Devin

 

Breaking back into the Williams house was easy because the door was never relocked after Devin had unlocked it the first time. It made sense, considering Daniel was dead and Cara had been kidnapped. But still, the simple action of turning the handle and walking in the front door made Devin feel much too familiar with this couple.

 

Unsurprisingly, Daniel was still dead on the floor. Blood had congealed in a gelatinous pool around his midsection and across his chest, and his skin had begun turning faintly purple, like he’d been slightly bruised all over.

 

Devin pointed the Polaroid camera at him and clicked, the motors inside the ancient device turning and grinding before spitting out the picture. He shook it and watched as Daniel’s corpse materialized inside the frame.

 

Explaining why he’d chosen to stab Daniel rather than shoot him would be a tough sell. Devin had decided that perhaps they would believe his gun had jammed, but any novice could look at the photo and tell that the body had been dead for hours. Why would he also wait so long to take the photograph?

 

Devin cursed under his breath. He couldn’t understand how everything had gotten so out of control. This was supposed to be an easy hit—a businessman with gambling debts who lived in the suburbs with no children. So many things about that equation had led Devin to believe it would be no big deal. Instead, it had become one of the more complex cases of his entire career. And right before his retirement, no less.

 

He’d meant to retire sooner, but then Amber had gotten sick, and they’d really needed the extra money. Now, though, he had a nice cushy savings account and a deep desire to kick his feet up and be done with his hit man days. The last thing he needed was to raise any eyebrows with his capo or the boss. He needed to fly under the radar.

 

On the way to the Moretti compound, Devin decided the lamest excuse was the most realistic. He could simply tell the capo that he’d forgotten the camera at home. It was a simple mistake that he’d corrected and, if nothing else, it proved that perhaps he wasn’t as sharp as he used to be. Perhaps retirement was the best idea. At least, that’s what Devin hoped would happen.

 

The compound was huge and sprawling. Generations of Morettis had lived in the main house over the decades and expanded on it, adding everything from a private library to a greenhouse to a movie theater. If it hadn’t been run by a mafia family, it could have doubled as a theme park.

 

Devin parked his car in the alley behind the house and went in through his usual entrance in the back. In an unspoken rule, the front door was reserved for the Morettis and their guests. Everyone else came in through the back.

 

As soon as he walked in, Devin spotted his capo walking towards him down the hallway.

 

“Afternoon,” Cristoff said, his suit so stiff he looked like a robot walking in it. “I saw you driving up on the security cameras.”

 

“Hey,” Devin said, always feeling uncomfortably informal compared to Cristoff.

 

“Let’s go to my office,” he said, walking past Devin and heading for a set of stairs at the end of the hallway.

 

Devin followed him up the stairs and down a second story hallway to a small room, not much larger than a walk-in closet, that was covered from floor to ceiling in dark brown Oak. He settled into the cushioned chair behind the oak desk and gestured for Devin to sit in the wooden chair across from him. Devin sat.

 

“How did things go last night?” Cristoff asked, his hands teepeed beneath his chin like he was about to begin praying or something.

 

“Fine,” Devin said, trying to keep his voice calm and casual. “There was a bit of a blunder, but everything came out alright in the end.”

 

“A blunder?” Cristoff sounded aloof, uninterested, but Devin could see the intensity behind his eyes, like the swirls of color hidden inside a marble.

 

“My gun jammed,” Devin said, shrugging his shoulders as if things like that happened all the time. Which, in fact, they didn’t. His gun had never once jammed in all the years he’d worked for the Morettis. “I stabbed him.”

 

Cristoff nodded. “That’s messy.”

 

Devin laughed nervously. “Yes, a bit. But it got the job done.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Polaroid, then slid it over to Cristoff facedown.

 

Cristoff reached for it, flipped it over for no more than two seconds, and then returned it to its facedown position. “When was this photo taken?”

 

“Not until this morning. I also forgot the camera.”

 

“You forgot the camera,” Cristoff repeated, his voice trailing off.

 

Devin nodded, not sure what to say.

 

“Would you excuse me a moment?” Cristoff stood and left the room before Devin could even answer.

 

He tried not to let his imagination run wild, but sitting in Cristoff’s office alone left Devin especially vulnerable to violent flights of fancy. What if they knew the truth and someone was currently headed his way with a gun, ready to silence him? What if they didn’t know the truth, but decided that he was now too much of a risk to the family and were going to have him killed?

 

Basically, what if, no matter for what reason or purpose, they were going to have him killed? He tried to push these thoughts away, but when the door finally opened behind him, he jumped in his seat enough that the wooden legs scooted across the wood floor, making a very loud screeching noise.

 

“Come with me,” Cristoff said, ignoring Devin’s jumpiness.

 

Devin took a deep breath and followed him down another hallway and up another flight of stairs. On the third floor of the house—a floor he’d only been on once before years ago—they walked to the middle of the hallway and then Cristoff stopped and knocked on a heavy wooden door. A voice inside instructed them to enter, and they did.

 

Seated behind a desk much bigger than Cristoff’s was Michael, the consigliere. He was basically the right-hand man to the boss, and Devin had never seen the inside of his office before. Cristoff was meant to be the middleman between Michael and the lower-level employees. A strict chain of command meant law enforcement had a tougher time pinning any crimes directly on the boss.

 

Devin knew that system made him dispensable to the higher-ups, a pawn to use and then discard when the time came, so meeting with the second in command didn’t exactly instill confidence in his situation. To put it simply, people didn’t typically meet with the consigliere for a raise or promotion. Typically, it was to discuss punishment.

 

“Sit, please,” Michael said, gesturing to an armchair across from his desk.

 

Devin sat, and the door behind him closed, Cristoff slipping away into the hallway.

 

“I hear there may have been some trouble last night?”

 

Devin nodded, trying to remain calm. “Just a bit, but it all worked out in the end.”

 

Michael nodded, his hands folded in front of him on the desk. “You made some juvenile mistakes.”

 

Devin could feel his face warming, whether from nerves or embarrassment, he couldn’t be sure. “I did,” he said, chuckling only slightly, hoping to ease the tension.

 

Michael leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs in front of him. “I’ve also heard you’ve been talking about retirement.”

 

“I have,” Devin said. “I’ve been at this a long time, and I think my best days are behind me.”

 

“That’s where I disagree.”

 

The silence between the two men grew thick, and Devin didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t entirely sure what Michael meant. Did he mean that he thought Devin’s best days were, in fact, ahead of him? Or did he mean he disagreed with Devin’s plan to retire? And if that was what he meant, what did he mean by that? That Devin should be murdered instead? Endless possibilities looped around and around in Devin’s head while he waited for Michael to make himself clear.

 

Finally, after a long pause, Michael reached into a desk drawer to his right and pulled out a folder, then dropped it on the desk between them with a smack. “I think you’ve got another job in you.”

 

“Another job?” Devin asked, reaching for the folder and then pulling his hand back.

 

Once he opened the folder, there would be no going back. That was another unspoken rule of the business he was in—once you’ve seen a target, it’s your responsibility to take him out. That way you couldn’t run to the police and become an informant. So much of the mafia business involved being beholden to someone above you, and Devin wasn’t sure he wanted to know whose picture was inside the folder just yet.

 

“It’s a big one,” Michael said, gesturing for Devin to read the folder if he’d like, but Devin stayed frozen in his seat. “One of the biggest we’ve had in a while. The boss thinks you’re a good fit for it.”

 

“I’m not sure…” Devin said, his voice trailing off. Could he say simply that he wasn’t interested? Disloyalty was a four-letter word within the walls of the compound, and Devin didn’t want to seem as if he was unwilling to do the boss’ bidding.

 

“Just take a look at it,” Michael said. “If you still don’t want to do it, then you don’t have to.”

 

Devin knew what that meant. On the surface, it seemed like a generous offer, but similar to what Cara had said before, about the genie, Michael was offering Devin two choices: accept the job or die. It was true Devin didn’t have to take the job if he didn’t want to, but it was also true that if he didn’t, they would have him shot in the back of the head and buried beneath several feet of concrete somewhere.

 

Devin grabbed the folder and flipped it open. He recognized the face immediately. The oldest son of the rival Bianchi family.

 

“The Bianchi kid?” he asked, surprise clear in his voice.

 

“And two of his friends,” Michael added. “The three of them killed a Moretti member, and we would like our revenge to be swift. Do this job, and you can retire.”

 

Michael hadn’t been kidding. This job was the biggest one Devin had seen since working for the Morettis. It would require multiple hits, and gaining access to one of the most protected twenty-year-olds in the entire city. It definitely wouldn’t be easy. However, Devin knew he needed to prove himself loyal if he wanted to retire, and this job would definitely take care of that. He scooped the folder up under his arm and stood.

 

“Of course. Anything for the Morettis. They’ve employed my family and me for a long time, and have always been good to me. Anything I can do to avenge an unjust death amongst their ranks, I’ll do.” The words felt false on Devin’s tongue, but he hoped they sounded sincere.

 

Michael nodded, and Devin took it as his cue to leave. He turned for the door but was stopped by Michael clearing his throat. He turned to face him.

 

“Are you forgetting something?” Michael asked, waving a thick envelope in his hand. His payment for the Daniel Williams hit. Devin smiled and nodded to Michael as he grabbed the envelope full of cash. Michael tipped his head to Devin as the door between them shut.

 

Once back in his car, Devin was anxious to get out of the compound. The entire morning had felt like walking through a minefield, and Devin was relieved that he’d managed to make it out without a major explosion. Plus, he was exhausted; he hadn’t slept for over twelve hours. Going home and crawling into bed sounded like exactly what he needed.

 

Then, he remembered Cara. His hostage. Tied up in his basement. He groaned. This still wasn’t over. What was he going to do with her?

 

As he drove home, the folder with his next job on the seat next to him, an idea struck Devin. A plan that would allow him to get rid of the woman without having to outright murder her. He would recruit her to help him with his hit on the Bianchi kid and his friends under the pretense that it would be her way of paying off her husband’s debt, and then she would be conveniently killed in the course of action.

 

The true bonus would be if he could frame one of the Bianchis for it. Not only would he take out his target and get rid of his hostage, but he could potentially earn some bonus points with the boss by getting one of the Bianchis arrested in the process.

 

Pulling into his driveway, Devin rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took a deep breath. Just one more job. One more job and he could be done. One more job and he could get rid of Cara and retire and forget this whole nasty business had ever happened.

 

# # #

 

Cara

 

Cara was startled awake when she heard a door upstairs slam shut. For a moment, she had forgotten where she was, but then she felt the cramps in her shoulder blades and lower back, the tightness in her neck, and remembered quite clearly. She was still tied to a chair in a hit man’s basement.

 

Just thinking the words felt absurd, like she had somehow been trapped inside the plot of an action movie. She heard heavy footsteps moving around upstairs, and then, a few minutes later, heard the squeak of the stairs as the man came down to the basement. Seconds later, the door to her room opened.

 

“I brought you some food,” Devin said, holding out what appeared to be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

 

Cara wanted to pretend she wasn’t hungry, but almost immediately her stomach began to growl. Even her dreams had been filled with food. Devin untied her hands and sat the plate on her lap, and Cara tucked into it, finishing the entire thing in five bites, and immediately wished she had another, though she would never ask Devin for it.

 

“I can get you more food,” he said, clearly reading the disappointment on her face. “But we need to chat first.”

 

Cara couldn’t imagine what other information Devin needed from her. She’d told him everything she knew about Daniel’s death already. What else could there be to talk about?

 

“Your husband’s debts have been transferred to you.”

 

The sandwich in her stomach suddenly felt like a bowling ball, and Cara thought she might be sick.

 

“What do you mean?” Her voice sounded small, weak, and she hated herself for it, but Devin’s words had knocked every ounce of strength out of her.

 

How could she repay Daniel’s debts? She didn’t have any money. She wasn’t even sure how she’d afford a place to live or food. For the first time, Cara regretted killing Daniel. If she’d waited for Devin to do it for her, she could have received Daniel’s life insurance policy. It wouldn’t have been much, but it would have been enough to start her life over. Now, she had nothing. Tears began welling in her eyes, blurring her vision.

 

“You are now responsible for your husband’s debts,” Devin repeated.

 

“I can’t pay it,” she said, even though she didn’t know the exact amount. “I have no money.”

 

Devin twisted his face into an exaggerated frown. “That’s what I feared. In similar situations, women have been sold into slavery to cover their husband’s debts.”

 

“Slavery?” The only thing Cara knew about slavery was what she’d seen on the History channel’s documentaries. Surely, things like that didn’t still exist—plantations and the slave trade.

 

“Sex slavery,” Devin said, his voice a whisper, as if the words were too horrible to speak at normal volume.

 

Cara felt herself grow faint. Her head swirled, and her vision began going black on the edges. Sex trafficking. That she had heard of. Her brain began producing horrible images of what her life would look like, and Cara tried to force them away, to clear her head so she could think.

 

“There has to be another way.”

 

Devin nodded. “There is, in fact. I have a proposition for you.”

 

“A proposition?” she repeated.

 

Whether it was because of all the sex trafficking talk or not, the word immediately brought to mind sexual favors. Would Devin pay off her debts if she agreed to sleep with him? The idea was still repulsive, but Cara had to admit that it was better than being sold as a sex slave. At the very least, Devin was handsome. Not that good looks were enough of a reason to sell her body.

 

“I want you to make a hit with me,” he said, standing up straight and puffing his chest out. “If you help me take out a target, I’ll give you a cut of the money, and it should be more than enough to cover your husband’s debts. You’ll even have some left over.”

 

Cara’s mouth fell open in surprise. On the one hand, she was relieved that sex was off the table, but on the other, she couldn’t become a hit man. “I’m not a hit man,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t kill someone.”

 

Devin cleared his throat awkwardly. “You already have,” he reminded her.

 

“That was different. I was being abused. I had a good reason. I can’t kill someone for no reason.”

 

“You have a reason,” Devin said.

 

“What would that be?” Cara asked, confused.

 

“If you don’t do this, you’ll either be killed or forced to sleep with countless strangers for the rest of your life. That seems like one hell of a good reason to me.”

 

Cara wanted to fight him on it, to convince him that she couldn’t accept his offer, but he was making sense. As much as she hated to admit it, he was right. She was in a corner, once again being forced to take her destiny into her own hands. Would she allow herself to be used and abused for the rest of her life, or would she do this job, pay off Daniel’s debts, and start her life fresh? Only one answer made sense.

 

“Okay,” she said, nodding slowly, reluctantly. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll help you.”

 

Devin smiled at her and winked, making it impossible for Cara not to notice the warm caramel brown of his eyes and the long dark lashes that framed them.