust anyone, never stay in one place too long, and never let emotions get in the way of a job. Tonight, he was breaking all three rules. The soft patter of rain tapped against the roof of the Venetian hotel. From where he stood, high above the glowing city, the view should’ve been peaceful. But peace had never belonged to him. Not since the night his family bled out on the floor while he hid behind a cabinet, too small to stop anything, too smart to forget it. The day life made him an orphan. His hands were steady now, even with the cold biting through his gloves. The gun was already assembled. Silenced. Loaded. One shot. Clean. Done.He has never missed. This was supposed to be his last mission the final job before disappearing for good. Zayn calmly adjusted his escope and locked eyes on the courtyard below where he was positioned. The target was due out in three minutes. Matteo Moretti’s son, the spoiled, dangerous guy, he was tied to half the drug trade in Europe. Killing him was doing the world a favor, he thought to himself. Zayn had killed worse. Much worse. He crouched lower, eyes focused. Suddenly, A black car pulled up. Then she stepped out. She wasn’t part of the briefing. No photos of her, no notes, no warning.Who was she? She wore a red silk dress which wA clung to her body like it had been painted on, she looked heavenly. Her hair, damp from the rain, stuck to her face in soft waves. She walked barefoot on the marble path, shoes in hand, laughing at something the target said. Zayn frowned. Something about her didn’t fit. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t armed. And yet, something about her made his finger freeze over the trigger. He zoomed in on her face. Young. Maybe mid-twenties. Soft features, but sharp eyes. Like she knew too much and said too little. She didn’t look like the kind of woman who played with cartel heirs. And still, she smiled at the target like he was just a guy. Zayn lowered the rifle slightly, his gut twisting. Who the hell was she? The voice in his earpiece buzzed. “Cross, you there?” “I see him,” Zayn replied calmly. “And?” “There’s a girl with him.” A pause. Then, “She a threat?” “I don’t know yet.” “You don’t get paid to wonder. Take the shot.” Zayn didn’t move. “She’s not in the file. I need to know who she is first.” “We don’t have time. You know the rules.” Zayn hated rules. He removed the earpiece and pocketed it. Tonight wasn’t going to end the way they thought. He just couldn’t take the shot. Two hours later, he went to the at the hotel. It was half empty and reeking of expensive cologne and spilled whiskey. Zayn nursed a glass of scotch in the corner, his hoodie up, head low. He couldn’t stop seeing her face. That smile. That effortless calm. No reason in particular why it bothered him. Why was she with Moretti’s son? Was she a girlfriend? A decoy? A witness? He needed to know. And as if summoned by thought, she walked in. Same red dress. Same bare feet in strappy heels. Same haunting presence. She didn’t notice him at first. She slid into a booth, ordered a drink, and opened a worn book from her purse. The way she curled into the corner told Zayn one thing — she was alone. Or she wanted to be. He waited a minute. Maybe two. Then he moved. “Mind if I sit?” he asked, keeping his voice casual, low. She looked up, startled but not scared. “It’s a free country.” He sat. “You don’t look like you belong here,” he said. She took a mischievous look at him he. “And you do?” He smiled. “You can’t tell?” She took a sip of her drink, eyes scanning him quietly. “You following me?” “No.” “You sure?” “Maybe a little.” She smiled. “That’s honest.” “I try.” She extended her hand. “Aria.” He took it, her fingers warm despite the chill. “Zayn.” Aria. It hit like a punch to the chest. Beautiful name. Clean. Not cartel-like. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just watched her. “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re either a writer, a killer, or heartbreak in disguise.” Zayn blinked. “What makes you say that?” “You’re sitting like you don’t belong anywhere.” That made him pause. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was dangerous in her own way, not with a gun, but with observation. The kind that peeled you apart. “You come here often?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation. “No. I needed to get out of the house. Long day.” “With the guy earlier?” “You mean my brother.” She asked. Zayn raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” She nodded. “Half-brother. My father’s son from another woman. We don’t exactly get along, but family dinners are non-negotiable.” If what she said was true… then she wasn’t just close to the target. She was family. Which meant She was Aria Moretti. Daughter of Matteo Moretti. The man Zayn had been hunting for years. The one tied to the murder of Zayn’s own father. She was the enemy. But she didn’t know it. And for the first time in his life, Zayn didn’t know what to do