Reign of a Billionaire : A Dark Mafia Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

The door shut with a thud, followed by the click of the lock. My stomach roiled, but I kept myself in check as I scoped out every inch of the room.

“Shitty room,” I said in a bored tone. “Your boss must not value your services too much to put you in a cockroach motel.” Or was it a roach motel? American slang wasn’t my forte. Russian was my first language, Gaelic a close second. My formal English was perfect, but that was about where it ended.

His tall frame was in my personal space in the next breath, and I anticipated it.

He loomed over me, and sucking in a sharp breath, I twisted the syringe around in my fingers and stabbed its pointed end into his neck, pressing the plunger.

“Bitch⁠—”

He reared back with a roar, raised his fist, and slammed it into my face.

Pain exploded in my cheek, but I persisted. The price for any errors made tonight was too steep. He pulled his fist back again, but this time I caught it and twisted it behind him. I heaved my foot on his ass, my heel digging into it with force, then pushed him forward. Losing his balance, he collapsed face-first into the filthy carpet.

He flopped like a fish, gasping for air and clawing at his throat.

“Don’t bother expending your energy, suka blyat,” I drawled lazily, cursing him in Russian. Son of a bitch. “You’ll only die faster.” He stilled, and suddenly I had his attention. I dug my heel into his back. “You’ve been poisoned. And only I have the antidote for it.” I didn’t, but he didn’t need to know that. “Tell me where and when the next shipment will happen, and I’ll administer it.”

He tried to speak but the words that came out were garbled. Suka blyat, did I give him too high a dose? The dude was a mountain, so I’d added an extra ounce just to be sure.

I spotted a gun holster on the armchair and casually made my way to it. “Not that I’m rushing you, but the poison will kill you in exactly”—I glanced at the clock, red digits blinking angrily—“ten minutes.”

I picked up the gun and turned around, finding my latest victim’s eyes on me. Seconds passed, and I watched him with a cold expression until he finally broke.

“Tomorrow,” he gurgled. “Ten p.m.”

I flashed him a smile—more like a grimace. “Thank you.”

“Anti—” His every syllable was labored. “An… An⁠—”

“Antidote?” I finished for him, and he struggled to nod. More like an eye twitch. I smiled with menace. “Didn’t I tell you, baby?” I accentuated the word while sneering. “I don’t have it on me.”

Moving around him, I reached for my clutch and pulled out a knife.

“Did you know a lady never leaves the house without a clutch?” I said quietly, eerily. “And a paintbrush.”

His eyes grew wide and he paled as I ran my finger along the blade.

“No, no,” he cried. “Don’t⁠—”

I leaned over him. “Don’t what?” I asked, raising one eyebrow in mock-interest. “Hurt you? Tell me something, Pedro. How many women have you spared when they begged not to be hurt?”

His pupils dilated, understanding sinking in that there was no escaping this. I sliced his gut, and he opened his mouth to scream. The only thing that came out was a small whimper. The drug was working.

I reveled in his helplessness. Let them have a taste of their own medicine, I thought bitterly.

My hand still holding the knife buried in his gut, I twisted it as I reached for the paintbrush in my clutch.

Then I dipped it in his blood, soaking in his pained moans, his terrified eyes on me as I started my process. I preferred to sketch, but blood was sure to get my point across.

Five minutes to draw a sketch of a faceless man all over the wall in my victim’s blood. Admittedly, it was a creepy thing to do, but it was about the only thing that made me feel alive anymore. In the darkest recesses of my mind lived the notion that my sister was here with me when I committed these atrocities. She might be disgusted, but she’d be proud.

So I sketched with their blood for me, my sister, and every woman who’d been wronged by men like this one.

I stood over my victim like an avenging angel, watching him struggle until the life drained out of his eyes.

“Another one bites the dust,” I muttered under my breath. “Bathtime, asshole.”

Dragging his dead weight into the bathroom, I grunted and cursed as I pushed his body, limb by limb, into the filthy, ancient tub.

Once in there, I used the fire escape to fetch my supplies.

It took me exactly five hours to dispose of the body. A sodium hydroxide mixture with boiling water made Pedro disappear down the rusted drain. The stench—pungent, sharp, and acrid—was welcomed. I’d take it over being touched any day.

My heart thrashed with memories of my own sister. They always seemed to reach me at the worst times. I pulled out my phone and retrieved my secret folder, then pressed Play. I’d seen the recording a million times—could recite every detail of it word for word, move for move. That didn’t stop my chest from fracturing with the same intensity.