Beautiful Assassin (Syndicate #1) Read online

  Beautiful Assassin

  By Skyla Madi

  Beautiful Assassin

  Copyright © 2017 by Skyla Madi.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: January 2017

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-974-0

  ISBN-10: 1-68058-974-1

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the undeniable excitement of finally writing a passion project that has plagued me for years!

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

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  Prologue

  Spoiler alert. I fall in love with the man who comes in the night.

  He watches me down the scope of his rifle and it’s terrifying, and exhilarating, not knowing when he’ll squeeze the trigger. If he’ll squeeze the trigger.

  Maybe I’ll die tonight…

  …maybe I’ll die next week.

  It’s a sick and twisted game, but it’s ours. And just when I think our story ends at a distance, he comes in close, thrusting himself into my life.

  We are at war, he and I, and eventually, he’ll have to kill me. If he doesn’t, someone else will.

  Chapter One

  I shiver, the soles of my shoes pattering gently down the hall of the secluded wing of St. James Hospital, and glance over my shoulder.

  Someone is following me.

  Someone has been following me for weeks.

  I keep my head down. It’s not surprising to me that he’s here tonight. He’s here most nights I am.

  I first suspected I was being followed after Marco, Don of the notorious Russo family, publicly declared I was to marry his son, Christiano. I’ve been a favourite of Marco’s since I saved his darling wife’s life while I was still an undergrad in med school. Long story short, Gabriella was choking on a feta stuffed olive in an Italian restaurant south of the bridge. I managed to squeeze it out of her using the Heimlich manoeuvre that I hadn’t perfected. That night was the night that changed the entire trajectory of my life. I went from being a poor undergraduate med school student living in a shitty dorm, to an undergraduate med school student living in a high-rise apartment in the heart of the city, fully paid for by the Russos.

  Nearly ten years ago, I saved Gab’s life. Nearly ten years I’ve been stuck in this intricate web woven by Sydney’s elite mafia family. I wanted out years ago, when the Morettis moved into the harbor and my lifestyle became dangerous, but by then, my fate had been sealed. I was too far under the thumb of the mob to free myself.

  Sticking my arm out, I slow my pace and swipe my palm underneath a bulky hand sanitizing dispenser. Groaning, it squeezes a coin-sized amount into my hand. I rub my hands together until the liquid dries and absorbs into my skin.

  Twee. A gentle whistle pierces the air, seizing my spine and stopping me in my tracks.

  Oh no.

  I part my lips and let out a shaky exhale. Fear eases off then, replaced by an electrical current that zips down the length of my body and settles in my shoes. It’s terrifying, sure, but I must admit, when my stalker comes out, it’s the only time I feel alive. Most days…most days I’m just going through the motions…emotionless. Popping pills on a regular basis will do that to you, I suppose.

  To be honest, I’m kind of impressed by my stalker. Most people are too scared to make eye contact with me since Christiano declared me his, but my stalker doesn’t care and I find that intriguing. Appealing, almost.

  Clearing my throat, I reach up and tighten my long, caramel ponytail and force myself to keep moving. The last thing I want is to keep Christiano Russo waiting. If anyone has a worse temper than Marco Russo, it’s his son.

  I push through a set of double doors and march through the nurse’s station. It’s stark and empty, a ghost of what could have been. It’s been stark and empty since they opened it in September last year. What was supposed to be a bustling children’s ward is now a deserted waste of space. Why? Because Marco ordered so. When it was announced that I would be the doctor to lead the children’s ward, Marco panicked. He can’t have the only doctor he trusts too busy to patch up his mob whenever they need it. They bought the wing and shut it down for ‘construction’ purposes. It has been one year in the making so far.

  I owe the Russos a lot. I do. Since the night I saved Gabriella’s life they’ve been more than accommodating, making a broke med student’s wildest dreams come true…

  …and now they control my whole life. I can’t say it’s a fair exchange, but what can I do?

  I push open the door to surgery six, step in, and close it behind me.

  “There she is,” Christiano cheers from his reclined position on the examination bench, bleeding through his shirt. “You took your time, Doc. I was beginning to think you weren’t gonna show.”

  I lift my stare from the ground to his face and force a smile. He can’t tell it’s fake. He never can. Same goes for my ‘orgasms.’ I fake all of them when I’m with him and he’s none the wiser.

  “Have I ever let you down?”

  Christiano rakes me from head to toe with his lusty, dark eyes. “No. You haven’t.”

  I cross the room to my surgical cupboard. Christiano Russo is devastatingly handsome. From his thick, black hair right down to his expensive leather shoes. He was born with money, with power, but neither of those things have ever appealed to me. I want a good man. A hard worker. I want a man who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty with honest work, or to disobey his father.

  “Christ, Cammie. Is the thermostat in here connected to your heart or somethin’?” Tony asks from his little chair in the corner of the room.

  I grab a pair of tweezers, scissors, sutures, sterile gauze, and a syringe of saline. For good measure, I grab a tampon from the open pack on the top shelf.

  “Too cold in here for you, Tony?” I ask, closing the cupboard.

  “A little.”

  I toss the tampon at him and he catches it in his chubby hands. He looks at it with his beady brown eyes before frowning at me. “What the fuck is this?”

  “It’s for your pussy.”

  Christiano roars with laughter as Tony scoffs and tosses the tampon away. I can’t help myself, I laugh a little too. With a friendly simper, Tony stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sports jacket. On a good day, Tony is the joker of the family. He was made Capo in February last year, completing Marco’s set of three. I like Tony. Tony I can see myself hanging out with. He isn’t my type—with his aquiline nose
and protruding stomach—but he’s cool enough to make me want to call him friend.

  After I put on gloves, I cross the room, drop my instruments onto a metal tray, and sidle up to the examination table. I grip the red fabric of Christiano’s shirt and reach for my scissors. Without a word, I cut his shirt up the middle, exposing his firm, bloodied torso. Dark blood has dried in the crevices of his muscles and has leaked under the waistband of his black slacks.

  “What’d you do this time, Chris?” I ask, peeling the shirt from his tense body.

  “You know me, Cam. Just taking out the trash.”

  By ‘trash’ he means the Morettis.

  I peer at his face as I lift the saline and begin irrigating his wound. “That’s a pretty intense bruise on your cheek. I hope the other guy looks worse.”

  “Looks worse?” Chris’s eyes flare with satisfaction and he simpers, exposing a dimple. “L’altro uomo è morto.”

  The other guy is dead.

  I get chills. That’s the thing with the Russos. They’re the nicest people on the planet…until they’re not…and the coldest, most ruthless of them all is the man on the bench in front of me. He gets what he wants. If he says we’re getting married, we’re getting married. End of.

  At the moment, he’s still young and enjoys playing the field. The women flock to him like he’s some kind of God, but I know better…

  …and I’m running out of time.

  Tony and Christiano let me finish my work in silence, neither of them striking up a conversation as I patch Chris’s stab wound. I offer anaesthetic, but Chris refuses. He always does.

  As I put in the final stitch, Tony saunters up beside me, grinning excitedly. I flick my attention to him and back. “What?”

  “Have you picked a date yet?”

  I frown. “A date for?”

  “Your wedding.”

  Oh. Christiano focuses on my face, but I don’t dare to lift my gaze to meet his as painful tendrils of dread burrow through my stomach. “That’s still in the grand plans, huh?” I mutter, playing dumb. “You haven’t found a nice Italian girl yet?”

  “I know plenty of nice Italian girls.” Chris groans as I apply some sterile gauze, pushing harder than I should. “But Dad likes you. Mamma does too. I can’t see her wanting to share her secret bruschetta recipe with anyone else, Italian or not.”

  Swallowing hard, I nod. I loathe his mother’s bruschetta. Not that I’d ever utter that out loud.

  “Anche tu mi piaci.” I like you too.

  I smile at him. I hate that Marco made me take Italian lessons six years ago so I could communicate with the family better. Life would be easier if I didn’t know what any of them were saying. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

  When I’m done, Tony hands Christiano a black hoodie and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Chris doesn’t follow. Instead, he leans against the table and folds his arms across his chest, wincing at the tenderness of his wound. I don’t look at him as I slip into a pair of gloves and clean up my mess.

  “What are you doing tonight?” he asks as I dump the suture into the sharps bin and dispose of the rest in the regular trash.

  “Me? Uh…” I push the metal tray out of the way and tug off my gloves, dumping them on top. “I’m here for another few hours at least.”

  Disappointment flashes across his features. How long has it been since we had sex? A fortnight? Sounds about right. I’m with Christiano at least twice a month. I don’t want to do it, but when Christiano Russo shows up at your door at two in the morning, you don’t dare turn him away.

  He reaches out and snags the cuff of my coat and tugs me forward. I go with it, allowing him to pull me tight against his body. “When do you have to go back upstairs?”

  My skin crawls at the sound of his gruff voice, thick with arousal. I feel him strain against my hips then, his average cock pushing eagerly against his pants. He’s out of his mind if he thinks I’ll fuck him at my place of work.

  Lifting myself onto the tips of my toes, I press a gentle kiss to his lips. “I have to go now.”

  He pinches the end of a caramel lock between his thumb and forefinger and pushes it over my shoulder, cupping my cheek as he goes. “I don’t think you do.”

  Chris leans in and kisses me like he has the right to. Like I owe it to him. Without hesitation, he slips his hand underneath my coat and onto the small of my back. I kiss him back begrudgingly and he mistakes my reluctance for passion. Groaning, he slides his hand over my ass and grips the fabric of my black pencil skirt, tugging it up ever so slightly. As he kisses me, I open my eyes and peer up at a small white clock high on the plain wall. The alarm I set on my phone will go off in forty seconds, allowing me to rush off without consequence.

  He massages his tongue against mine, pulling my skirt higher and higher until I feel it slip over the curve of my ass. The door squeaks and my heart stutters. Clearing my throat, I pull away from Christiano, tugging my skirt down with haste.

  “Tony!” Christiano shouts, hurting my ears. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  A minute later, Tony pops his head into the room. “Did you call me?”

  Chris rakes ten angry fingers through his hair. “Yeah, I called you. What the fuck are you doing, pervertito?”

  Tony frowns, confused. “Who you callin’ a pervertito?”

  “You.”

  While they argue, I put on a new pair of gloves and grab my dirty instruments. Crossing the room, I drop them into a hole in the wall that leads to the Sterile Processing Department.

  “I ain’t no perv.”

  “Why are you opening doors while I’m trying to have a private moment with my woman?”

  I fight the urge to grimace.

  “The fuck are you talking about? I didn’t open any doors.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  Right on time, my phone goes off, mimicking my ringtone. I take it out of the pocket of my coat and shut it off, exhaling in relief. Christiano might not take my thoughts and feelings into consideration, but at least he respects my job…sometimes.

  “I was down the hall, I didn’t do nothing.”

  I stroll across to Christiano and kiss him quickly on the cheek. “Gotta go.”

  He pays me no mind, choosing to argue with Tony instead. I flee the room, smoothing the palms of my hands down my pencil skirt. I walk quickly, not giving either of them the chance to catch up with me. I storm through the nurse’s station and down the hall. I hold my palm out as I approach the sanitizing dispenser, but stop still when I see it sitting on top of the bulky plastic.

  A single white rose.

  My stomach squeezes and I press my hand against it. Shit. I step toward the bulky dispenser. Beads of water glisten like diamonds on the small petals and I can’t help but reach out and grab it, careful not to prick myself on the sharp thorns. Swallowing hard, I peer directly into the centre of the rose.

  La rosa della morte…

  …the rose of death.

  My heart races, galloping like the wild hooves on one hundred excited horses. It wasn’t Tony who opened the door. It was him. My stalker. My…assassin.

  Stefan Valentino.

  Chapter Two

  I slide my teeth together, perching on the end of my bed. I rest my elbows on my knees, grunting as I slip on the fabric of my silk nighty. My head has been thumping since I got in last night. I thought Valentino would kill me on the way home, but he didn’t.

  It’s scary how drastically my situation has changed overnight. It’s gone from zero to one hundred in no time at all. I can’t believe the Morettis have a hit out on me and they’ve hired Stefan Valentino to do it. I shiver in fear. I’ve never seen Valentino, but I’ve heard his name a million times. Truth be told, the Russos are terrified of him.

  Eight years ago, he killed Marco’s two brothers, Ciro and Ronaldo. He also killed Marco’s eldest son, Rosario, and Rosario’s wife, Isabella. Now he’s coming for me. Why? Because he probably thinks I’m an asset
to the Russos. Because they love me too much. I’m sure there’s more to it, but I’m not privy to that sort of information. I’m told secret recipes and who they think I should name my children after, not war plans.

  Exhaling, I push myself off my bed and saunter through my apartment, dragging my hand over my face.

  Ding.

  I freeze as my coffee pot finishes brewing coffee I never scheduled it to brew.

  He’s been here.

  For weeks, Stefan Valentino has followed me from place to place. When he’s around, watching me, there’s an electrical current that dances up and down my spine, alerting me of his presence.

  Just like now.

  I glance around the kitchen. Steam billows from the coffee pot’s spout as condensation gathers at the lip. Beside the pot, his calling card.

  A single white rose.

  I frown. Torment. That’s Valentino’s game. The roses he leaves are swift reminders of your impending death, but they don’t tell you when. So you wait around for it. Stressing. Panicking. Until you’re no longer of stable mind, and then he attacks. When you’re at your weakest.

  I almost wish he would hurry it up. God knows my life isn’t going anywhere great.

  I tiptoe into the kitchen and scoop up the white rose. It’s cold and fresh, its scent tickling my nose. I bring it to my face and inhale it, my lips pulling at the corners. It’s a little romantic, isn’t it? A pot of coffee. A white rose. Why would he brew the coffee? Why not dump the rose and leave? Maybe he’s implying that the next coffee I have will be my last.

  On the other side of my coffee brewer, there’s a glass of water. Half full, beside it, two painkillers.

  I scratch my head. My headache. How did he know? Tossing the rose onto the bench, I down the pills and water and grab a mug from the cupboard by my feet. I pour the black coffee into my mug and lift it to my lips, pausing as I press against it. Coffee engulfs my senses and my mouth waters, but I can’t bring myself to drink it…