Tomorrow was Friday.
He’d made a habit of taking a new bitch to bed most weeks. He didn’t do relationships and usually tired of the same girl once she started getting fantasies of taming him. This weekend he was going to focus on a contract, so he wouldn’t have time to entertain.
Unlike his men, he had better control of his cock. Boss had been dealing with romance drama for fucking years thanks to Killer of Kings. He swore he must be cursed as one after another, his hitmen fell hard for a woman. Even the most hardcore bastards … pussy-whipped and off the market. He couldn’t understand the appeal of settling down with one woman. He liked things his way, and it was a fact that emotions and loved ones were weaknesses in the underworld of contract killing.
Boss preferred everything in his life to be clean, accurate, and well-coordinated. He couldn’t control what happened in his past, but Killer of Kings was a well-oiled machine with an impeccable reputation for getting the job done. He’d become the perfect assassin because he lacked empathy for his victims. Pity and second-guessing only got men killed.
He lugged the backpack onto the butcherblock counter and zipped it open. There was a large baggy of white powder among the ammunition. The shooter had ranted about drugs and being killed by a higher power. One of the men had a high fever. In addition to tailing El Diablo’s sister so she didn’t fuck up any more of his plans and starting a new contract tomorrow, he needed to know everything about what went down tonight.
Boss called up one of his inside men. “I need you to bring your lab and test something for me. It looks like coke, but I have a feeling there’s more to it.”
“I’ll bring the van by. How urgent?”
“Be here within the hour. I need some fucking sleep.”
****
“Please, baby, don’t do it. Put it down. Let’s talk about this, okay?”
Graciella set her 9mm on the glass side table with a soft clink and poured herself a glass of wine. She swirled the liquid in lazy circles, watching it cling to the sides of the crystal glass. “You like expensive things,” she said, taking a sip.
“Why are you doing this?”
Robert Hayleigh’s hands were handcuffed above him on the elaborate headboard. He was naked and pathetic, begging for his life. Fortunately, he was an easy mark so she wouldn’t have to fuck him. Men made her sick.
She leaned back in the leather chair and continued to enjoy the wine.
He kept pleading, his fear slowing, morphing to bursts of anger. “What do you want from me, you stupid bitch? Just take my cash and fuck off.”
That got her attention. Graciella stood up, her heels clicking on the marble floors of the hotel room. “Is that what you think, Mr. Hayleigh? I’m a call girl trying to rip you off?”
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” he said.
She ignored his now constant ranting. Graciella walked around the spacious luxury suite, admiring the custom woodwork. There were still fifteen minutes until her take-out order was ready at La Cocina, so she took her time. She parted the curtains and looked down at the street below, an array of lights from traffic and animated billboards illuminating the darkness. This city was her home for now. She had no intention of returning to Colombia. When she was ready, she returned to the glass table, picked her gun up, and began to twist on a silencer.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m fulfilling a contract, Mr. Hayleigh.” She sat on the edge of the bed, trailing the tip of her silencer down the length of his naked body. “You’ll be a good payday.”
“Are you kidding me? I can’t believe this shit. I’ll pay you double. Triple.”
“It’s a tempting offer, but you’ve already insulted me.” She put a pillow over his head and pressed the gun to his temple, pulling the trigger.
She stared at the lifeless body for a minute, noting how numb she felt right down to her marrow. There was no sense of guilt, pity, regret, sadness. Nothing. She supposed being brutalized daily as a child had changed her into an empty shell of a woman—a walking, existing, cold-hearted bitch.
Graciella began to clean up her scene as she checked her watch. Ten more minutes until her food was ready. As she finished up, the thought of Boss’s pissed-off expression made it all worthwhile. This was one of his contracts, but it was open so she’d still get paid. His men should have been faster.
She found being a female assassin to be an advantage, plus she didn’t have the same strict code of ethics like Killer of Kings. Graciella would have taken Robert Hayleigh’s offer of more money but she had a sore spot for assholes calling her a bitch. She would have pulled the trigger for free.
Before she stepped out into the hallway, she tugged the wavy blonde wig free and shook out her long black hair. She tucked it into her oversized purse and made her way to the elevators. The mirrored doors reflected the perfect image. That was all she was because beauty was only skin deep. She used her assets to get what she wanted, to make money, and to keep her independence. Sex was a tool in her arsenal. It meant nothing. She’d closed herself off to emotion since she was five years old. It was the last time she’d cried—the end of her innocence. For over three decades, she couldn’t remember having a good night’s sleep. Nightmares, real and remembered, made sure she’d never know peace. One thing she’d never sacrifice again was her freedom—she’d never allow herself to be a slave to any man.
They called her Widow Maker and she supposed the name fit her well. Killing paid well, and she was very, very good at it.
She blended into the evening crowd on the sidewalk as soon as she left the hotel. Graciella pulled out her cell phone and messaged her contact that the job was done. The money would be transferred into her account. She enjoyed collecting cash because it equaled security.
Once as she got her food and returned to her condo, she’d start a new contract. She needed to keep busy to avoid life. To avoid reflection.
It was only another block to La Cocina. She’d parked her car behind the business. Everything had been planned out in detail beforehand. No mistakes.