The Hitman’s Angel Read online

  THE HITMAN’S ANGEL

  Jessa Kane

  Copyright © 2019 Jessa Kane

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER ONE

  Margaret

  I should have stayed out of sight.

  That’s the thought that repeats over and over in my head as I’m being dragged by my elbow down the stairs. My stepfather gives me no chance to gain my footing, so I’m essentially a skidding, flailing blur of awkward limbs. I smack the side of my head off the railing and almost welcome the stars that wink in front of my eyes—they’re a vast improvement after looking at Hank’s disgusted expression.

  God, he hates me so much. More than I hate raisins baked into bread.

  Why do people insist on ruining good bread?

  Hank throws me to the floor and pins me there with a sneer. “You’re done sponging off me, girl. You’re old enough to earn your keep now.” He crosses his battered arms over his T-shirt, which reads Hank’s All-Nude Review. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the food missing from my refrigerator?”

  “How else am I supposed to eat?” I’m not being a smart-ass. It’s an honest question. There’s nowhere else to get food, because he keeps me locked up. “You won’t let me leave.”

  He backhands me across the mouth before I can duck. “Don’t sass me, you little brat.”

  I lick the blood off my lip, pretending it’s his and not mine. “Sorry.”

  “You should be. I tried to do the responsible thing. Your mama took off and I kept you here, safe, for when she came back.” His smile is ugly. “Well, looks like she ain’t coming back and if I’ve got my math right, you’re eighteen now. Time to pay your way or get out.”

  “Great. Which way is the door?”

  This time, I manage to avoid his flying hand, scuttling back on the floor until I reach the wall of the dingy living room and can go no farther. Never one to let an insult stand, Hank stomps close and leans down, his beer breath bathing my face. “You wouldn’t last an hour out there alone, not a penny to your name.” He points to the window and the rundown streets of Baltimore beyond. “You know what happens to girls who look like you when they ain’t got a man to protect them? They end up on their knees in a public bathroom, just trying to make enough cash to eat off the dollar menu. You’re lucky to have me.”

  I was worried about this. Hank has been threatening to kick me out ever since my mother split for Mexico with a new man—a photographer she met downstairs stripping at the Review. Hank is dead in love with my mother. But here’s the thing, hundreds of men have believed themselves in love with my mother since I was a child. She’s a modern-day siren, calling sailors toward the rocks, except she can’t sing for shit. It’s more about her amazing rack.

  Anyway. Being in love with my mother is why Hank kept me around. Hoping to earn points if she comes crawling back, broke and regretful. Look at me. I’m the husband and father you need.

  Eye roll.

  It has been six months, though, and my mother hasn’t even called. Obviously Hank had a few drinks and a long-awaited male epiphany this afternoon and realized his lady love is gone for good. I saw this day coming and I had a feeling Hank has been bluffing about kicking me out. Men like Hank don’t cut their losses. No. They’re driven by getting the last word.

  Apparently, I’m going to be the last word he gets against my mother.

  I’ve been working up my courage for the last six months, just in case he actually stayed true to his threats and booted me to the curb. I could have snuck out my window long before now. Or simply walked out when he passed out drunk on the couch. But—and this pains me to admit—he’s right. I have no survival skills. My mother left my real father thinking she could make it on her own and she was blowing truck drivers within the week.

  I don’t want that. I’m terrified of that.

  But I’ve finally worked up the bravery to try. To find a job and a cheap place to sleep, until I have enough cash to get out of Baltimore. My other option is to stay in this rank, disgusting place with a man who hates me, thanks to my resemblance to mom. And that’s no option at all. It doesn’t seem like he’s giving me one, anyway.

  “How do you propose I earn my keep when you won’t let me leave?”

  I already know the answer and his wolfish expression confirms it. “Did your mama teach you any of her moves on the pole, girl?”

  Heat rushes to my face. “No.”

  “Well, you better learn fast.” He reaches down and fists a hunk of my hair, dragging me toward the hallway of the apartment building. I scramble to crawl faster so I don’t lose all of the hair on the left side of my head. Although maybe I should just let him rip it out. No one wants a half-bald stripper, right? And I most definitely don’t want to take my clothes off for men like Hank. God, the idea makes my skin crawl.

  The closer we get to the hallway, the louder the drunken cheers downstairs become. Hank lives above his own strip club, because it’s convenient and also, I suspect, he might catch on fire if he actually leaves the building and is exposed to sunlight. I’ve never been inside the place, even when my mother was the headliner, but it appears I’m about to get the grand tour.

  “You know something?” he grits out, yanking me to my feet and forcing me down the flight of stairs at the end of the hallway. “I hope your mama does come back so she can see what you’ll become. She wants to throw me away like yesterday’s coffee grounds? Well we’ll see who’s the garbage around here. She is. And now you will be, too.”

  When we reach the bottom of the stairs, Hank hip-bumps a door and the lecherous cheering grows slightly louder. We’re in some kind of dressing room area. It’s dark. There’s a row of lockers and a girl hunched over on a bench, smoking a joint. She gives me a lazy once-over and gets back to puffing. I don’t blame her. She’s trying to make a living and well-paying jobs around here are scarce. I know from the years my mother and I spent living in motels, her struggling to stay legit while I went to school. Until Hank came along and promised to take care of us and she was too tired and broke to say no.

  There’s another group of half-nude women up ahead and Hank propels me by the scruff of my neck into their midst, snarling, “Put her in something innocent. She’s about to give her first private show and some shithead is going to hand over his salary to watch it up close.” He starts to turn away but changes his mind and charges back. The girls scatter as he grabs me by the throat and tosses me up against a rattling locker. “You listen here. If you don’t satisfy whatever customer I send you, I will burn every single one of your belongings. That little box of knick-knacks you think you’ve hidden under the floorboards? Think again. I’ll make you watch as I light it on fire.”

  I’m shaking so hard, my back teeth chatter. This is how he did it. Forced my mother to work for years until her feet bled, then hand over every cent of her money, turning her into a dead-eyed robot. He threatened and terrified her until she gave up. “Please don’t do that.”

  “I won’t. As long as you…” He raises a patronizing eyebrow.

  “Satisfy the customer
,” I rasp. “I’ll try.”

  His eyes flash angrily, hand tightening around my throat. “You will.”

  “I will. I will.”

  “Good girl.” He rakes me with a glance, his gaze lingering on my breasts where they rise and fall beneath my mother’s old Nirvana tank top. “I should have thought of this arrangement sooner.” He laughs while walking away. “Happy Birthday, Margaret.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lenin

  This place is trash. I wish to go back to my jigsaw puzzle at home.

  Back in Moscow, strip clubs aren’t quite so obvious. They are more like a regular night club, less like an alcohol-fueled free-for-all. Alas, I suffer in this kind of environment no matter what. There is no control or predictability in a place where men are frustrated and women are making them so on purpose. I thrive on control. Having things in order, where they fit. In a place such as this, there is always some resentment in the air, coming from the stage and cheap seats alike. It annoyed and distracted me, so I said da when the sweaty, pale man offered me a private dance in another part of the club.

  He reminded me of a gnat, buzzing around me, landing briefly with words like first-time dancer, special price, blah blah blah. I care about none of it. I simply wanted him to shut his mouth and it suited my purposes to leave the main floor with this man.

  Where I can kill him with ease, as I’ve been hired to do. The contract was set up by his ex-business partner through my employer, but I care not for the details.

  I let out a bored breath and let my elbow graze the Glock holstered at my side. This one isn’t even going to be a challenge. When my employer ordered the hit, I hung up without accepting right away. It only took me a few minutes of internet searching to confirm this man deserves to be put into the ground. Drug charges, soliciting prostitution in this very club. Assault against a woman. That last one sealed the deal.

  As soon as we’re alone, I’ll perform my duty and be home in time for Shark Tank.

  That Barbara Corcoran is a shrewd one. I find I enjoy her insight very much.

  But first, the job. It is just another task in a series of many. It is nearing its end, however. My debt to my employer is almost paid and then I will be free to do my puzzles in peace. I follow the gnat man through a curtain of silver beads into a small lounge that, if possible, is even more disgusting than the main floor. The room glows in a neon blue light, doing nothing to hide the torn leather couches and stained industrial carpet. If the moans coming from the dark corners are any indication, the stains are not from spilled drinks.

  I sigh and briefly close my eyes. “Is there somewhere more private?” I ask.

  In a place like this, there always is. A backroom where men are allowed to do a lot more than receive a lap dance. For an increased fee, of course.

  I merely want a place with no witnesses.

  His answering laugh sets my teeth on edge. “Is that an accent? I didn’t notice it before. Where are you from, buddy? Russia or something?”

  “Nyet. I’m from hell. Have you been?”

  He thinks this is very funny and slaps his knee, giggling like a small child. “Perfect. This is perfect. You’re going to put that spoiled bitch right in her place.”

  I assume by “spoiled bitch,” he’s talking about this first-time dancer—and these are words that don’t make sense to me. If she was spoiled, she wouldn’t be working in this godforsaken dump. First-time dancer. Spoiled. Is she here against her will?

  I find I do not like this idea very much at all.

  Congratulations, gnat. You have earned an extra minute of breathing because I’m now interested in seeing the dancer. If I can help it, I never let women suffer, like so many women in my life did when I was a youth. Powerless. Too young to help them.

  I’m not powerless now.

  I’m this piece of shit’s worst nightmare.

  “As luck would have it,” says the gnat, “there is a backroom. But this here dancer…” Trying to play coy, he scratches the back of his neck, but dollar signs are in his eyes. “When I say she’s never danced. I mean she’s never danced, if you catch my drift. It’d cost you a pretty penny if you want more than a show.”

  “You already knew I could afford it, though. That’s why you approached me, da?”

  He sputters for a moment, looking over my pressed, gray suit. “You don’t exactly look look like my typical customer.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hey,” he says, frowning. “These are decent, hard-working—”

  “Enough. Where is this girl? I will decide if she’s worth emptying my wallet over.” I study the cuff of my jacket. “Based on your talent working the main stage, I doubt it.”

  Now he’s got something to prove, this child living in a man’s body. “You just wait. There’s a reason I’ve kept her locked upstairs.”

  Bastard. I grind my molars as he leaves the room, my hand itching to reach for the gun, twist on my silencer and aim. To end his miserable existence. Wherever the first-time dancer is, she will be freed once he takes his final breath. There’s no need to wait. But just as I’m about to follow him into whatever dark backroom he’s disappeared into, the silver beads swing—and my heart spikes down into my stomach, then rams up into my throat.

  Angel.

  It does not make sense to my brain that she is standing in this place. She belongs in the clouds. Or sitting on a silk pillow sipping champagne. Dear God, I’ve never seen anyone or anything so beautiful in my thirty-three years. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head, little pieces tickling her graceful neck. Her mouth is plump, brown eyes round and spirited. Scared, but brave. I will slaughter him for making you scared, angel.

  How long has she been scared? Locked up?

  A roar builds in my throat and my arm muscles seize. Adrenaline turns the slow pulse in my neck into a fast, staccato beat. I’m primed to kill.

  I’m primed for more than that, though. My cock is pounding with lust, growing and stretching out in my pants. Hungry. I’m so hungry and my craving is her skin. I want to remove the long, blue, see-through robe she’s wearing and lick every inch of her body. Never before have I wanted a woman with this urgency. My couplings in the past were functions I performed as part of my job. Infiltrating places like this. Getting closer to the target through any means necessary.

  Never for pleasure.

  Having this angel beneath me would be all for pleasure. I’m prepared to spill my come just looking at her, smelling the light floral scent. She’s pleasuring me simply by existing.

  I communicate to her with my eyes that I will save her. I will show her the true definition of being spoiled. Yes. That is to be my new job.

  I train my eyes on the gnat and reach for my gun.

  My step falters when the angel’s eyes widen and she gives me a small headshake.

  “I-I want to dance for you. Sir.” She swallows and my balls grow heavy. “Please?”

  It’s the please that renders me motionless. I don’t think I can say no to this creature.

  I think it might be…impossible?

  In that moment, I realize the angel has a great weapon against me, indeed. From a young age, I’ve been forced to earn money to feed my destitute family by working for the Bratva. First lesson they taught me? Weaknesses will get you killed. Still, I can’t stop myself from nodding and rasping, “Da. Whatever you wish.”

  The gnat laughs knowingly and I swallow my venom. “Thought you might change your tune once you saw the merchandise.”

  He pushes the angel in my direction and I catch her up against me. A groan leaves my mouth because she’s so lush and feminine, but I’m torn between absorbing the salvation of her soft curves—and putting a bullet in the man who dared to lay his hands on her. Up close, I can see the bruising at her temple, on the sides of her throat, and my lips peel back from my teeth. I open my mouth to tell her I’ve come to slay her tormentor, but I stop myself.

  What if she does not want a cold-blooded killer?


  What if I repulse her?

  It would not be a surprise. She already can’t look too fondly upon men. My code of honor—killing only those who warrant killing—might not sway her. After all, she is not from the brutal underground worlds where I cut my teeth. She is an innocent.

  My dick hoists with that reminder and she gasps.

  Nyet. I cannot scare her away. My debt to my employer will soon be paid and she’ll never have to know about my dark lifestyle.

  “Please…” she says, going up on her tiptoes and whispering in my ear. It’s euphoria. “Please just let me dance for you or he’ll—”

  “He’ll nothing,” I grind out. “He’ll do nothing to you ever again.”

  She looks up into my eyes and casts a spell. “Why?”

  “Because…” What was I saying? My brain is not functioning at its usual pace. I can’t seem to focus on anything but the little tits pressed up against my chest. “Never mind how I’ll keep him from bothering you, angel. Just trust me.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  Sweat forms on my spine. I don’t like her not trusting me. Only a few seconds of it and I’m miserable. “How can I make you trust me?”

  “Tell me how to um…please you.” She looks back over her shoulder at the gnat, the pulse in her neck speeding up in obvious fear. “I have to please the customer. Teach me how.”

  “You are not required to please me, angel. Not here. Not like this.”

  She appears bewildered. “Why are you here if not for pleasure?”

  To put a bullet between your tormentor’s eyes. I can’t say such a thing to this girl. Those words would soil her. I don’t like not telling her the truth. In fact, I loathe it. But I must allow her to believe I’m here for pleasure. Otherwise she’ll ask more questions or grow suspicious that she’s dealing with someone unworthy and then she’ll never trust me. Or leave with me.

  Da. That’s what I want more than anything. This angel to let me take her from this place. Perhaps if we go through with the dance, I can convince her to trust me. Go home with me.