We drive for a few minutes with Mr Allard death gripping the wheel till I can see the bones of his knuckles practically glowing in the darkness of the car. I instruct him to pullover, and he complies. He turns off the engine and manages to compose himself.
“What do you want from me?” He asks in a level tone.
“I don’t want anything. Your wife on the other hand would love to see you dead. Can’t say I blame her. You’ve been very naughty Mr Allard,” I tsk at him.
His eyes widen in surprise before shifting into angry slits. “My fucking wife sent you?” He seethes, his hands balling into fists on the steering wheel. I say nothing, I’m not one for repeating myself or answering obvious questions. “I knew that bitch would bring me nothing but trouble the moment I stuck my dick in her. Whatever she’s paying you I’ll double it,” he offers, fear gone from his body only to be replaced with rage.
I hate when they try to barter, it’s pointless. A contract is a contract. If you don’t stay true to the contract you’re finished in this world. If you renege on a contract for a higher offer, you can expect to either be dead within twenty-four hours or be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. While offering more money will probably work on a street thug or mercenary, I’m the one he’s dealing with, so he’s shit out of luck.
He’s starting to get angrier, and I can see his body preparing itself to try and attack me. Sometimes it’s almost boring how predictable these people are. With one hand still holding Crimson to his neck, I pull the bright red 7” metal spiked stiletto from my duffle bag, and before he can make a move to even attempt to disarm me, I jam the heel directly into his carotid artery. His eyes widen in horror and his hands instinctively reach up to his neck to where the shoe is now protruding from as I watch on with a blank expression on my face.
3…2…1…He rips the heel from his neck and attempts to cover the hole with his hands as blood begins to spurt from the hole like a fountain, drenching the leather interior of his SUV and obscuring the once clear windshield with his blood. I internally shake my head. They always do that. It’s a reflex to pull out a foreign object, but it’s the opposite of what one should do.
With one hand to his neck, he fumbles for the door handle with the other. He finally gets it open and falls out of the car. I place Crimson back in my ankle holster and calmly get out of the car with my duffle bag. I watch as he crawls along the sidewalk, torn between putting pressure on his wound or using both hands to crawl. The panic and energy he’s exerting are causing his heart to pump faster which in turn is causing blood to spurt out quicker. He screams for help, but the sound is strangled. I stand silently by the car watching colour drain from his face. The blood that once provided that colour is now drenching his expensive suit and leaving a trail along the sidewalk. It doesn’t take long before his body finally stops moving and he takes his final breath.
I throw my now empty duffle bag over my shoulder and take a look around. Should anyone have seen they’d have to join Mr Allard here, which would really mess up the scene I’ve set. I casually start walking down the street, my all-black attire consisting of my turtleneck, leggings, combat boots, leather gloves and cap with my hair neatly tucked under it with the help of a hair net – wouldn’t want to leave stray hairs behind – allowing me to blend into the shadows nicely. It’s not a statement piece, it’s practical. Can’t hide out as easily in a black car if you’re wearing neon. After a couple blocks I take off my gloves, followed by my cap and hair net releasing my shoulder blade length straight black hair, and put the items in the duffle bag. I pull out the burner phone from my back pocket and speed dial 1. After three rings it answers.
“Hello?” Answers a timid voice.
“It’s done. Tomorrow morning, leave my payment along with the burner I gave you in your mailbox. I will come to collect it. This will be our last interaction,” I instruct in a cold and firm voice. I go to hang up, but she has something to say it seems.
“Wait! ...How… how did you do it?” She nervously asks. I’m not sure she can stomach the realities of what she’s asked me to do, but I’m not her therapist or her mother, I’m not getting paid to coddle her. So I give it to her straight.
“After your husband was done screwing his latest whore, I coerced him into driving to the red-light district and once there stabbed him in the neck. He then bled to death on the sidewalk. Between the area, the murder weapon I chose, and the fact that they will find evidence of sex during the post-mortem, this will lead authorities to believe this was a sex job gone wrong. Analysis of your husband’s SUV navigation system will also show where he goes every Thursday night which will further solidify what appears to be the obvious answer,” I explain clinically.
She’s silent for a moment, but her heavy breathing can be heard through the phone. “Thank you,” she tells me.
With nothing more for us to discuss I hang up. I make my way to a rental car I have parked two blocks away, get in and drive back to Hotel LeVeque, where I plan to soak in a nice hot tub and get a good night’s rest.
This is what my life consists of. I travel the globe killing people for a living. I don’t take any sexual gratification from what I do, I don’t even do it for the money really – although it does pay incredibly well. No, this work; this life, runs in my blood. It’s deep rooted in who I am. By the age of twenty-nine I have become one of the most prolific assassins in the world. To those in this shadow world or those who seek me out I am only known by my codename. Blackheart.
God dammit! Severing major arteries is messy business, and I’m usually able to keep myself out of the line of fire, but not today it seems. My black hair is matted with blood, my maroon bra looks black from the blood soaking into it, and my matching maroon satin and lace panties are soaked and not in the good way. The gorgeous tattoos that cover the ivory skin of my arms and legs are now veiled in blood. I look horrific. But sometimes this comes with the job. Killing people can get messy sometimes, and not everything goes to plan. Like in this case. Everything was running smoothly, going exactly how I wanted, but then one little action forced me to deviate from my plan slightly and now here I am, straddling a dead man while looking like a living breathing Jackson Pollock painting. But let me go back a bit and explain how I got here. Thirty-nine-year-old Miroslav Đorđević was a Serbian arms dealer who, as it turns out, had been skimming off the top and his partner wasn’t happy about i
Once I’ve checked out I get in a cab and am taken to a private airfield where my jet is patiently waiting. It’s a Gulfstream G550 and she is a beauty. I smile as I see Marcel stepping down from the jet. Marcel is the steward on my jet and has been for the past five years, but he’s practically family. In fact, he often spends holidays with my family. Marcel is forty-nine with short, limp dark brown hair fading grey at the edges. He has a salt and pepper trimmed beard and soft hazel eyes. Outside of the frown lines on his forehead he only has some slight creasing around the corners of his eyes, but no other wrinkles to be seen. He always dresses sharply and is currently in black slacks, black Armani dress shoes, a black pinstripe shirt and a black tie with a gold diamond pattern in the design. He’s also wearing his usual gold wolf cufflinks. He loves anything to do with wolves, he even owns one as a pet which he named Blade, who is absolutely gorgeous! I step out of the cab as Marcel
After a relaxing journey, the pilot announces we’ll be landing soon, so I get up and open the right drawer of the cabinet opposite the bed. I pull out the sleek black case and open it using fingerprint ID. Nestled safely inside is my old reliable Wilson Combat EDC X9. I love this gun. My father still maintains his gun of choice is far better, but whatever. This is the gun for me. 9mm calibre, 7.6” length with a 4” barrel and a beautifully ornate G10 starburst grip and beavertail that houses the grip safety. Weighing at 2.38lb with a 15+1 capacity, it’s definitely my gun of choice. I take out my beauty and start loading it. Once ready to go. I strap my gun holster to my thigh and strap in my gun. I grab Crimson who is now clean as a whistle and strap her on the other side of the holster, then adjust my skirt. I place the burner phones in my black handbag, and I am ready for action. “That’s what you’re wearing?” Marcel asks with a concerned frown. “Yes. What’s wrong with what I’m wea
The drive home from the airstrip is peaceful. Just me and the low music coming from the car’s speakers to keep me company. As I’m driving I’m taking in the Moldovan landscape as it brings a sense of calm to my body. It’s so good to be home. I haven’t been home in four months. I have properties all over the world and if I’m not staying in a location where I happen to have property then I stay at a hotel, but when I come back here I always stay with my parents. One could say I never technically moved out, but I’m travelling most of the year so when I’m back home, naturally I want to be with my family. I’m driving down the familiar winding road through the lush green forests, where the occasional vibrant wildflower pokes its head out and I know I’m nearly home. My parent’s house is located a short distance from Saharna Monastery, and we have a private airstrip a thirty-minute drive away, which I really appreciate, otherwise it would be an almost two-hour drive to get home from Chișinău
“Where is my little Blackheart?!” Comes my grandfather’s deep but silky voice, and my face breaks out into a huge grin as he enters the room. “Grandpa!” I shout and leap at him. He catches me in his strong arms and holds me to him as he chuckles, “Did you get more tattoos? There won’t be any unmarked skin left soon,” he teases. “Very funny,” I say, kissing his cheek. Gosh, I haven’t seen Grandpa Titus in months. I’ve missed him like crazy. I’m telling you my family doesn’t age. Grandpa Titus is the definition of a silver fox. He’s 6’3” and at the age of seventy-nine is still as buff and muscular as my dad. He has some crow’s feet around his blueish-grey eyes and some wrinkling on his forehead, but besides that, his skin doesn’t show much sign of aging, except maybe his hands. He has shoulder-length wavey salt-and-pepper hair and a short salt-and-pepper beard with a moustache. His long-pointed nose is slightly crooked due to breaking it so many times, but it just makes him look tou
My peaceful sleep is disrupted by a sharp sting across my backside and the sound of skin meeting skin. What the fuck? “Up you get,” comes my dad’s voice. Is he freaking kidding me? I’m on holiday. Since I’m lying face down I ignore him and pull my pillow over my head and attempt to go back to sleep. “It’s time to get up and train, let’s go,” he commands. “Fuck off,” I mumble tiredly. I just want to go back to sleep. “What did you just say to me?” My dad asks in a menacing tone, but I don’t even flinch. I just shift my hand to rest on top of the pillow on top of my head and give him the finger. “ALINA ISTRATI GET THE FUCK OUT OF THAT BED RIGHT NOW!” My dad yells in a deadly voice. If we had neighbours that would have woken them up. I still continue to ignore him hoping he’ll go away, but no such luck. Suddenly I feel air and the wind is knocked out of me a little when my body connects with something solid. I open my eyes and they lock with my dad’s back. He has me slung over his s
Walking back into my room I give myself a quick stretch, trying to loosen up all the muscles I worked out fighting with my dad. Just looking at me this is not what you’d expect my room to look like. I won’t lie, opulent is a good word to describe my bedroom. It’s massive. A wall sections off a third of the room and the floor is mostly tan wood, but under the bed is a gorgeous champagne-coloured carpet. A king-size bed against the sectioning wall with sheets of gold and beige facing two full-length windows. Brown nightstands flank the bed adorned with touch lamps and a large white storage ottoman sits at the foot of the bed. I have all the basics one would need. Chest of drawers, a sofa, coffee table, mirror, and 52” plasma TV. In the corner by the door I even have a small office area. A stunning desk and chair face the centre of the room, but the part of the room that truly screams opulence is the stunning crystal blue and gold chandelier. On the left side of the sectioning wall is m
Pulling up to Il Segreto, I pull down my visor and check my makeup. When it comes to meetings I always dress to impress. Impress myself that is. It would be stupid to show up at one of the best restaurants in the city in attire that screams ‘I’m here to kill someone’, so dressing for the occasion is important. Tonight I’ve gone for the vamp look. Plum smokey eye with defined wings and deep plum lipstick. It compliments my pale skin and makes my green eyes pop. My hair is neatly back in a chignon, and I’ve dressed in a red full-sleeve mermaid evening gown with an open back. The dress is skin-tight, and I love how the fabric just flows out like water from the knees. Aside from my back, I’m completely covered. Sometimes having all the tattoos tucked away makes more of a statement than having them on display. I grab my black clutch purse and step out of the car being mindful to not get my black suede pointy-toe stilettos caught in my dress. I hand the keys to my black Jaguar XJ to the va