HITMAN’S ANGEL

 

Elyzabeth M. VaLey

 

Copyright © 2017

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

Colt watched the old man from the shadows. He followed the same routine every night. First, switch on the lights to his office while undoing his tie. Then, close the door and leave his briefcase near the right leg of his desk.

The minibar came next. A glass of scotch downed in one gulp and another one to sip throughout the night while he worked.

Colt smirked. His victim would never look through the window, behind the curtains. He’d never check to make sure he was alone. Safe. People never did. They were always careless, blindly assuming the world they lived in wasn’t out to hurt them, oblivious to the constant threats surrounding them. Colt had learned from a young age that danger lay everywhere. In the streets. In your home. It didn’t matter.

His target sat down on the worn leather chair with a groan. He placed the glass on a coaster, then picked up his briefcase and drew out his reading glasses and some documents. With a sigh, he set to work.

Colt’s fingers tightened around his weapon. He focused on his breathing and the sound of his heart in his ears. It was steady, calm, counteracting the tension in his muscles. He peered from behind the curtains. Aimed.

The man never looked up. Never turned around. The bullet traveled silently through the air straight through his skull, killing him instantly. Blood splattered all over, the shiny red drops glistening starkly over the white sheets of paper. Colt stepped from his hiding place. He pushed the body with the butt of his gun. The corpse toppled over.

As it did, it threw a silver picture frame out of balance. Colt grabbed it. He stared at the picture. A young woman, probably no more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, smiled at the camera. His pulse quickened. He focused on her eyes. They were bluer than a summer sky, rimmed by dark lashes, giving them an all-consuming intensity. He racked his brain for information. While tracing his hit he didn’t recall seeing her at any moment. Who was she? What was her connection with him?

A tear of blood slid across the portrait. Colt grimaced. He set it back down and left.

****

A few days later, Colt sat in the pew at the back of the church. The minister’s voice carried though the space, like the insistent buzz of a bee. Colt kept his head bowed, and his lips moving silently as he pretended to pray for the soul of the man lying in the coffin at the head of the church. His hands rested on his lap, his fingers laced together to avoid the nervous twitching.

He’d never done this before. Coming to the funeral of a man he’d killed. What the fuck was he thinking? He was a hitman. He killed for a living and never, ever looked back. Not this time, though. She was here. The girl from the picture. Grace Moretti.

Ever since he’d caught sight of her in her father’s office, he’d been unable to forget her. It was like one of those itches you just couldn’t scratch. He’d tried to ignore it at first by hitting the strip club and searching for a substitute, but nothing compared to Grace. Her blue eyes and her golden hair reminded him of an angel. Untouched. Pure. Beautiful in its innocence.

He’d gone home frustrated, but soon a plan had started to form. Instead of fighting the obsession, he’d embrace it.

Almost as if she were his next target, he’d investigated her. Name. Marital status. Social Security number. Medical records. Everything. Colt had discovered that when her parents had divorced she’d gone to live with her mom in California and was still there. She worked as a social worker, counseling and aiding individuals in prison. She was well-off, but she led a quiet life, radically different from her father and sibling.

His gaze darted to the front. Grace had her head bowed, her golden hair hiding her features from him. At her side sat her brother, Bruno. Dark-haired, stocky, and looking grim. Colt noticed the man sitting to his left. By the size of the fellow, he guessed it was Bruno’s new bodyguard.

The businessman—to call him something—hadn’t wasted any time in finding protection. Colt rolled his eyes. As if that would help him. If his boss wanted him dead, Bruno would be mincemeat by the end of the week. He hoped he’d learned whatever lesson Colt’s boss was trying to teach him and it wouldn’t come down to it.

Suddenly, the church grew silent and people started to move. Colt waited for everyone to get closer to the flower terrace. This was his chance to meet Grace. Speak to her. Touch her. He made his way to the front. His chest tightened. His insides quivered with an excitement he hadn’t felt since the first time he shot a man at the age of sixteen. He licked his lips.

He passed by the casket, nodding at the closed lid in salutation, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from Grace. She held a woman’s hand, accepting her condolences. Then it was his turn. He offered his hand, hoping his palm wasn’t too sweaty, too cold or too hot. Grace slid her palm into his. He grasped it, firmly. A current of pleasure traveled through his limbs. In the quiet buzz of the church, he heard her sharp intake of breath. She glanced up at him, eyes questioning. Her lips parted, and he couldn’t stop the image of them opening wider, taking in the girth of his cock.

“I don’t think we’ve met before.” Her voice was soft, sweet, with a degree of intimacy which only drove his fantasy further.

“I’m Colt,” he managed to say. He frowned, uncertain of what else to say, but desperate to cause a good impression. 

The sound of a loudly vibrating phone stole Grace’s attention from him and bought him time. She scowled and turned to her brother.

“Bruno, please.”

Her sibling glanced at his device.

“Take care of the people. I gotta take this.”

He motioned for one of his bodyguards to follow him and walked out of the church, all the while whispering into the phone and gesticulating wildly. Grace sighed and looked at him again. Her gaze dipped to their hands, which were still entwined. She smiled at him. Her features lit up as if the sun had suddenly decided to shine within the house of God.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “How did you know papa?”

A heavy weight settled in Colt’s stomach. Papa. She must have been close to him if she called him that. I killed him. The truth danced on the tip of his tongue. Harsh. Cruel. Real. Bloody. Life wasn’t pretty. But she was.

“We worked together briefly,” he said instead.

“Thank you for coming today.”

“It was the least I could do.” After murdering him.

“Thank you.”

In response, he squeezed her hand, wanting to say more but knowing this wasn’t the place or the time. Finally, he let her go, hurrying out of the confined space and into the fresh air. Thankful for the crisp autumn breeze and the hint of rain lazing in the grey clouds, he ran his fingers through his hair and took in lungfuls of breath. His thoughts bounced against his skull like an out of control tennis ball. His better judgment told him to stay the fuck away from Grace Moretti. He’d killed her father. Her brother was in deep shit with his boss. One wasn’t supposed to get involved with victims and their families, because once you did, feelings started to bubble up. Remorse. Fear. Sadness.

Colt clenched his hands. Hers had been soft, gentle, but with a degree of assertiveness he hadn’t expected. Would she kiss in the same way? His cock twitched and caterpillars walked across his stomach, venomous yet exciting at the same time.

He was going to have to see her again, wasn’t he?