Cain ( Underworld Mafia Romance 1)

Prologue

Cain

Ready.

I command every muscle in my body to go still as my target comes into view. The dampness of the ground seeps into my knee. A chill brushes against the nape of my neck. I ignore them both and focus on my task.

My eyes, barely blinking, look straight through the scope of my rifle. My hands keep the gun steady, the butt against my shoulder. My finger, unflinching, rests on the trigger.

I don’t dare breathe. Feverish anticipation of the kill I’m about to make flows through my veins, and I keep it there. Over the years, I’ve learned to keep my emotions toned down, muted even, discarded whenever possible. They’re a hindrance. Every extra heartbeat is a waste of valuable stamina. Every neurotransmitter released muddles the mind. In battle, an unchecked emotion can mean being a second too fast or too slow, which can spell the difference between victory and defeat, life and death. Right now, the slightest spike in my pulse could give me away.

No room for emotion. No room for error.

Steady.

I could shoot now. There’s a chance I can still put a bullet in him through the gap in the leaves. Not a headshot, but at least he’ll go down. Then I can go closer for the execution. But no. I don’t want any pain. No sad eyes gazing at me, begging for something I can’t give. Quick and clean. That’s how I like it.

Patience.

He stays in his spot and looks around. He’s paranoid, and I don’t blame him. He’s had a target on his back since he was born. Fear is what’s kept him alive. But it won’t save him now. One wrong move, no, one more move, and I’ll…

My phone vibrates inside my pocket. Fuck. I swear if I didn’t need anything from anyone, I wouldn’t be carrying the damned thing.

No use for regret now. And no time. My target has already started running, alerted to my presence. I’d let him go, but that’s not in my nature. Once I set out to kill, I don’t stop until my target stops breathing.

I always finish what I start.

I sling my rifle across my back and start running after my prey. At the top of a slope, I stop. I pull the knife from my boot, take aim, and throw it. The sharp weapon circles silently through the air, cuts through a twig and lands in the rump of the fleeing stag. He falls to the ground.

Good shot. Too bad the poor thing’s still alive.

I go down to remedy that. I stand over the wounded creature and pull out my knife. Then I grab his head by the antlers and cut his throat with the blade in one swift motion. Done.

Another life taken. Human or animal, life is life and taking it requires a resolve not everyone can muster. Not everyone is born a killer.

But I was. Maybe my mother knew it, too. That’s why she named me after the first murderer in the Bible.

As I wipe the bloody knife on the deer’s fur, my phone vibrates again. I sheathe my weapon and answer it.

“Archer.”

I hear a breath of relief. “For a moment there, I thought you were dead.”

Andrea. The closest thing I have to a friend. Apart from my mother, he’d probably be the only one who would come close to tears if I did die.

“Nope. Just busy.”

I glance at the dead animal on the ground.

“Ooh.” He whistles. “How many women are you with? Due? Tre? Or are they signore this time?”

Of course that would be Andrea’s idea of spending time. He rarely thinks of anything else but sex. Men. Women. Sometimes both at the same time. Not at all what you’d expect from someone who looks so meek and wears a worn-down rosary around his neck, a souvenir from when he was still studying to become a priest in Rome. But at least Andrea doesn’t lie. He doesn’t look down on anyone. That makes him better than most people I know. Plus he’s the only one I know who can shoot as well as I can, which makes me glad I’m not pitted against him. Best keep it that way.

“None,” I tell him. “I was hunting.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that’s fun, too.” This is why we get along. “Are you done?”

Again, I glance at my latest casualty. “I just have to dispose of the body.”

“Well, make it quick. Papa Bear needs you. Presto.”

And what Papa Bear needs, he gets. Presto.

I kneel beside the dead stag. I estimate it to be two hundred twenty pounds. Maybe two forty. That means it will take me at least two and a half hours to haul it back to the cabin, butcher it, seal the meat in vacuum packs and stock them in the freezer. Not to mention I still have to shower and then drive forty minutes to Milwaukee.