《You Only Kiss Twice》 Mangos Are Just Too Sweet It was a sweltering summer night on Doulo Campus. The Macon apartment complex on the campus¡¯s edge pulsed with music, thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and cheap alcohol. It¡¯s July 4th¡ªthough the exact date hardly mattered to anyone caught in the blur of heat and hedonism. On the fourth floor, one apartment stood out. Its two balconies were crammed with bodies¡ªlaughing, drinking, swaying to the bass-heavy rhythm pounding from inside. Women in tight dresses leaned over the railing, tossing back shots, while men downed whatever liquor they could get their hands on. There were young men hitting on women and women taking their pick of the litter. A group of young women approached the building, giggling, their left wrists marked with purple bands¡ªan unspoken invitation to the night¡¯s chaos. Across the street, a black Mustang pulled into the lot away from other cars. It¡¯s clear this wasn¡¯t like other Mustangs. The windows were tinted far beyond the legal limit, the glass so thick it might be bulletproof. There¡¯s a fresh bullet hole in the license plate that reads: LUV 4 U. The engine cut off. A pause. Then the door swung open. A single, smooth toned leg stepped onto the pavement¡ªbare, toned, ending in a three-inch red heel that caught the streetlight just right. As the woman stood, the slit of her red dress parted, revealing the curve of her thigh¡­ and the gleam of a knife holster. She reached back into the car and pulled out her pink purse. A small fuzzy thing with a gold strap. She took a military grade serrated knife from it and slipped it into her hollister. She adjusted the weapon, securing it in place before straightening. The name was Mango. She wasn¡¯t here to party, but she was looking forward to a good time. She was thin but curvy enough to make her red dress stretch in all the right ways. The shiny red dress was low cut at the top and had a slit up the side for easy access. Short golden hair and emerald green eyes. The kind of face that¡¯s worth thousands and has stolen the hearts of many more. Before stepping away from the Mustang, she casually pulled out a tube of red lipstick from a small pink purse. A quick swipe across her lips. A glance in the side mirror. Oh yeah, she was hot! Then she spotted them¡ªthe group of girls heading toward the apartment. Laughing. Carefree. Wristbands on their left arms. Mango¡¯s own wrist was bare. She rubbed it absentmindedly. She¡¯d have to blend in. Shaking the thought away, she followed them, somehow managing to move unnoticed in three-inch heels. This is a feat of course she had practiced over the many years. As they reached the entrance, she studied the group more closely¡ªdifferent hairstyles, different walks, but all of them marked by the purple band. The lead girl knocked on the door. It only took a moment before it swung open. A young man, obviously drunk, stood in the doorway. Backwards cap, black Adidas tracksuit and a smell Mango could only assume was the cheapest cologne at Target. When he saw the women, a slow, sloppy grin spread across his face. ¡°Oh, what¡¯s up, girls? I mean, ladies! Hey, Sarah,¡± he said, locking eyes with the one in front. ¡°Glad you could make it.¡± ¡°Yeah, whatever.¡± Sarah said, rolling her eyes. ¡°We stopped by because, well, there¡¯s nothing else to do.¡± He smirked and gave a dumb bow as if he was a fancy butler. ¡°I¡¯m sure we can find a way to entertain you.¡± He stepped aside, letting them in. Mango moved with them¡ªuntil his hand came up, stopping her. He grabbed her kind of high, but she let him. Didn¡¯t want to break any fingers just yet. ¡°Yo, I don¡¯t know you,¡± he said. ¡°Where¡¯s your wristband?¡± Mango didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°I¡¯m with them,¡± she said. Then, lowering her voice and patting him on his face, she spoke sternly. ¡°And if you don¡¯t want me telling people your party sucks because you¡¯re turning away girls like me¡­ I¡¯d suggest you let me through.¡± The guy chuckled, tipsy but not stupid. He turned his cap forward like he suddenly wanted to look respectable. ¡°Well, excuse me,¡± he said with a grin. ¡°Why don¡¯t you come right on in?¡± Step one, Mango thought as she slipped inside.Easier than I expected. As Mango walked past him, the drunk let out a whistle at the sight of her ass. Every muscle in her face wanted to twist into a snarl, but she forced a small, polite smile instead. Inside, the apartment was exactly as loud and chaotic as she expected¡ªflashing lights, pulsing bass, bodies grinding together in a blur of sweat and cheap perfume. What she didn¡¯t expect was hownicethe place was. Not just expensive-looking, butactuallyexpensive. No cheap knockoffs, no faux fur rugs or spray-painted Goodwill furniture pretending to be antique. Everything here was real. She had always heard rich kids went to this school, but was it really a college dorm? Whoever owned this place had serious money.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. And maybe a problem withkeepingthat money. The type of guy she would go after on a regular night. Her fingers twitched with old instincts, her kleptomaniac side stirring in the back of her mind. She knew which drawer he kept the money in just by the look of the place. She needed a drink before she got distracted and let the demon out. Then¡ªsalvation. From across the room, people emerged from the kitchen with full cups of liquor. Mango made her way over, stretching onto her toes to see past the crowd. She got closer and there it was. The most beautiful sight she¡¯d ever seen at a party like this¡ªanactualbartender. Not some drunk dude mixing vodka with whatever soda was left in the fridge, but a tan woman with dark hair in sweats standing behind a table stocked with real bottles. Mango fell in line behind a couple already lost in each other, their bodies tangled even as they waited for drinks. Their lip smacking was loud enough to wake the dead. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the balcony¡ªearlier packed with people, now mysteriously empty. ¡°Want anything?¡± the bartender asked. Mango blinked back to the moment. ¡°Uh, yeah. Got vodka?¡± ¡°Hard vodka?¡± ¡°The hardest.¡± The bartender smirked. ¡°We¡¯ve gotTouch. Straight from Tampa Bay.¡± Mango¡¯s eyes flickered with recognition.Touchvodka¡ª American made in Florida, but a small private distillery. It was known for not giving hangovers as easily. Someone had connections. Or at least good taste. For a second, she considered it. Then she caught herself.Wait. I can¡¯t get too hammered. She sighed. ¡°Just a Corona.¡± The bartender raised an eyebrow. ¡°Never seen you before.¡± ¡°I¡¯m new in town,¡± Mango said, her voice smooth and practiced. ¡°Well, nice to meet you. I¡¯m Lea.¡± The bartender slid a bottle across the table. ¡°Need anything else, you let me know.¡± Mango grabbed the beer, pressed the cap to the table¡¯s edge, and slammed it down with a practiced flick. The top popped off cleanly, not a single bubble fizzing over. More so, without leaving a dent in the table. Leia gave a smirk. ¡°You¡¯ve done that a couple times.¡± ¡°Years of experience,¡± Mango said, taking a sip before slipping back into the party. As Mango moved through the crowd, she scanned the room, her body swaying just enough to blend in¡ªhalf-dancing, half-hunting. Then she saw him. Across the room, sitting alone on a couch. Tall, even seated. Dark skin. Shaved sides with thick dreads pulled back into a ponytail. Just her type. Like a hungry panther stalking its prey, she started toward him. He wore an all-black suit, a red tie knotted tight at his throat in a double windsor. In his hand, a glass of dark liquor over ice¡ªno plastic cup, no cheap beer. The kind of drink that signaled taste. Class. A man like this didn¡¯t belong here. So why was he? Mango adjusted her dress, pushed up her bra, and closed the distance. Just as she was about to reach him¡ª Slip! She stepped straight into a puddle of water. Her heel slipped, her Corona flew from her hand, and in one horrifying second, the beer went cascading straight into his lap¡ªsplashing across his suit, his tie, even his face. He shot to his feet, his glass falling out of his hand. ¡°Thefuck?¡± he barked. Mango hit the ground with a gracelessthud. The music pounded on, too loud for anyone else to notice. That¡¯s the thing about these parties. There¡¯s so many people, it¡¯s like no one¡¯s even there. She looked up at him, eyes wide, and for a moment her mind raced. Then she said, ¡°Oh my god, I¡¯m so sorry!¡± He ran a hand down his soaked shirt, fuming. ¡°What the hell is wrong with you?¡± ¡°I¡ªI didn¡¯t mean to!¡± She scrambled up, reaching instinctively to pat his clothes dry¡ªher hands brushing against his chest, his abs.Well, damn. This guy is toned. ¡°Are you okay?¡± she asked, tilting her head. He exhaled sharply. ¡°I¡¯mwet.¡± Mango bit back a smirk, scooping up her empty bottle. ¡°Here, let me¡ª¡± She pulled a few napkins from her purse and dabbed at his shirt, though it was clearly a lost cause. ¡°God, IknewI should¡¯ve worn the wedges.¡± Something in his expression shifted. The anger faded, replaced with¡­ indifference. Like she wasn¡¯t even worth the energy to be mad. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± he muttered. ¡°No, no,¡± Mango insisted. ¡°Let me get you another drink.¡± ¡°Really, it¡¯s¡ª¡± ¡°Iinsist.Just stay right here.¡± Before he could argue, she grabbed his glass and turned toward the kitchen, her lips curving into a sly grin. ¡°This is your target.¡± She remembered the words from earlier that week. *** An empty and dark warehouse. The kind of place you would only do bad things in. Dust swirling in the dim light. A bald man in dark shades slides a photo across the only table. A photo of the man she had just spilled her drink on. On the other side is Mango. But not like you know her. Across the table, Mango was wearing a tight black and gray body suit, toying with the silencer of her gun. "This is your target,"the man had said. The name printed beneath the image wasJohn Nero. Mango shrugged. ¡°Oh yeah? What¡¯s the deal?¡± Across from her, the bald man leaned forward. ¡°I need him dead.¡± ¡°No shit.¡± Flanking him were two tall men, both wearing dark shades. Muscle. The kind of guys who didn¡¯t talk unless they had to. All three were dressed in street clothes, but it was obvious¡ªthey weren¡¯t just hired help. They were thehighertough-guy types. Mango picked up the photo, studying it. He was cute.Verycute. ¡°John Nero. Black. 6¡¯1. I need it done clean,¡± the bald man continued. ¡°Fast. Discreet. They say you¡¯re good at handling sensitive situations like this.¡± His voice was flat, emotionless. ¡°No one can know about this. Do you understand?¡± Mango smirked. ¡°You don¡¯t even know my name. You¡¯ve got nothing to worry about.¡± She flicked the edge of the photo with her thumb. ¡°It¡¯ll get done¡ªifthe money¡¯s right.¡± The man snapped his fingers and one of his goons handed him a silver briefcase. He slid the silver suitcase across the table and popped it open. Inside: stacks of crisp bills. ¡°Five hundred grand up front, like we agreed,¡± he said. ¡°Other half when the job¡¯s done.¡± Mango smiled and put away the gun. After she checked it and was satisfied, she placed the photo of John neatly on top of the cash, then shut the suitcase with a softclick. ¡°It¡¯s a shame to let such a man go to waste, but he¡¯s too pretty a penny to pass up. Alright,¡± she said, standing. ¡°Just one quick question.¡± She met his gaze, her smirk widening. ¡°Any particular reason you want me to murder yourbrother?¡± So Thats Why He Needs To Die Mango walked back into the living room, two glasses in hand. Ice clinked softly against the sides¡ªjust the way she¡¯d noticed he liked it before. This was the part she enjoyed most. The beginning. When everything was smooth. Simple. Before it got¡­complicated. John was still there, perched on the arm of the couch. She half-expected him to be gone, but surprisingly, he wasn¡¯t. His shirt and pants were still damp from her little accident, arms crossed, looking disinterested. And yet¡ªhe hadn¡¯t left. Interesting. Mango wondered what kind of man he was. Was he actually waiting on a drink? His previous glass had been full enough to be fresh, yet the ice had already melted. She smiled as she approached, offering him one of the glasses. John eyed it suspiciously. ¡°What is it?¡± ¡°Rum and Coke,¡± Mango said. ¡°No idea what you had before, but who doesn¡¯t like rum and who doesn¡¯t like Coke?¡± ¡°Someone who likes Pepsi.¡± She giggled. ¡°You¡¯re funny.¡± John took the drink cautiously, swirling the ice as if checking for something. He¡¯s careful, she thought. Good. Cautious men don¡¯t do anything stupid. But with cautious men, you have to take your time. ¡°Thanks,¡± he said. Then he stood to leave. ¡°Aww, going so soon?¡± Mango asked, raising a brow. ¡°Yeah.¡± She tilted her head to the side, looking as innocent as possible. ¡°A pretty girl gets you a drink, and you don¡¯t even ask her name?¡± John snorted. ¡°Why should I?¡± He took a step away. Mango smiled. ¡°You¡¯re not scared of me, are you?¡± He froze. Gets them every time, she thought, hiding her smirk behind a sip of her drink. Slowly, he turned to look at her. ¡°My name¡¯s John,¡± he said. ¡°Wow. Thanks for the fake name.¡± John chuckled as she sauntered up to him. ¡°My name¡¯s not fake,¡± he said. ¡°You asked.¡± ¡°What¡¯s yours?¡± ¡°Mango.¡± ¡°Mango?¡± ¡°No thanks,¡± she teased, ¡°I¡¯m twice as sweet.¡± ¡°What are you, a stripper?¡± ¡°Sometimes,¡± Mango said with a shrug. Technically, that wasn¡¯t a lie. She had been one. Whenever the job required it, she could play the part. But God, she hated stripping. It was the laziest cover in the book, yet men never seemed to see it coming. The worst part wasn¡¯t even the dancing¡ªit was the damn heels. The unsanitized poles. The slippery ones that sent girls crashing to the floor like clumsy ballerinas. If she could avoid stripping, she did. John smirked. ¡°Hmm. I thought something was weird about you.¡± Something about his tone made her smirk falter. ¡°Weird? Weird how?¡± she asked. Her mind started reviewing the conversation she had earlier at the warehouse with her employer for any sort of guidance. *** At the dusty warehouse, Mango waited on an answer. The bald man was silent and so Mango sat back down and gave a pouting face. ¡°You¡¯re not going to tell me why you want to kill your brother?¡± she asked. ¡°I want you to kill my brother because I told you to,¡± the bald man said flatly. ¡°So there¡¯s nothing else in it for you?¡± ¡°Well, not that it matters to you,¡± he said. ¡°But once he¡¯s dead, the old man will have to change his will.¡±This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Mango smirked. ¡°Ah. So it is personal. Not just business.¡± ¡°It¡¯s always business,¡± the bald man said. ¡°This time, it just happens to be both.¡± From the back of the warehouse, a low rumbling noise echoed through the steel walls. The bald man and his two goons flinched. Mango didn¡¯t. ¡°Relax,¡± she said, crossing her legs. ¡°It¡¯s just the air conditioning kicking in.¡± She slid the silver briefcase under her chair and pulled a small notepad and pen from the tight leather bodysuit hugging her frame. ¡°So, where do you want it done?¡± The bald man reached into his jacket and pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper. He handed it to her. Mango unfolded it. An address. The handwriting was terrible¡ªso bad she had to squint. She almost told him to rewrite it, but what would be the point? The letters, though messy, had been formed with care. Meaning this was the best he could do. ¡°He¡¯ll be at this address in two weeks,¡± he said. ¡°How do you know?¡± ¡°His best friend¡¯s throwing an away party? Oh, he¡¯ll be there. It¡¯s the last of his close friends going away.¡± Mango tapped her pen against the notepad. Something felt odd. ¡°I¡¯ll take the money,¡± she said. ¡°But seems like you could¡¯ve hired someone else for this.¡± She tilted her head. ¡°I mean¡­ he is your brother. Doesn¡¯t that make him special?¡± ¡°He¡¯s no brother of mine!¡± he yelled, slamming his fist on the table. The room was silent for a moment while he composed himself. Touchy subject, thought Mango. ¡°Besides,¡± said the bald man, ¡°He won¡¯t see you coming.¡± ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡± He smirked. ¡°Let¡¯s just say I have a certain¡­ repertoire of people I like to hire.¡± Mango smiled. ¡°I can see that.¡± Behind him, his two goons exchanged a glance but said nothing. ¡°You don¡¯t get to be the son of a crime lord,¡± he said, ¡°without learning how to watch your back around certain people. I¡¯ll be damned if he gets anything.¡± *** John shrugged. ¡°Weird like I¡¯ve never seen you before.¡± He took another sip of his drink. ¡°Lawrence usually hires the same strippers every time. I think he¡¯s in love with one of them.¡± Mango frowned. She wasn¡¯t some common ho. She didn¡¯t care who her target was¡ªhe didn¡¯t get to talk to her like that. ¡°I was invited by a friend,¡± she said coolly. John nodded, stepping closer. He downed half his drink in one gulp. Standing next to him now, Mango realized just how tall he was. Not that it mattered. They all fall the same. Still, she did like tall men. But something had shifted in him. His posture, his presence. His earlier indifference had faded. He wasn¡¯t close enough to be intimidating, but there was a weight to the air between them. A shift in energy. And from this distance, Mango caught his scent. What is that? Lavender-based. Unexpected. Clean. And, of course, the sharp undertone of Corona¡ªprobably thanks to her. But the lavender¡­ she¡¯d smelled it before. Somewhere. She just couldn¡¯t remember where. It was an odd choice for a man. But just as odd, she didn¡¯t find it feminine at all. In fact, the fact that someone his size¡ªbroad, tall, dangerous¡ªwore something like that made it feel even more masculine. A man secure in himself. A man who knew exactly what he was doing. A man who, at this very moment, was trying to pick apart her lies. She needed to stay sharp. Mango pointed toward the group of girls she had walked in with. ¡°One of them, I suppose?¡± John asked. ¡°Yes,¡± she said smoothly. He¡¯s observant, she thought. Smart. He had pretended not to notice her. Pretended not to care about this party at all. But in reality, he¡¯d been watching everything the entire time. She liked that. She liked when her prey was intelligent. It made things more interesting. Now, all she had to do was keep lying. ¡°Which one?¡± John asked. His tone was casual, but his gaze was locked onto her. ¡°Most of the people here, we know¡ªeither from campus or from the facility where James works.¡± Mango curled her fingers slightly, resisting the urge to tense up. John was staring her down, waiting for an answer. She fought every muscle in her face, forcing herself to stay neutral. Yet she couldn''t clench too hard or she would sweat. These moments were always tricky. By now, in most jobs, her target would already be dead. But this time, she still needed to get him alone. And they were surrounded by people. A murder in a crowded room like this? That would be noticed. Especially if the victim was someone everyone knew. And now John was pressing her for specific information¡ªinformation she couldn¡¯t possibly guess or bluff her way through. Time for a game. The Assumption Game. The deadliest round of Jeopardy she¡¯d ever played. One wrong answer, and the entire night, her job and reputation would be ruined. The grand prize? Her life¡ªand the rest of her half a million dollars. Mango smiled. Let the game begin. She pointed in the general direction of the girls. ¡°Britney,¡± she said. There was always a Britney. Even though Mango was Caucasian herself, she had long since learned that certain names were everywhere among certain groups. Britney. Heather. Daphne. Basic names. And Britney was the perfect choice. A name picked by parents who wanted their daughter to sound classy. A name popular among a certain type of rich girl. The type whose parents spent more time at country clubs than at home. And judging by the way that group of girls acted¡ªwild, snarky, careless¡ªMango could safely assume their parents didn¡¯t care much about them. The girls Mango had walked in with were draped in high-end fashion, head to toe in luxury brands. Everything they wore was brand new. Not well-worn designer pieces, but fresh purchases. And the way they danced? Like they didn¡¯t care if their expensive outfits got ruined. A clear sign of someone who had money and didn¡¯t care about throwing it away. And they were too young to have made that money themselves. Which meant they were rich kids. Which meant they probably had a trophy wife for a mother. Mango had grown up around these people. She knew their type. And one thing about trophy wives? They loved money and status. Britney had been a popular name for their daughters over the past few decades¡ªpartially because of celebrities, but also because it just sounded expensive. So Britney was the safest bet. John studied her for a moment. Then, finally, he exhaled, backing away slightly and loosening his posture. "Oh yeah?" he said. "She didn''t say you were coming. Though she rarely cares about doing things the right way. This was supposed to be an exclusive party." Mango let herself relax just a fraction. Point to me. Wait, Somethings Off... I did it, Mango thought, a small wave of relief washing over her. She took a sip of her drink. John followed suit, tilting his glass back and taking a long, slow gulp. She wiped a stray drop of sweat from her forehead¡ªjust a flicker of strain, nothing that would break her composure. Besides, she was having fun. ¡°Britney, Britney, Britney,¡± John said, smirking. ¡°I see her alcoholism isn¡¯t taking a break tonight.¡± ¡°Actually, I think it¡¯s her low tolerance that¡¯s the problem.¡± John chuckled, and she smiled in return. They both took another sip. The ice in his glass clinked as he swirled it around. His cup was already empty. Perfect. Mango loved getting people drinking. Men, women¡ªit didn¡¯t matter. The moment they started to relax, they became easier to control. Easier to attack. There were only two types of drunks: angry drunks and lazy drunks. Lazy drunks sat back, melted into the room, easy prey. Angry drunks got hyped, unpredictable, requiring a different strategy. John was clearly the lazy kind. Which would make this easy. Though, if she was honest¡­ she kind of hoped he was an angry drunk. Half a million dollars was on the line, sure, but she wanted it to be fun. And so far? Things were going too smoothly. ¡°You¡¯re done already?¡± she teased. ¡°Damn. You¡¯re a fast drinker.¡± John smirked. ¡°I don¡¯t have the tolerance problem.¡± Mango grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the kitchen. John jerked slightly at her touch, his body stiffening. Mango stopped, glancing back at him. Too much? She took another step, challenging him to follow. After a beat, he stepped forward. Good. His hand was large, rough with calluses. She could feel the faint ridges of old scars, or maybe burns. Not the hands of someone who sat behind a desk all day. The hands of someone who had done rough things. He was still young so whatever happened either happened when he was a child or is still happening but often enough to where his hands have layered scars. She filed that detail away in her mind as she led him to the kitchen. This time, there was no line. Lea, the bartender, saw them approaching and¡ªwithout hesitation¡ªbegan making another drink. Mango took notice. Was that for her? Or did Lea know John too? Lea slid a glass toward him. ¡°Here, Johnny,¡± she said softly. ¡°I know you need it.¡± She leaned in just slightly. Lea was also clearly sticking her chest out to show the shape of her large breasts. ¡°If there¡¯s anything you do need, you know you can just ask.¡± John didn¡¯t pick up the drink. Mango raised an eyebrow, watching him the way you watch a kid who¡¯s just fallen off a bike¡ªwaiting to see if they¡¯ll cry.Stolen story; please report. Something was off. His face, usually indifferent or hardly smiling, had darkened. His expression was unreadable, but there was something beneath it, something she hadn¡¯t expected. Not anger. Sadness. Genuine sadness. An odd look for a man like him. Was he a sad drunk? That didn¡¯t seem right. John cleared his throat. ¡°Thanks,¡± he muttered, his voice low, monotone. He grabbed his drink. Lea hesitated. ¡°You know¡­ you didn¡¯t have to come.¡± John¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°Don¡¯t, Lea.¡± ¡°John¡ª¡± ¡°Just don¡¯t.¡± His voice was firm now. Final. Mango watched carefully as Lea reached for his hand, gripping it between both of hers. Uh oh. They knew each other. Well. Mango¡¯s mind worked quickly. Lea would be a problem. Because if Lea was watching John and possibly her, then she would have to watch Lea. John looked down at her, eyes hollow. Lea, in contrast, radiated warmth. She gave him a soft smile, squeezing his hand. ¡°You¡¯re strong,¡± she said gently. John exhaled, then pulled his hand away. ¡°Thanks.¡± For the first time that night, Mango started to worry. She was losing him. She needed his focus¡ªon her, and only her. Not because she cared, of course. This isn¡¯t jealousy, she told herself. It¡¯s the job. Still, whatever history existed between them¡­ it was something Mango hadn¡¯t accounted for. And as long as Lea was around, John would be harder to separate from the crowd. She had to turn up the heat. She opened her mouth to speak¡ª But before she could say anything, John abruptly turned and stormed off to the balcony. Mango¡¯s eyes narrowed. She grabbed her drink followed him. John stood outside, leaning against the white railing. The balcony was small but intimate. The wooden floor creaked slightly beneath his weight, while the freshly painted metal railings gleamed under the dim party lights. Beyond them, a thick stretch of trees stretched toward the edge of campus, their dark silhouettes swaying in the night breeze. Mango stepped out, her heels clicking softly against the wood. ¡°What was that all about?¡± she asked. ¡°Nothing.¡± His voice was sharp, low. Now he was angry. Mango needed to figure out why¡ªand fast¡ªif she was going to steer this back in the right direction. She took a slow breath, then placed a gentle hand on his back. ¡°Are you okay?¡± she asked, her voice honeyed, warm. John exhaled hard. ¡°I¡¯m fine. I¡¯m fine, okay?¡± His tone was clipped, impatient. ¡°It was nice meeting you, but if you don¡¯t mind¡­ I¡¯d like to be alone.¡± Oh no. Mango¡¯s stomach tightened. I¡¯ve lost him. If she didn¡¯t find a way to break whatever was walling him off, this wouldn¡¯t work. And if this didn¡¯t work, she¡¯d have to do things the old-fashioned way¡ªmessy, loud, and with a lot of blood. That wasn¡¯t her style. More importantly, her employer had explicitly asked for discretion. Gunshots, cops, and a body count were not discreet. She needed to fix this. ¡°What¡¯s your problem?¡± she asked. As soon as the words left her lips, she blinked. She hadn¡¯t meant to say it like that. It hadn¡¯t come out as concern. It had come out as¡­ irritation. As if they were an old couple bickering over something petty. That wasn¡¯t professional. John turned to her, his expression dark. ¡°What¡¯s my problem?¡± He let out a humorless laugh. ¡°What¡¯s your problem? Why is some stripper so interested in me?¡± Mango felt her blood heat. Stripper. She used the male gaze like a weapon. She manipulated it, bent it to her will. But the moment a man tried to use it against her¡ª ¡°I am not a stripper,¡± she snapped. John smirked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ¡°Oh? Then why don¡¯t you go gold-dig someone else?¡± He tilted his head in a mocking manor. ¡°Or is no one else sweet enough for you, Mango?¡± Her eyes narrowed. I¡¯m killing this guy now, she thought. Her fists clenched. She was done playing games. This wasn¡¯t fun anymore. Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed back inside, leaving her drink on the railing. John glanced at it and rolled his eyes as if he¡¯d have to babysit it for her. *** Back inside, Mango looked for the bathroom. Across the living room, two girls stumbled out of the bathroom, laughing. Mango didn¡¯t hesitate. She beelined for the door. Inside, she locked it behind her, pressing her hands against the sink. Her breath came short, sharp. He got under my skin. She didn¡¯t know how or why, but he had. Too quickly. That wasn¡¯t like her. She was usually better than this. Mango exhaled hard, letting her hair fall loose over her shoulders. Then, carefully, she slipped off one of her heels and flipped it over. The sole popped open, revealing a slender, carefully placed knife. She glanced down at her thigh, where her other knife was holstered beneath her dress. Too thick. A serrated blade made too big of an opening¡ªmessy, brutal. She had assumed John would be a bulky guy, but up close, she could see he was all lean muscle. For a man built like that, a flat blade was better. Precise. Clean. She swapped them out, slipping the slender knife into her thigh holster and tucking the other back into the hidden compartment in her shoe. With practiced ease, she adjusted the sole, pressed her heel back on, and smoothed down her dress. Then she met her reflection in the mirror. She fixed her hair. Straightened her posture. Took one last breath. Enough games. Now? Now it was time for this prey to meet his maker. Can A Grim Reaper Love? Mango stepped out of the bathroom, her pulse steady, her mind sharp. She was ready. She moved swiftly through the crowd, slipping between bodies without really seeing them. They were background noise. Distractions. Her focus was steady. Playtime¡¯s over. Her heart beat faster, but not from nerves¡ªthis was the thrill, the rush before the strike. Her brain sharpened, pulling in details like a sponge. She saw Lea was gone. Perfect. No more prying eyes. No more interruptions. For a brief moment, curiosity tugged at her. Maybe she should find Lea, make sure she was really gone. But no. Stay on task. Get this done. Be out before anyone even notices. She turned her eyes toward the balcony. John was still there. Leaning against the railing, staring out into the trees. Too bad, she thought. He really was cute. But cute didn¡¯t pay the bills. She stepped through the open door, using his shadow as cover, moving in behind him. Silent. Unstoppable. Then¡ªwhether by fate or sheer luck¡ªJohn turned. He saw her. But she didn¡¯t slow down. If anything, her pace quickened. His face wasn¡¯t harsh like before. That anger from earlier¡ªit was gone. Now, it was softer. The same quiet sadness she¡¯d caught glimpses of before. Not that she cared. She was too close now. John cleared his throat. ¡°Look, I didn¡¯t mean it. I¡¯m sorry.¡± he said. Mango¡¯s fingers curled around the edge of her dress, inching it up toward the knife holster strapped to her thigh. ¡°That¡¯s okay, hon,¡± she purred, her voice smooth, her lie effortless. ¡°You seemed like you were having an off night.¡± John shook his head. ¡°No, it¡¯s not. I can¡¯t just be an asshole because my father died.¡± Her heart stopped. Her pace slowed to a crawl. The fabric of her dress slipped from her fingers, falling back into place. His father is dead? Her mind raced. If his dad is dead, then how is he supposed to change the will? Something was wrong. ¡°Your father is dead?¡± Mango asked. John nodded. ¡°Yeah.¡± He exhaled sharply. ¡°Doesn¡¯t excuse me being an asshole, but¡­ I don¡¯t want to be a jerk to someone I don¡¯t even know.¡± He hesitated, then picked up the drink she had left on the railing, holding it out to her. ¡°Plus, you left this.¡± Mango studied his face. Every inch of it. Looking for a crack. Looking for a lie. But all she found was an earnest apology. And that was the problem. Could a mobster¡¯s son really be sincere? Her fingers twitched slightly before she reached out and took the drink. She cast a glance back at the kitchen. Lea. Was she watching? But the kitchen was empty. Mango frowned. Where the hell did she go?The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. She didn¡¯t like unknowns. Unknowns led to mistakes. But right now, none of that mattered. Because right now, they were alone. And she needed to confirm her suspicion. She swirled the glass in her hand. ¡°What do you mean your father is dead?¡± she asked. ¡°Like¡­ recently?¡± ¡°His funeral was today.¡± John said. Mango¡¯s grip tightened around the glass. ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m wearing a suit to a house party,¡± he added. Her stomach twisted. Two weeks ago, she had met his brother and had been given this job. And now his father was dead? That was something she should have known. Why wasn¡¯t the hit called off? Mango forced her voice to stay soft. ¡°Must be hard,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± She leaned against the railing next to him, slipping a hand into her purse and pulling out her phone. No new messages. No updates. Nothing. She slid it back inside. Everything was too quiet. The missing friend. The dead father. The lack of communication from his brother. She felt it now. That nagging sensation at the back of her skull. Was she being set up? And if she was, by who? Why? His brother? No, that wouldn¡¯t make sense. He wanted John dead to inherit everything. But if their father was already dead, then the will should be in motion. No one could plan the exact moment of their father¡¯s death, but if the will was changing, the hit should have been canceled. If she killed John now¡­ it could cause problems. The police would come looking for him. The press would definitely cover the death of a mobster¡¯s son. And more than anything¡ª Something felt... unnerving. Mango glanced at John. His head was down, staring at the floor, lost in thought. A strange feeling curled in her chest. One thing she did know? She was unstoppable. And if she wanted John dead, he would be. But there was no set time for his death. And without confirming the job, she wasn¡¯t about to make her move now. If this was a setup, keeping him alive a little longer might give her the out she needed. For now? She¡¯d humor him. And maybe herself. ¡°What was he like?¡± Mango asked. John let out a heavy sigh. ¡°Family was everything to him.¡± He said. ¡°I mean¡­ we fought. A lot. I never wanted to be part of his¡­ business.¡± Mango smirked. ¡°No?¡± ¡°No.¡± John¡¯s voice went cold. ¡°It made things hard for me. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps. I just¡­ couldn¡¯t.¡± He looked away, his fingers tightening around the glass. ¡°My siblings,¡± he muttered. ¡°They were way better at it. Are better at it.¡± Mango cocked her head. ¡°Way better at what?¡± A heavy silence settled between them. A chill in the air. And then, John looked at her. That look. The kind of look someone only gives when they¡¯ve seen death. Once you¡¯ve known death¡ªtruly known it¡ªit changes you. Mango recognized that look in John¡¯s eyes. Because she saw it every day in the mirror. It was the look of a reaper. Not some mythical creature. Not the boatman on the River Styx. A real reaper. A murderer. Just like her. But something about him told her he hated himself for it. John exhaled, running a hand through his hair. ¡°My siblings¡­ their businesses¡­ well, they¡¯re better at¡ª¡± He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. ¡°Construction.¡± Mango giggled at the ridiculous attempt. Construction? What is this, a movie? ¡°I hear it¡¯s a tough market,¡± she joked. ¡°Tough,¡± John chuckled. ¡°That¡¯s one way to put it.¡± He leaned against the railing, looking out at the trees. ¡°Pops always said, if you focus on what you want, it¡¯ll happen. And he made it happen.¡± Mango tilted her head. ¡°And what do you want?¡± John paused, scratching the back of his neck. For the first time, he looked¡­ nervous. His feet shifted, his fingers tugged at his collar, like the air had suddenly gotten too hot. Mango narrowed her eyes. Nervous? A guy like this? ¡°You¡¯re gonna laugh,¡± he said. Mango smiled sweetly. ¡°Me? I¡¯m respectful.¡± John exhaled, staring down at his glass. Mango lifted her drink, taking a slow, deliberate sip while watching him. Who the hell is this guy? A man with a dark past. A man who shouldn¡¯t be easy to talk to. And yet, he was. There was something¡­ nice about him. And yet, she knew he wasn¡¯t nice at all. Finally, John nodded to himself, like he¡¯d made a decision. ¡°Garbage disposal business,¡± he said. Mango almost spit out her drink. She swallowed just in time, then coughed¡ªhard¡ªchoking as it went down the wrong way. She burst into laughter. ¡°GARBAGE?!¡± John grinned. ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°Why?¡± she asked, still trying to catch her breath. John, though laughing with her, still looked nervous¡ªdesperate to explain himself. ¡°This city is overrun with trash,¡± he said. ¡°I think I could do pretty well. Do something good.¡± Mango smirked. ¡°Boy, you gotta do what you love.¡± ¡°That way,¡± John corrected, ¡°I¡¯ll never actually work a day in my life. Ever feel like people want you to be something you¡¯re not? Like fate has different plans for you than what you want? Like who you are and who you¡¯ve become are two completely different people?¡± Mango met his gaze. And for the first time in her life¡ª She knew someone. Inside and out. Because John was just like her. ¡°Yes,¡± she said quietly. And right then and there¡ªshe made a decision. Something she should never do. Something no professional ever does. But for just a little while¡­ She thought it might be nice. Mango downed the rest of her drink, setting the empty glass on the railing. Then she walked up to him¡ª And grabbed his sides. Her breasts pressing against his abs and their bodies exchanging heat. They looked deep into each other¡¯s eyes. Suddenly, fireworks exploded in the distance. Their heads snapped toward the sky as bright bursts of red, blue, and white lit up the night. The colors shimmered in their eyes, flickering against their faces. It was almost like a fairy tale. John¡¯s focus lingered on the sky¡ª And in that split second, Mango gave a quick jab to his side. John flinched, his head snapping back toward her in shock. ¡°So, you¡¯ve been here before,¡± Mango teased, ¡°And you¡¯re too rude to give a girl a private tour?¡± Death Is A Cruel Mistress Mango¡¯s body was slammed against the wall and slid down to the top of a dresser, knocking off a few pictures and trinkets in the dimly lit room. She didn¡¯t care though. She was preoccupied. Mango¡¯s breath came hot and fast against John¡¯s lips, their mouths crashing together with force, hunger. They weren¡¯t kissing¡ªthey were devouring each other. They were just swapping spit, but she could tell it was going to be good and rough Just the way she liked it. She didn¡¯t know what bedroom she was in but it was obviously a guest room with nothing but a small bed, a bathroom, two dressers and a single window on each of the two outward facing walls. It confirmed her suspicion that the owner was rich. Who else has a guest room in their college apartment? But it¡¯s good they had privacy now. It was just him and her and the bumping music covered any sound they made. It was perfect but she wanted to be loud. NEEDED to be loud. He was controlling her body with strength and swiftness, touching her everywhere. He kissed her neck moving lower and lower till he began licking the top of her breasts that were sticking out from the top. He likes foreplay, She thought. Perfect. Foreplay is a sign of an experienced lover. He couldn¡¯t have been older than 22 and yet he knew how to take his time and build up everything the right way. He wasn¡¯t so desperate to take it immediately, but hungry enough to pull down her dress top and lick her nipples like an animal. John moved her effortlessly, adjusting her on the dresser. Her arms locked around his neck, pulling him in closer. His hands roamed, tracing the curves of her body¡ªher waist, her hips, her thighs. His fingers slid higher, pushing up the hem of her dress. Then¡ª SHINK! Steel flashed. Before she could react, John had ripped the knife from her thigh holster! Flipping it around quickly in his hand, he thrust the knife toward her neck. Her instinct took over and Mango¡¯s right arm shot up, blocking his strike. The blade stopped inches from her face. She didn¡¯t hesitate. With a sharp twist of her wrist, she knocked his hand back, forcing him open. His grip was still on the knife. Then she kicked him hard. Her foot slammed into his chest. He barely moved. He chuckled slightly. She kicked again, harder with both of her feet.. This time, he stumbled back. Mango slid off the dresser, planting herself firmly on the floor. Fuck, why¡¯d he have to find the knife? He pounced on her so fast, she didn¡¯t have time to stash it in her purse. Her purse is in the bathroom though, discarded without care as soon as they were alone. She quickly looked up, expecting him to pounce again, but he was just standing there staring at her. What the hell is he looking at? John cleared his throat. Oh yeah, she thought. She fixed her dress, covering herself. What a gentleman. ¡°You know you, we never locked the door.¡± he said. ¡°What can I say?¡± said Mango, ¡°I love danger.¡± ¡°You can still walk away.¡± ¡°Aw, you don¡¯t think I¡¯m pretty?¡± John rolled his shoulders, shaking his head with a smirk. He flipped the knife into a proper grip, blade pointing forward. He rolled his wrist looking at the blade. ¡°I thought it¡¯d be bigger,¡± he said. Now he¡¯s a funny guy? Mango kicked off her wedges. The moment her feet hit the ground, she cracked her neck and raised her fists. John grinned. ¡°Come on,¡± he taunted. ¡°Show me that smile.¡± Then he lunged. Mango dodged, shifting backward as the knife sliced through the air. His strikes came fast, relentless¡ªone after the other, stabbing, slashing. But he wasn¡¯t fast enough. She sidestepped, catching his wrist in a hard grip. In one fluid motion, she chopped at his hand, knocking the blade free, then drove her elbow into his face¡ªonce, twice. John wrenched away, cradling his nose, blood trickling between his fingers. Mango didn¡¯t give him a second to recover. She stepped in and kicked the inside of his knee, making it buckle. He dropped onto one leg, snarling. She moved to finish it, lunging forward with a knee aimed for his face¡ª But he blocked. He shoved her back and got to his feet. At least he doesn¡¯t go down easy. This was going to be fun. Mango pressed harder, unleashing a flurry of lightning-fast punches, Wing Chun style. But John matched her, parrying each one with precision. Then, with a sharp twist, he hooked his leg and threw her with a Judo flip.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. The floor slammed into her back, knocking the breath from her lungs. John didn¡¯t waste time. He lifted his boot and aimed for her head. Mango rolled¡ªjust in time. His foot hit empty space. But before she could rise, he pivoted and kicked¡ªcatching her mid-roll. Her body slid across the floor, slamming into the wall with a painful thud. He was on her in a flash with a second kick coming, fast, brutal. She rolled again, narrowly avoiding the impact. Then, in one swift motion, she pushed off the floor and sprang to her feet. John wiped the blood from his nose, still grinning. Mango squared up. Now, it was a fight. A dull ache pulsed at the back of Mango¡¯s neck as she rolled her shoulders. John stood a few feet away, watching her closely. His stance was steady, but his expression was finally happy. He¡¯s really into foreplay. Mango smiled. ¡°I think I love you,¡± she said. John smirked. ¡°Prove it.¡± She struck fast, sending a sharp kick toward his chest. John barely flinched. He absorbed the hit, catching her foot in his hands. Mango twisted, using the momentum to roundhouse with her free leg. He barely had time to react before her heel slammed into his shoulder, breaking his grip. John staggered back, his jaw tightening. Then he attacked. Elbows¡ªhard ones. He threw them in quick, brutal strikes, forcing her on the defensive. Mango blocked as best she could, but he was relentless. Then came the left hook. A strong one. She barely dodged, tilting her head just enough to let it whip past her cheek. PLUCK! A sharp sting. Mango blinked, pausing. Something felt weird. Her fingers touched her ear. Wet. She looked at her hand. Blood. John¡¯s brows furrowed in confusion. He opened his palm¡ªhis breath caught in his throat. Is my new expensive earring gone? A beat of silence. The only sound being the hard club like beat from the other room. ¡°¡­That¡­ that was an accident,¡± John muttered. Mango¡¯s eyes darkened. Oh he did NOT do just do that! She instantly began her furious barrage of punches, bypassing every one of his defenses. She wasn¡¯t holding back anymore. She grabbed his shirt and threw him against the wall. He rebounded¡ªjust in time for her foot to crash into his chest. He slammed into the window. A deep crack splintered across the glass. John pushed off, launching back at her with a vicious kick. Mango ducked under it, pivoted, and uppercut his knee. He yelped in pain, stumbling. She didn¡¯t let up. As he staggered, she flicked her foot up, kicking the fallen knife off the floor. The blade flipped through the air¡ª And she caught it. With a single, smooth motion, she stabbed him deep in the side and slammed him into the wall. John wailed, his body sagging. He slid down the wall, collapsing onto the floor, his breath ragged. Mango stepped back, catching her breath. She adjusted her hair, hands on her hips. ¡°Damn,¡± she panted. ¡°You lasted longer than most.¡± John groaned, wincing at the blade lodged in his side. ¡°So I¡¯ve been told.¡± He coughed, eyes glassy from pain. ¡°I don¡¯t understand¡­ How is this possible?¡± Mango smirked. ¡°You¡¯ve got moves,¡± she admitted. ¡°But you gotta learn how to dance. Now I¡ª¡± A wave of dizziness hit her. She blinked. Her knees buckled. ¡°¡­The fuck?¡± she muttered. The world spun. Her body tilted. WHAT IS HAPPENING? WHAT IS HAPPENING? WHAT IS HAPPENING? Her mind was racing but her body wasn¡¯t responding. She didn¡¯t get stabbed and such little blood loss is nothing to her! John exhaled, shifting against the wall. ¡°Finally,¡± he murmured. ¡°Thought it¡¯d never kick in.¡± Kick in?, she thought. That could only mean¡­ poison? Mango¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°When¡­¡± John pressed a hand to his bleeding side. ¡°Damn,¡± he muttered. ¡°You really got me.¡± He twisted slightly, assessing the damage. ¡°Gonna have to deal with that later.¡± Mango¡¯s limbs felt heavy. Her vision blurred. John sighed. ¡°Can¡¯t believe you drank it all,¡± he said, shaking his head. "You just drink anything someone hands you? I mean you were in the bathroom so long, I could¡¯ve doubled the dose. Maybe I should''ve because you got some nice hands. I spotted you when you walked in, but I had to be sure. My brother hired you didn¡¯t he? Some sort of ¡®oh, he¡¯ll never expect me to hire a woman assassin¡¯. He doesn¡¯t know what the hell he¡¯s doing.¡± He chuckled. ¡°Then again¡­ he is an idiot.¡± Mango tried to speak, but her lips barely moved. John slowly stood up, leaving the knife in its place. An amateur would¡¯ve ripped out a blade that deep and close to a vital spot by now and Mango would at least have the satisfaction of knowing he would bleed out. No such luck. ¡°You knew?¡± she whispered, her voice weak. John grinned, stepping over her. ¡°I told you,¡± he said, looking down at her fading glare. ¡°I¡¯m going to be a garbage man. The best in fact. I¡¯ll make sure the filth of this world is taken away.¡± Mango¡¯s body hit the floor. No, no, no, no, no! Her breath was shallow, her glassy eyes locked onto him, piercing, burning. She could feel herself slipping. GET UP! GET UP!, she screamed in her head, a tear leaving her eye. John walked to the door. He opened it, glancing back one last time. ¡°It¡¯s a shame,¡± he said. ¡°How often ¡®party girls¡¯ OD, isn¡¯t it?¡± Mango used all of her strength to speak. ¡°Who¡­ Who are you really?¡± she muttered. He turned to her and looked at her with stern cold eyes. The eyes of a reaper. You have to cut yourself off emotionally from your victims or they will haunt you forever. The only problem is to do that, you have to cut a piece of yourself off. Eventually there¡¯s nothing left of who you used to be. She could see him making the slice in his soul through his eyes. ¡°I am John Nero,¡± he said coldly, ¡°The youngest son of the Late Don Nero of the Nero family. The last of the Moors. And I am a garbage man.¡± Then, he stepped out. And Mango closed her eyes. *** John walked out of the apartment and down the stairs to the parking lot. John staggered through the night, one hand pressed against the knife still lodged in his side. Blood soaked his shirt, sticky and warm, but he barely acknowledged it. His breath was steady. His expression was tired. The black limousine sat at the curb, engine humming low. Without hesitation, John opened the door and slid inside. The soft scent of leather and expensive perfume filled the cabin. He sank into the seat with a quiet grunt, wincing as fresh pain flared up his side. The wound was bad, but not fatal. Not yet. A voice drifted from the front. Smooth. Light. Almost amused. ¡°I see you enjoyed yourself.¡± John exhaled, head tilting back against the headrest. ¡°Wasn¡¯t my type.¡± He closed his eyes. ¡°Take me home. I¡¯m pooped. I didn¡¯t think he¡¯d start so soon.¡± A soft chuckle. ¡°At least one of us had fun.¡± John cracked an eye open. ¡°And you didn¡¯t?¡± The driver turned her head slightly. Lea. Now dressed in business casual with black pants and jacket and a white shirt. The buttons on her shirt fought to keep everything in her bra from popping out. ¡°No,¡± she said flatly. ¡°I gave it to you right in front of her, and she didn¡¯t even question it.¡± She gave a quiet sigh. ¡°How boring.¡± John huffed a low, humorless laugh. Lea¡¯s eyes flicked to his in the rearview mirror. ¡°So¡­ are you finally ready to listen to the Director? We told you this would happen. And now that the game has started, it won¡¯t stop till it¡¯s done.¡± His smirk vanished. ¡°I can¡¯t kill my own siblings, Lea. I¡¯m not in the mob..¡± Her lips curled. ¡°Tell that to the knife.¡± John glanced down at the handle still protruding from his side. He had no response. Lea turned back, shifting the limo into drive. The city lights blurred as they pulled away. ¡°Your siblings won¡¯t stop,¡± she said, her voice quieter now. ¡°Not until there¡¯s only one of you left to inherit it all. Now that your father¡¯s gone¡­¡± John started to speak¡ªthen stopped. He turned toward the window, watching the neon glow of the city smear into streaks. Leia¡¯s voice softened, almost persuasive. ¡°Someone¡¯s going to win,¡± she murmured. ¡°Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s best in the hands of the United States?¡± With that, Lea took out a badge from the glove compartment and clipped it to the side of her pants. With a quiet whirr, the privacy screen rolled up, revealing the emblem of the CIA. Chief is gonna have a field day with me, John thought as his mind began to drift. Outside, the black limousine slipped seamlessly into traffic, its dark silhouette lost in the flashing lights of the city¡ª Until it disappeared completely. Thats When The Trouble Started John watched the world rush by, his mind still occupied with the woman he had just killed. Mango. She was beautiful. He wished she had actually liked him. Now, he was just horny and bleeding. Thanks to his CIA training, he had spotted her in time. And when he saw Lea, he knew something was up. Her sleight of hand had been the signal, and he had played it cool. But it was his mafia upbringing that had saved his life. The CIA¡¯s training was solid, but he had spent his entire childhood in real street fights. His father despised weakness and had made sure of it¡ªpaying schoolboys to jump him at least three times a week. When he stopped coming home with bruises, his father called them off. The car rolled to a stop behind an old Jamaican restaurant. The lights were off, and the place was dead silent. Still, John got out carefully, gripping the knife embedded deep in his side. Lea came around from the front, and he threw an arm over her shoulder as she helped him to the door. She keyed a code into the padlock, and they stepped into the small, home-style kitchen in the back. Unsurprisingly, four red dots appeared on their bodies¡ªlaser sights extending from somewhere in the darkness. ¡°It¡¯s us, Dennis,¡± Lea said. ¡°Check your pager.¡± The lasers vanished, and the lights flicked on, revealing four men in black tactical gear, armed to the teeth. One lifted his night vision goggles and pulled down his face mask. ¡°My bad, Lea,¡± he said. ¡°Who¡¯s this?¡± ¡°This is John. He¡¯s one of our economic analysts.¡± ¡°What? How the hell did a desk jockey get stabbed?¡± ¡°Can we speed this up?¡± John asked. ¡°I¡¯m not gonna die from this, but I am getting sore.¡± ¡°Right,¡± Dennis said. The other men stepped aside as Dennis led John and Lea to a door labeled MAINTENANCE CLOSET. When it swung open, the inside revealed something completely different¡ªa fully equipped operating room. Advanced medical equipment surrounded a brown operating table, already prepped with fresh paper. The walls were lined with metal cabinets, each filled with medical supplies. Inside the room, a man dressed in white was reading. As soon as they entered, he looked up and set his book down. Without a word, he motioned toward the table, and John laid down on the cold surface. The doctor pulled a pair of blue gloves from his pocket and slid them on as John began to undress. ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± the doctor said. ¡°I have to cut the shirt off anyway.¡± John sucked his teeth and laid back. He really liked this suit. ¡°It hasn¡¯t even been 24 hours since the funeral, and you¡¯re already bleeding out on a table,¡± Lea said. ¡°Up to you how the next 24 hours play out.¡± As the doctor got to work, John¡¯s mind drifted back to two weeks ago¡ªwhen this whole mess had started. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. *** Two weeks ago, John was showering in his apartment. Just as he was scrubbing shampoo into his hair, his phone rang from the counter. Blinded by the soap, he fumbled around for it, water streaming down his face. Through the stinging suds, he managed to grab the phone and answer it. ¡°You¡¯re calling me at 11 p.m., so whoever this is, it better be important,¡± he said, already irritated. ¡°Bimbo?¡± came a soft female voice from the other end. John¡¯s eyes widened, and his heart plummeted. Suddenly, he didn¡¯t feel the stinging soap or the water cascading down his body. All he felt was the weight in his stomach and the chill in his veins. No one¡ªabsolutely no one¡ªknew he was Italian. Outside of his boss and Lea, as far as anyone in America was concerned, there were no such things as Black Italians. He was born in Boston and had worked hard to strip away any trace of his accent, perfecting a neutral American tone. There wasn¡¯t a single paper trail linking him to anything outside of Boston during his childhood. And yet, this voice was calling him baby in Italian. That could only mean one thing. He steadied his voice. ¡°Hello, Ma,¡± he said sternly. ¡°I didn¡¯t know you had this number.¡± ¡°Your sister found it for me,¡± she said. ¡°You sound so grown up.¡± ¡°What do you want?¡± he asked, his tone cold. ¡°That¡¯s no way to talk to me! I didn¡¯t do anything.¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t stop anything, either.¡± Silence. Every second felt like a lifetime. It had been three years since he¡¯d heard his mother¡¯s voice. Six since he had seen her. He had left home at 16. Now, at 22, he was a different person to her. He doubted she would even recognize him. ¡°I know you¡¯re going to hang up when I say this,¡± she said, ¡°so promise me you¡¯ll stay on for two more minutes.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Promise me.¡± Despite everything, saying no to his mother had always been difficult. ¡°Fine,¡± he muttered. He wiped his face with a nearby towel and stepped out of the shower, leaving the water running. There was some shuffling on the other end of the line. Then, a deep, rough male voice spoke. ¡°Hello?¡± John froze. ¡°...What?¡± ¡°It¡¯s been years, and that¡¯s how you talk to your father?¡± the man said, his voice breaking into a harsh cough. He sounded awful¡ªnasty, even. ¡°You have a minute and a half left.¡± ¡°Alright, alright,¡± his father grumbled. ¡°I¡¯m dying.¡± ¡°Good.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t mean that.¡± ¡°You told me I should never lie.¡± ¡°Yeah, well¡­ that was a lie.¡± Another cough. ¡°But this isn¡¯t. I¡¯m going very soon. I can feel it.¡± ¡°Fifty-eight seconds.¡± ¡°I want you at my funeral. And at my will reading.¡± John frowned, caught off guard by the request. His father had banished him after their fight six years ago. He never imagined the old man would ask for him now. John absently traced lines on the fogged-up bathroom mirror. ¡°Why?¡± he asked. ¡°We¡¯re not exactly friends.¡± ¡°But we are family.¡± ¡°I¡¯m nothing like you,¡± John snapped. ¡°Not now, not ever.¡± ¡°And yet, when you turned fed, you never ratted.¡± John¡¯s throat tightened. When he had joined the CIA, the first thing they had wanted was intel on his father¡¯s criminal dealings. If he had talked, his career would¡¯ve skyrocketed. But he refused. He hadn¡¯t helped his father¡ªbut he hadn¡¯t betrayed him, either. Instead, he got a desk job. Economic analysis. ¡°Yeah, well, I wasn¡¯t helping either,¡± he muttered. ¡°Who else but you could¡¯ve taken down the Danes?¡± That hit John hard. The Danes case was how he got into the CIA. They were a rival family. And John knew they hadn¡¯t paid their taxes. ¡°What do Jade and Pete think?¡± he asked. ¡°It don¡¯t matter what they think!¡± his father barked, then coughed violently. ¡°This is what I want! ¡­ I won¡¯t beg, but I¡¯m¡­ strongly pleading. You won¡¯t have to see or talk to me. Unless you like talking to weeds.¡± John exhaled slowly. ¡°They¡¯ll want me to wear a wire,¡± he said finally. ¡°I¡¯ll have to if I want to keep my job.¡± A long, rasping laugh came through the phone, followed by a few sharp coughs. ¡°Sure you will, Johnny boy¡­ Well, I tried. Probably should¡¯ve done that a few more times over the years.¡± Click. The line went dead. John stared at the happy face he had drawn on the mirror. Water collected in the wiped-away streaks, and soon, thin streams dripped from the eyes, mouth, and head. He sighed heavily and shut off the shower.