Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

I reach into my pocket and pull out the soft red fabric, rubbing it between my thumb and fingers as I watch my tiger cub inside her apartment. She’s sitting cross-legged on a big pillow tossed on the floor near the balcony, focused on the book in her lap. Her hair is unbound, cascading down her back.

For some reason, keeping an eye on my little savior has an unusually calming effect on me. She did save my life on the night we met, but not in the way she probably thinks. It wasn’t the makeshift bandage, which I keep in my pocket wherever I go. And it wasn’t her inexperienced extraction of the bullet from my side. But, had I not met her, the next mission likely would have been my last.

There is a limit to how much shit someone can take before calling it quits and checking out of this world. That night, just moments before the girl found me, I realized that I had my fill.As I sat on the ground in that alley and watched the dark sky above, I decided to make my next job the final act of my life.

So, I closed my eyes and imagined the bliss of just . . . not existing. Only to have my reverie and visions of finally being free interrupted by a silly girl.

And here I am now. Still alive and breathing. Previously, I didn’t much care if I completed my assignments and came out alive or in a body bag. But I do now. How could I watch over my girl if I’m dead? The night she tied her scarf around my thigh and then offered me her hand, my life became hers.

I’ve spent quite a few nights on this rooftop over the past three months, observing her. The first time I ended up here was when I followed her home after wasting the creep outside the karaoke bar. Once I saw my cub enter her building, I made my typical rounds of the neighborhood, then broke onto this roof and just watched her. It has now become part of my routine. Check everything out around her building to make sure nothing is suspicious. Climb to this roof across the narrow street from her place. Spend hours watchingher.

Just watching, because learning anything more about her may mean I’ll never escape her gravitational pull. Thus, I don’t know much about my girl, other than what I’ve noticed during my viewing stints.

Most evenings, she reads or uses her laptop. I think she might be studying something. Since she still works at the vet clinic, I figure it’s something related. She likes music. One night, she spent two hours cleaning up her place, and while she vacuumed, dusted, and washed her windows, she danced to songs I couldn’t hear. So, I imagined what she would sound like—off-tune and out of sync—and felt my lips pull into a smile. Then, the other night, I watched as she tended to plants growingindoors. She keeps the pots lined up by her window, where they are prominently displayed like cherished decorations. I thought girls liked flowers, but her “garden” is all just a bunch of green leaves. That night, she spent twenty minutes misting the overgrown weeds.

She has a few girlfriends, who sometimes hang out at her place. Her sister or cousin, whoever the young girl from the karaoke bar is, pulled up in a taxi once. She went up carrying two big paper bags. I assumed she must have brought takeout, but the contents ended up being clothes. My cub spent quite a while trying on the things from those bags.

One dress in particular—long and purple, with an open back—had me leaning over the railing as I ate her up with my eyes. She twirled around her living room in it, then took it off right there in open view. I had a hard time swallowing as she unintentionally gifted me with a glimpse of her mouthwatering body. I stood, unmoving, while my cock hardened into granite, straining the fabric of my pants. Never before had I been this turned on just by looking at a woman. It made me feel like a fucking freak, but I couldn’t look away.

The ping in my pocket alerts me to an incoming email. I wrap the silk scarf around my left palm so it doesn’t slip off, then fish out my phone and scan the attached files. The first is a photo of a woman—senior, thick glasses, speckled short gray hair. Several lines of text are underneath—name and, I assume, her short bio. The entire life of a person, condensed into less than half a page. If I did want to read it, it would probably take me an hour to decipher the meager amount of text. But the grandma’s life doesn’t interest me in the least. I don’t care to know who my targets are. I don’t give a fuck if they have a family. Or the reasons why they landed on Kruger’s hit list. I get the job done, no questions asked.

The second file is a copy of a flight itinerary to Berlin, and the next contains the street address and the exact location coordinates, as well as the code for the alarm. It appears that Captain is in a good mood today, considering that’s more than what he usually gives me. Or maybe he’s simply minimizing the risk of losing his only remaining “top-tier” asset.

Even after all these years, I still have a hard time deciphering his actions or the motivation behind them. All too often, he would send me into the field with minimal intel. During one such particular time, I barely managed to make it out alive. When I confronted him about it, he said that part of his objective was to hone my reactions when faced with unexpected situations during the missions. But then, barely a month later, I was ambushed on an op and was brought back to base severely wounded, Kruger fucking lost it. He killed the entire surgical team after they patched me up because they weren’t quick enough for his liking. If I didn’t know him any better, I might have believed he was worried for me.

The last attachment is a screenshot of a contract, highlighting the particulars of the kill order and the one-point-five-million-dollar fee. Looks like the granny is a major leaguer, but I already knew that. She would have to be.

I slide the phone back into my pocket and resume watching my tiger cub as she continues to read her thick textbook. The silk of her hair scarf feels so soft in my hand. It must have been an expensive item, but she didn’t hesitate to use it to stop my bleeding. I’ve tried several times to wash out the blood, but the stains remain. The pretty thing is ruined. Maybe I’ll buy her a new scarf and leave it in her room. This one is mine now.

With one last look at my girl, who is now getting ready for bed, I tuck the ruined scarf back into my pocket and lean away from the railing. It’s a four-hour drive back to New York, and Istill need to gear up before heading to the airport. There’s shit to be done. And people to be disposed of.

One week later

Carefully, I poke the slimy, little brown thing on my plate with the fork.

“I think mine might be still alive.” I nudge Zara with my elbow. “What is this again?”

“No idea,” she whispers through her forced smile.

“You don’t like the escargots, Nera, dear?” Tiziano’s wife, a shocked look on her face, asks from across the table. “We had them imported from France, specifically for this occasion. The head chef here is famous for preparing this dish. Come on, give it a try. They practically melt on your tongue.”

As if to confirm her declaration, she places the nasty-looking thing in her mouth, making a strange squashy sound as she chews.

“I’m not that hungry, actually. The potato and leek soup was more than enough for me,” I deflect. “But I’m sure Salvo will take another serving.”

The capo, who’s been pretending to be engrossed in his food while secretly watching my sister during the entire meal, snapsup his head. I offer Salvo an apologetic grin and sigh with relief when Tiziano’s wife switches her attention to him.

“Want to go get burgers after we’re done here?” I nudge Zara again, with my leg this time.

“Yes, please.” She pushes her own escargot into the napkin lying next to her plate and quickly folds it.

“I can’t believe that Massimo’s parole was denied once again,” Armando, the capo sitting a few settings to the left, says between bites. “Are they really going to make him serve his full sentence?”

“Appears so,” my father replies from the head of the table. “I’ve been pulling stings left and right, even got a senator who owes us a favor involved, but he said nothing can be done. Someone is intent on keeping Massimo locked up for the duration. The Parole Board cannot be bought, it seems.”

“He should have been wiser and waited for the Family to handle the retaliation at a later time,” Batista Leone, the underboss, throws in. “Killing a man in front of several witnesses, members of the law? Boston’s chief of police was at that party. I’m amazed Massimo didn’t get a murder conviction and a life sentence.”

He takes a big swig of his red wine, and a few drops end up on his tie, right next to the salad dressing stains. Signaling the waiter to bring another bottle, he leans toward Armando, saying in a hushed voice, “That boy has always been too impulsive. Hopefully, the time in prison has cooled him off.”