Last Kiss (Hitman #3) (23 page)

Holding the tracking device between my fingers, I gather Naomi to me and then I let the door fall open. The room is small as most rooms in Venice are, and it does not take long for me to encounter another body as we pretend to stumble inside, passion crazed and looking for an empty room

“
Figlio di puttana
,” the occupant cries.
Son of a whore
. “Get out. Get out.”

“
Scusi
.
Scusa
. I am in the wrong room.”

“
Porco dio
! I will kill you.”

“Is that a—” I cover Naomi’s mouth and then hustle her out, shutting the door behind me to the curses and threats.

“Behind you!” she screams. I turn but it is too late.

NAOMI

There’s a donkey in the room.

I knew coming into this room that Marco Cassano was into animals. Still, thinking it and seeing it in front of me are two different things. The donkey is white and so it stands out amidst the shadows. I’m so shocked at the sight of it—and the man behind it—that I don’t realize that there is someone else here.

I hear footsteps and think Vasily is leaving me alone with this pervert, so I turn just in time to see a man behind him in fetish wear.

“Behind you!” I tell Vasily, but I’m a moment too late. The man in the rubber fetish suit throws the coil of a leather whip around Vasily’s neck, choking him. To my surprise, my big Russian is neatly trapped against the man. Vasily’s hands go to the whip, like something out of a movie, and he strains as the man strangles him.

“
Porco dio!
” the other man is shouting, the donkey fucker. He keeps shouting it over and over again, pointing at us. “
Porco dio
!”

His shouting is making me want to crawl into myself. I freeze for a long moment, strains of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” rolling to the forefront of my mind. I stare at Vasily’s purpling face and begin to mouth the words. I don’t like screams, so I must drown them out . . .

But even as I start to slide away, I see the urgency in Vasily’s face. He’s not concentrating on his attacker. His hands are locked on the whip, and they shake back and forth, but Vasily’s gaze is completely on me.

Waiting on me.

I blink. Push away strains of the song. Through a hazy blur, I consider things. I can attack the man strangling Vasily . . . or I can do what we came here for. I think of what Vasily would do, and what he would want me to do if I was part of his
Bratva
.

So I finger my gold pendant with the thin tracking sticker stuck to the back of it. I need to get this on that man’s skin so we can get the painting. My fingernail pulls up the edge as I run for the man who is screaming in Italian at us. He’s pressed up against one of the thickly curtained walls of the room, his genitals gleaming with lubricant. The donkey brays and I skirt it wide, heading for the man. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I tell him. “I’m scared—protect me!”

He stares at me like I’m crazy and mouths a stream of gibberish Italian at me. “
Allontanati da me
!”

“I’m scared,” I repeat, and fling my arms around his neck, clinging to his side and avoiding his filthy genitals.

He pushes at me, shouting obscenities, but I’m clinging to him like a tree vine as I maneuver the tracking sticker off of the pendant. My fingers brush his nape even as he shoves me roughly. Success.

His hand slams into my jaw and I lose hold of him. I stumble to the floor, and his lubricant is all over my legs and stomach. I whimper with horror, knowing what I am covered with. “Vasily,” I moan. “He’s so gross.”

“
Putta
!” the donkey fucker shouts at me. He gibbers something else, pointing at Vasily, then at me. I can guess what those instructions are—kill me, too.

I look over at Vasily and my gaze meets his. He’s utterly calm. It’s like he’s waiting for me. So I nod. It’s done.

His nostrils flare, his only outward sign that he’s caught my signal. I see something metal flash in his hand, and then he stabs behind him.

The man in the rubber gimp suit bellows with pain. He was not, I think, expecting to be stabbed. Vasily grabs the whip and yanks it away from his throat. His hands move, so very fast, and I watch as he stabs and stabs the man behind him over and over again.

My assassin was never in any danger, not really. It was all a ploy to give me time.

However, I am in mortal danger now of catching a staph infection from this man’s lubricant. I shudder and vomit on the floor, unable to control my stomach. The “Itsy Bitsy Spider” returns, and I curl up around myself—my dirty, dirty self—and begin to hum and rock while the room goes to chaos around me and the donkey brays and brays and brays.

Hands press down on my shoulders. “Karen. Karen. Wake up. It is time to go.”

Who is Karen? The pressing becomes harder, the voice familiar. Vasily. Then I remember I’m supposed to be Karen. And we’re in the pervert room.

It’s not the place I want to have an episode. My eyes snap
open and I see him kneeling in front of me. His fingers caress my cheek and it hurts. I wince and pull away.

“It is time to go, Karen,” he tells me again, and I nod.

He takes my hand and pulls me against him. I look over, expecting to see the donkey fucker shivering in the corner of the room. But the donkey fucker is laying in a pool of his own blood, his throat cut. His eyes are gazing up at the ceiling, seeing nothing. I turn and the assassin in the gimp suit is also dead. His mask is ripped off and the face there is not one I recognize.

Vasily has killed our target. I’m . . . pretty sure this wasn’t part of the plan.

“Um,” I question as Vasily takes my hand and leads me out of the room. “Why is our target deceased?”

“Not now,” he tells me, touching my cheek and pulling me through the club’s maze of hallways. We pass by people, but no one is paying attention to us—everyone is too busy with their own perversions. I shudder as we stumble past a group of people, one dressed up like an animal of some kind.

When we pause in a doorway, I can’t hold my questions back. “Who was that man that tried to kill you?”

“Karen, I will answer all questions but it must not be now,” he says, voice gentle, and I realize in his other hand, he grips the other knife. Oh. We’re not safe just yet, then. I follow his lead as we duck through more rooms. Vasily opens a new door and I cringe, anticipating another donkey, but it’s just another side room that is empty. Music plays, violins slicing through the quiet. I wait, tense, as Vasily locks the door we came through, then rams one of his knives into the doorknob, jamming it.

He heads to the opposite side of the room while I stand in the
middle of the floor, shivering and not entirely in my own mind. I watch as he presses his ear to the wood of the thick door, then moves to the curtains and wipes his hands clean of blood. He spits on his hands, wipes, and spits some more. It strikes me as horribly filthy, but there’s no shower in this room.

And I want a shower so bad. I think of the germs I have on me: the strangers that touched me when I entered, the man’s lubricant, the secretions from the donkey he was fornicating with, the floor I sat down on, any blood that might have spattered . . .

I feel faint.

“I’m going to be sick,” I tell Vasily in a weak voice.

“Good,” he tells me and moves to my side. “Vomit down your front. It will be convincing.”

I swallow hard, but in the end I lean over and throw up on the nice Aubusson carpet. Vasily pulls my hair back as I puke, and then he pulls me into his arms, carrying me.

“I’m filthy,” I protest. “Don’t touch me.”

“Shh,” he says, and his voice is soft.

I’m in a haze as we go back to the entrance of the club. His slave is sick, Vasily explains, and we must leave early. I must look rather frightful because they give us our coats without question, and off we go back into the streets of Venice. Vasily immediately heads for the water’s edge and summons us a water taxi.

We climb in, and I suck in deep breaths of the clean night air. We say nothing until we return to the hotel, and then Vasily locks the door behind us and then barricades it with the nearby dresser. “Into the shower,” he tells me, voice firm but hands gentle.

I nod, but I’m still hazy and Vasily has to undress me out of my costume and then leads me to the shower. The water is
scalding hot, but I start to feel like myself again once it pours down on me. Then, I grab the soap and begin to scrub every ounce of my body. Clean. Clean. I need to be clean.

Vasily steps into the shower next to me, and then he takes the soap from my hands and begins to rub it over my shoulder blades. “I am sorry,” he says to me.

I start to tremble. “It was a rough evening.”

“
Da
. It was bloody.” His fingers are gentle as they soap my skin in circles. “You were clever to think of the knives. They came in handy.”

I scrub the washcloth over my stomach and thighs. “Do you think I still have donkey vaginal secretions on me?” I ask in horror, and begin to dry heave again.

“We will make sure you are clean,” he assures me. “Do not worry.” And he continues to soap my skin, helping me scour every inch of dermis that might have come into contact with anything tonight. Eventually, the water cools from its blistering temperature and my skin throbs but it feels . . . better. I start to feel more human again, and I switch places with Vasily in the shower, letting him have the spray.

I lean against him, exhausted but still full of questions. “Why was there an assassin tonight?”

His hands drag through my hair, stroking it. Petting me. I never realized how good it felt to have someone pet you like a cat. “Someone knew we were coming,” he says.

“Who was that man?” I ask. “You took his mask off. Did you recognize him?”

“
Da
,” he says, and his voice is flat, thick. Angry, I realize. “He is one of the Alexsandr’s pets. Nikolai knew him well.”

“Who is Alexsandr?”

“Alexsandr was a very important man, once. He trained many young boys into assassins, including my old friend Nikolai. Both he and Alexsandr are dead now.”

I’m not connecting things. “I don’t understand.” I press my cheek against Vasily’s freshly scrubbed chest, listening to his heartbeat. “The man tonight . . . he was working for the enemy?”

“He works for the Petrovich
Bratva
.” Vasily ducks his head under the spray, his way of avoiding my questions.

I sit up and wait until he’s done. “So someone sent a Petrovich assassin after you?”

“It would seem so.” He reaches over and turns off the shower, so casual.

“Is that why you killed our mark? I thought the plan was to track him. When did that change?”

“I killed him because he was braying worse than the donkey,” Vasily says as he steps out of the shower. He picks up a thick, fluffy towel and wraps it around me, tucking me into its warmth. He begins to dry my skin with tender motions, and it’s an odd dichotomy—this caring, thoughtful side of a man that ruthlessly killed two people earlier. “And because he is no longer necessary.”

I frown. “Why is he no longer necessary?”

“Because Elena Petrovich must have the painting at this point. She has beaten us to it, somehow, and now seeks to eliminate me. We walked into her trap.”

My eyes widen. “What do we do now?”

“Now, we go after head of snake.” His eyes gleam and I wish, for the millionth time in my life, that I could read emotion.

VASILY

“It is very small and not white,” I say in apology. The flat I’ve brought Naomi to is barely larger than the train cars we traveled on in Italy. “It is a place that is safe.” I debate whether I should share the routes of escape and the cache of weapons but decide against it. I will not be gone long. “I have a meeting and then I will take you to Lake Ladoga. We are only three hundred meters from the Solnechnaya Station should you wish to leave,” I add. “There is a park across the street. In Russia, dollars are accepted everywhere. Euros too.”

She runs a hand lightly across the gray stone counter that separates the foyer from the kitchen. Beyond the stove and small refrigerator is a table and beyond that a bed. Nothing else besides clothes, cash, and guns are present.

“I like that it’s small,” she says, moving farther into the single
room. She drops onto the bed and smooths the coverlet she has wrinkled. My heart tightens at the vision of her in my small space. The need to succeed is greater now for I want her here, with me, always. We have not talked much of tomorrow, only that the idea of the cool, white
dacha
in the north appeals to her. But how long will she stay there? How long will she want to be with me if her existence is threatened at every juncture? Peace will not be won with a simple painting but instead through violence. I can only pray that it is not her blood nor mine that flows. No, praying is not my only tool. I flex my hand.

I’ve been the killer of the
Bratva
for two decades. I came to them when I was ten. Alexsandr, the old warlord, trained me to think as well as kill.

Elena taught me to hate.

This woman? She is teaching me to . . . love.

For her, for my sister, I will find peace for us if I have to kill everyone in the south of Moscow to achieve it.

“And I don’t mind sitting here because it has only your germs. Your germs are ok but I have access to a lot of money so we can buy a bigger place if you like.” She looks at me through a veil of lashes. “If you aren’t mad at me for screwing up in the club, that is.”

“
Nyet
,” I say fiercely. In two strides I have her hands in mine. She does not look at me, of course, but I do not care. She sees me all the same. “You were brave. Very brave. Put it out of your head, Naomi. I am sorry that you had to see those things. I should be whipped for taking you there.”

“But you’d like that.” She grins to herself, so pleased at the small joke she has made.

Worry gives way to laughter for I cannot hold back my smiles
at her amusement “Yes, perhaps that is no punishment. Then I should be tormented in another way.”

“Why do you like it? I’ve figured out you don’t like to be touched softly and that the harder I bite or scratch you, the better it is. I guess that makes you a masochist.” She answers her own questions as she is wont to do. “Does that make me a sadist because I like it when you get excited?”

“These labels mean nothing, Naomi. I like your firm touch because it is yours. Nothing else.” It’s not a full truth, but I do not feel like explaining my sordid past to her. She would stare at me in horror and disgust much as she did the donkey fucker if she knew what I have done.

She shrugs. “You haven’t talked much since we left Venice. I figured you were pissed off. I can’t read people well, remember?”

I squeeze her hands tightly. “I do not wish to cause you more distress. Elena Petrovich has summoned me. I must go and see what it is that she wants. Once that is over, I will take you away and we will begin to reconstruct the
dacha
.” I walk to the kitchen and open the sink door. Under the sink I pull off a taped brick of cash. “There are dollars and euros here if you need them.”

Naomi barely looks at the cash. She’s rubbing a pattern in the bed covering and appears lost in the motion. I gather my gun and an extra magazine. Undoubtedly Elena will have me searched, but I will bring these regardless.

“Is that who called you on the phone when we arrived?”

“
Da
, it was.”

“Who is she?” It’s whispered and I almost miss her question.

I hesitate as I have brought so much filth to Naomi that I regret exposing her to even more, but she deserves to know. She
deserves to know who she has taken into her body, who professes to keep her safe.

“She is the daughter of the old
Bratva
pakhan
or boss. She is one of the last true Petrovichs. The rest of us are . . .” I search for the right word. “Fostered into the family and given roles. When I joined, my sister and I were given to Elena until I proved I could be a fierce soldier, so then I became
boyevik
.
Boyeviks
are the footmen of the family. We enforce the will of the Petrovichs. When Sergei comes to power after his father’s death, he makes me head soldier—but he does not trust me and rightly so because I plot his death. Once he is dead, I think, then I no longer am the
Bratva
soldier because we are of the old ways. A woman cannot lead the men. I say this not because women are weak but because Russian men—we are closed minded. But the old guard does not turn to me. They say I am not a Petrovich no matter that I have spent two decades in their service. And I cannot kill Elena so closely after Sergei’s death or no one will trust me. So when the council places this test before me—obtain this painting—I accept the challenge and cling to the idea that it can bring about a painless revolution. But I am returned. The painting must be in Elena’s hands, so I will go to her, see what kind of threat she presents, and return.

“Sounds dangerous. Maybe I should go with you.” She continues to rub a pattern in the sheets.

“
Nyet
. Stay and wait for me. I will return to you shortly.” I hold my breath.
Wait for me forever, no matter what
,
is what I want to plead but I do not. I cannot. She inclines her head and I take that small agreement with me all the way to the exclusive neighborhood that houses Elena.

When Elena Petrovich is in the city, she stays in a grand
penthouse flat on Ostozhenka, the “Golden Mile.” When her father was alive, they lived off Tverskaya, where the tsars once inhabited palatial homes, but the old staid flats of velvet and gilt-covered ceiling reliefs were thrown away for a modern residence of gleaming chrome and marble.

“Vasily Kuznetsov Petrovich,” I announce myself on the intercom. The doorman nods his head and points his white-gloved hand toward the far elevator. I watch as he keys in the code for the penthouse.

Elena’s manservant—a boy no more than fifteen by his budding facial hair—greets me with a short bow when the elevator arrives at the top floor. The marble floor and walls are blindingly white. There is hardly a speck of color in the main living room. On the floor is a plush white rug, and there are low-slung white leather couches that are positioned to showcase the view of the city.

“Vasya! Finally you are here,” Elena cries, flying toward me in rush of silk, brown hair, and Chanel perfume. Elena has always worn Chanel. The scent makes me sick. “You must see my latest acquisition. I just received it yesterday.”

She takes my hand and leads me down a hallway that opens off the entrance. The door to a walnut-paneled office is open. Inside there is a glittery white and glass—or perhaps in Elena’s case crystal—desk, a white leather chaise lounge, and two chairs. To the right of the desk is the triptych, hung with the center panel elevated. “What do you think?” Her sly smile challenges me but I do not rise to her bait.

“I think that to hang it in your study invites unwanted questions.” The security in Elena’s apartment is something I oversaw. It will be easy enough for me to take it from her.

“Now Vasya, don’t pout. The owner called me the other day
and asked why the Petrovich wolf was after him. I played dumb because I did not know why you are chasing all over Italy for some
mat
painting.”

The real purpose of the errand reveals itself. The council sent me on this trip hoping I would not only fail but be killed in the process. Have they been working with Elena all along, and when I got too close to achieving what they thought was impossible, the strings were pulled and I was yanked back to Russia? Or are there only a few betrayers?

The only thing that prevents me from leaving is the possibility that Elena will reveal all to me as she gloats.

“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted this painting? I would have procured it for you.”

“My task was to procure it for the
Bratva.
If it was just a test, then it appears I have succeeded. I found it and it is now returned to the bosom of the family.”

Her tight smile betrays her frustration, and she fists her hands as if she would like to punch me.
Oh my dear Elena, not as much as I would like to choke the life out of you.

“Vasya, I feel like you are drifting away from me. I heard you had a companion with you at several establishments that I didn’t think you would like to visit. Perhaps you have changed in the years you have served as a soldier for my family?”

“I am the same as I always was,” I reply, but I employ serious concentration to prevent a shudder of fear from showing. I do not want Naomi to be known by this woman.

“You have secrets from me, and I do not like that.” She sits on the chaise and toes off her red-soled stilettos. “Must I remind you that we arranged for you to move from warrior to general together? I fear you have forgotten all that I have done for you.”
Her words are heavy with disappointment. “After all, how many stupid little street boys are sent to be educated at Cambridge?”

“It was your brother that promoted me after Alexsandr’s death.”

“But it was me that told him to do that and you know it!” she exclaims and stamps her foot. “Look at all I have done for you! You are the only Petrovich street boy to go to Cambridge. I arranged for that and for your sister. I did that, Vasya, so that you and I together could run this family.” Her tone turns cold, sharp like the point of an icicle. “But here you are, running off to Italy on some treasure hunt. You should have come to me the moment the council presented you with this challenge. You do not need a mystical painting to secure the
Bratva
as your own. You need me and me alone. The fact that you went on this hunt without warning or consultation makes me concerned that you have lost your way.”

So then only a few betrayers on the council. Someone—Thomas, Kliment—revealed the council’s offer to me and Elena, fearful of the possible loss of her status, intervened.

“I serve the
Bratva,
not just one person with the organization. This was the council’s edict.”

“You should just kill them like you killed my brother.”

We stare at each other, because this is the first time she has voiced the suspicion that others must have held.

“I did not kill your brother. That was done by Nikolai Andrushko, and we have disposed of him.”

“I’m having trouble trusting you,” she pouts. Her one foot rubs up against the calf of her opposite leg. Elena is a beautiful woman. No doubt other men would respond, but I have nothing inside me for her but hate. “I need you to prove your loyalty once more. Like you did when I asked you to kill your sister.”

Yes, she needs to die. I will kill her and take Naomi and
disappear. There are other places in this world that are quiet and remote.

I hear a rustling and see the silk of her dress pool on the floor, and I’m thrown back to the early days of my time here when my cock responded to a woman’s touch without much understanding. When my body responded to vile stimuli and I learned to hate myself.

My stomach clenches and my balls shrivel. Already I feel contaminated—like Naomi with the blood of the donkey fucker smeared over her. It has been so long since I’ve been commanded to perform for her. I can hardly believe she wants me again. I am too old, scarred, and hairy for her and have been since I was fourteen. That was when she decided that Alexsandr could have me. My thick fingers and hairy balls displeased her. It was one of the best days of my life.

“What do you ask of me?”

Her laughter trills out. “I am giving you a choice, Vasya, because I care about you.” She claps her hands and this time I look up. A young naked boy is led into the room by the manservant. The boy is ten, perhaps eleven? It is hard for me to tell. He is prepubescent. There is no hair anywhere but on his head.

My throat tightens and my tongue feels thick. He looks at me with luminous eyes. Fear is there as well as disgust and confusion. His member is stiff and red. The young manservant barely older than the captive does not look at anyone but his hand is fisted at his side.

“Come in my dears, you are blocking the entrance.” Elena motions the two boys farther into the room. Two more people enter and this time I can barely hold my bile down. It is a terrified Naomi being led by Ylofa Yavlinksy, a thug brought in off the streets and well known for his delight in raping women. I had
planned on executing him and a few others when I seized control of the
Bratva
.