Hitman's Baby (Mob City Book 2)

C
opyright
© 2016 by Holly Hart

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

• redcaperomance
  

P
lease be
aware that this book contains scenes of violence, including violence against women. I have always fought against this, and a portion of the proceeds will be shared between two domestic violence charities: the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, and the National Domestic Violence Hotline, two bodies that work tirelessly in public policy, activism, and providing grassroots support to women in need.

But don’t worry, this
is
a love story. It’s just sometimes in life, it seems darkest just before the dawn. When I’m feeling down, I remind myself that life isn’t meant to be easy, and I look at one of my favorite quotes:

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” Haruki Murakami.

Love, Holly.

July 2016.

E
llie
.

His hands feel cold and clammy. Lifeless. They wrap around my throat, closing like a vice, his thumbs digging into my windpipe. I scream, or at least I try. It comes out a gurgle, and I don't bother attempting it again, because it's hard enough to get the air to stay conscious, let alone beg for him to let me go. He won't. I look up at him, staring up and into his eyes and imploring him to stop; or even loosen his grip, but they're blank, dead orbs.

I'm choking, I'm dying, and I still don't know what I've done wrong. Whatever I did, my eyes scream upwards, I'll make up for it, you know I will. I'll do anything you want, whenever you ask. Just don't kill me. I don't deserve that, do I?

My hands scrabble desperately against your thick, powerful forearms and, as if answering my prayers, you lift one of your hands away from its python-like grip around my throat. Whatever last vestige of my brain is still working through the torment rejoices, you've relented, it's almost over.

Except, you haven't. You bat away my desperate fingers like you're swatting away a buzzing, inconvenient fly. Like my life means no more than an insects to you. I know it's not true, or – I thought I knew.

My world's going black. Your face is fading away. I don't want my last memory of you to look like this, with your eyes dead and your jaw set with a cold, icy rage, nor to feel like this. You can be so kind, so honest. I'm sorry for making you do this. I know it's not you, not who you are. I just want to see you smile one last time.

My eyes close, my breathing slows, I slip away. My body crumples. I'm numb. You can't hurt me anymore, and I can't hurt you.

Sirens.

I thought that angels might play the harp, that their music would be otherworldly and ethereal. I dreamt, in my darkest moments, of burning gold and fluffy clouds, an end to my life, its tests and torments. But heaven sounds just like a busy city, an overtaxed truck engine testing its limits, a wailing child next door, the blaring roar of an ambulance, or a police car. Maybe even both.

Or maybe I'm just going to hell. Perhaps you were right, I must deserve it. It can't be worse than life – this life, anyway.

When I was a child, I watched the happy kids at school from afar. Even back then I knew we were different. They wore new clothes, all bright with color, when mine were hand-me-downs of hand-me-downs: tattered, ripped, un-patched. I saw their parents at the school gate, all wreathed in smiles, and watched them clasp hands, or reach down for a hug.

My nose itches, it feels like something's covering my face, something hard, and there's an elastic strap tugging against the soft hair on the back of my head. There's noise all around me, the sound of those angelic sirens wailing in the background, shouting, the mechanical clicking of handcuffs.

I just want to be at peace, in a place where people don't hurt me anymore, where I don't have to cover my face with make-up just to hide the bruises, where I don't have to wear a scarf to cover the marks on my neck after I've disappointed him.

My mind whimpers. "Leave me alone."

It cries. "Let me go."

Haven't I been through enough? I just want to rest, but something's bothering me. Someone’s talking to me, holding my hand. It's comforting, like the memory of a childhood I never had, but I want them to let go, to let me fall into that dark abyss where I can be at peace.

"Stay with me, Ellie. Don't you go anywhere on me."

"Why." It's not a question. I don't say it out loud, couldn't even if I tried.

Why don't they just let me go?

E
llie

The envelope was waiting for me when I got back from the Herald, the sole occupant of a mailbox that was in desperate need of a fresh lick of paint. The address was written in block letters that seemed kind of familiar, but also not, like the feeling you get when you wake up and can't hang on to a scrap of your dream.

At least it's not a bill
.

The envelope itself was cheap enough, and the postmark from in-state. Its appearance was a bit of a conundrum. It wasn't my birthday, not like I had anyone to send me a card even if it was, and it didn't look official, not with the hand-inked address.

I tucked the envelope into my back pocket, suddenly aware of an unmistakable howling, scratching sound coming from behind my front door.

"Hey, Frankie," I cooed, trying to minimize the destruction that the golden Labrador was causing as he tried to scratch his way through the wooden front door that separated us. "Mommy's home."

Frankie was Rick's dog. He had been, anyway. I guess he never planned on getting himself locked up. But I never saw him walk her, not even once. He was one of those things he got all excited about, and then gave up on a week later. A bit like me. Hell, Frankie didn't even get that long. The thing is, when they say a dog's for life, not just for Christmas – they're right. Of course I felt bad for the damn critter, so guess who ended up walking him?

Me.

Thing is, Frankie turned out to be a great dog. Except when he’s hungry, then he's just like his mama – grouchy as hell. He doesn't like being left home alone, either…

I felt the lock's tumblers click open one by one as I pushed the key in and turned it. It was a new key. It was a new lock – the first and only thing I'd done to change the place since Rick got sent down.

Stop thinking about it
, I chided myself.

I carelessly chucked my bag to the floor. It was full fit to burst, and newspaper clippings, research folders and the rest of the assorted detritus of months of hard work hissed as the air inside escaped.

I threaded my little pinky finger under the adhesive strip at the back and tore open the envelope. I wasn't paying it much attention, mostly because my concentration was split between Frankie nipping at my toes and the hunger gnawing away at my belly.

Seven words.

My free hand jumped to my neck, tracing the outline of the fading ring of purple bruising that
he
had put there.

I never thought seven words could make me feel so scared.

I realized why the handwriting on the front of the envelope had looked so familiar – it was Rick's. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't
that.
I could have handled a long, hateful message, or a vitriolic rant. I could've handled divorce papers. I would've welcomed them, even if I couldn't bring myself to start the process. Hell, I could've handled a lot of things; I'd been doing it for years. But this, this knocked me on my ass.

Literally.

I sat down on my haunches; the air hissing out of my lungs like a boxer's sucker punch had landed straight in my stomach and read the note again.

The message on the thin, recycled white office paper was as brief as it was terrifying.

It read simply, in thin, spidery black ballpoint ink, "I hate how much I love you."

The note was unsigned, but it didn't take an expert to figure out who the author was.

Rick
.

"I need to speak to Detective Pete, uh," I stammered, stalling for time as I searched desperately for the business card that the kindly cop had given me as I lay in bed. "Detective Peter Collins, Domestic Violence Unit."

"One moment please," the switchboard operator replied professionally. The faint tones of some 90s pop song filled my ear as she put me on hold.

Come on, come on
. My hands drummed against the kitchen counter, the fast, ragged beat matching my heartrate precisely.

"Hello, are you still there?" The operator said into my ear.

"Yes, yes I'm here," I hurried.

"I'm sorry ma'am, it looks like he's gone home for the day. If it's urgent I can transfer you over to the office on duty?"

"Frankie, chill," I barked at the restless dog pawing at my leg, desperate for me to feed her.

"Sorry ma'am, I didn't catch that?" The confused operator said.

"Sorry," I replied distractedly, shaking Frankie off me. "I was talking to my dog. Don't worry about bothering the officer. I'll call back in the morning."

"Are you sure?" The worried voice replied. "No one's listening to you, are they?"

A chill shiver ran down my spine as I remembered the days, not so long ago; when I had to slink off just to make a phone call. "No, nothing like that. The only person who would be is, uh, locked up."

"Good," the lady said with relief. "Sorry, but I had to check, its policy. The station opens tomorrow at eight, okay honey? Detective Collins should be in early, so ring whenever you want."

I put the phone down, hands trembling, and I leaned against the kitchen counter.

Stop beating yourself up
, I urged myself.

Frankie scratched my leg. I shot him a glare, and he sidled off into a corner to sulk. I pushed against the counter, pouring every ounce of rage and frustration into the action, and air hissed through the gaps between my front teeth. The dog made a yelping sound, and he was underneath me, nipping at my ankle, looking sick with worry.

“Frankie, chill,” I said, releasing my hold on the counter. A tidal wave of tiredness hit me, and I realized the folly of what I was doing.

“Come on, let’s get you fed,” I said, voice low and slow with exhaustion.

Frankie slurped down it down in what seemed like seconds. I envied him for how easy he made it look. I hadn't eaten properly in days. Food just didn't taste right, and besides, I didn't like eating alone in an empty house. Sitting down to eat a proper meal for one felt stupid. TV dinners had replaced proper food. Hell, the couch was doing a bang up job of standing in for my bed, too.

Ellie, he's a dog
.

Yeah, sure – but he was a dog without fears, cares or worries, other than what time his momma was gonna get home from work. That was what I envied. That, and his soft, furry coat.

How do you do it, buddy? I slather on all that conditioner, and you just waltz in here with hair like that…

He came over to nuzzle me, and I scratched him idly. "Feeling better, buddy?" He whined in response, and I took it as a yes.

Two weeks. Two weeks Rick had been locked away, and I hadn't changed a thing in the house. I didn't sleep in our bed; I hadn't tidied away his books.

My eyes felt inexorably drawn to the letter, as if it was an evil, malevolent presence with a life of its own. I wanted to tear it up, and then burn the pieces, but I knew I couldn't, I knew that the detective would need it. But having it around felt like having
him
in the house again. I could almost hear his heavy, brooding footsteps pacing the living room. I looked around. The place felt like a mausoleum, not a home.

"Hey," I called down the hallway as I heard Rick's key unlocking the front door. "I'm in the living room."

Something heavy fell onto the floor by the door. I should have taken that as my first warning. Rick was pissed, I just didn't know it yet.

I knelt down, clearing up the scattered shards of glass. "Careful," I called. "Make sure you've got shoes on, okay honey?"

"What the fuck are you doing?" He asked, his voice low and dangerous.

I felt a chill down the back of my neck, and hairs all over my body stood on end. I should have taken the hint then and there. It could have saved me a whole lot of pain if I had.

"What d'you mean?" I replied, twisting my body to look at him.

"That was my favorite fucking lamp, you stupid bitch." I didn't see him approach me, so much as feel his presence creeping quickly up on me.

"Rick!" I yelped, shocked by his language. He'd never even raised his voice to me before. "Rick, what are you doing?" I cried out, this time in pain as his hand reached in, gripped my hair and yanked me up
.

I quickly looked around the room, feeling a need to prove to myself that I was alone. I was still trembling from the adrenaline the memory had dumped into my system when I snapped.

I stood up purposefully, knocking Frankie's surprised head off my thigh. "Come on, buddy," I said with grim determination in my voice. "Let's do something about that fucking lamp."

Memories of having to make sure that the patch of ripped out hair was completely hidden under a woolen hat as I drove to IKEA to replace a ten dollar lamp flashed through my mind. The image of catching a glimpse of my tear-streaked face in the rear-view mirror was seared into my mind so deeply I knew it would never scrub clean.

Frankie yelped with delight as I started moving, and I let myself think he knew what I was doing. Then again, this was a dog that got excited the second he heard the word "squirrel", so I didn't hold out much hope on that front. I picked the lamp up, unplugging the cord from the wall with a violent yank.

I couldn't stop my brain from thinking, "
what happens when Rick comes back
?" But I didn't care. That asshole had hurt me enough. If he got out of prison and the restraining order the judge had promised didn't come through, then I'd leave Alexandria. Even contemplating the thought hurt me, but I knew I had to do it.

I tossed the lamp in the garbage, and turned on my heel with a sense of righteous anger burning through me. It burned white-hot, casting light on memories I thought I’d forgotten, or been made to forget. It seared through my veins, cleansing, healing – uncovering.

A cardboard box floated into my mind’s eye. A plain, battered, brown cardboard box. Nothing special. It had been dusty, the last time I saw it, marked
Expenses 11-12
, and still sealed.

I would have known about it if Rick had ever found it. He wouldn’t have let me forget. I found my feet were already moving, my legs stepping of their own accord, powering me forward. I climbed the rickety old wooden ladder up into the loft, strained against the hatch that kept it shut, and coughed as a trickle of dust escaped the second it swung open.

My hand reached into the darkness, probing into the unknown. My fingers settled around a frayed cord of string, and I pulled. A weak bulb burst into life, and tendrils of illumination barely penetrated the gloom. I shivered, pictured spiders and mice and other things, too – denizens of the dark that adults shouldn’t still dream of.

Suck it up, Ellie, you lived through worse
.

I launched myself into the dusky, ill lit attic, eyes narrowed to avoid having to glance at murky corners; head ducked to avoid the cobwebs that grew like vines from the ceiling. My eyes passed over box after box, identical, the very reason I had stashed
Expenses 11-12
up here in the first place. Security through obscurity.

“Gotcha,” I muttered, running my hand across the top and pushing off the worst of the dust. It fell to the floor with an audible whooshing sound, and I shivered with disgust. I carried it down over one shoulder, almost over balancing. I grinned ruefully, imagining how the police report would read if someone found my body crunched, limbs spread out at all angles, below the bottom rung.

“Hey Frankie!” I said, using the same lilting, high-pitched tone that every pet owner knows so well. “Want to give mama a hand?” He yelped.

I knelt down in front of the box, ripping the brown packing tape off with the gusto of a pack of animals surging towards an oasis in the desert. It fell apart in my hands, dried out after its stay in the loft, and I threw it to one side. The folds opened, and I tossed out a scattering of actual, real-life expense claims I’d cunningly placed on top.

Just in case
.

Underneath it all was a sight any man would have had a hard time resisting, especially when it was the only thing hiding the sight of my milky white skin.
Any man but Rick
. Lingerie, the kind more suited to a damn porn star than a boring investigative journalist like me…

It was four years old. I got it when we first started dating, when we were courting, before Rick showed his true colors. Before he said that me trying to look nice for him was a trick – that I was a whore, or trying to impress other men. When I never, ever did anything like that.

I stiffened, and beside me Frankie’s fur bristled with sympathy.

“You know what, buddy,” I murmured. “Screw him. I’m going to put this on and wear it proud – not for him, not for any man, but for me.” I felt more like I was making a political speech than the way a dog who, once a week without fail, tried to catch his own tail would understand…

But still, it was right – and it needed saying.

Frankie barked.

“That’s right!”