Last Kiss (Hitman #3)

“Jessica Clare and Jen Frederick are a force to be reckoned with!”*

Praise for

LAST BREATH

“Clare and Frederick have penned a sexy, thrilling romantic suspense with a strong heroine and a to-die-for hero. Romance readers won’t want to miss their latest.”

—
Smexy Books

“Dark, gritty, but filled with hope . . .
Last Breath
is an action-packed, emotionally driven story that will have you reading the pages quicker than you can turn them. The second book in the Hitman [series] has dialed up the action to an almost breakneck speed.”

—*
A Love Affair with Books

“Both Daniel and Regan were interesting and wonderful characters, and I loved getting to see them work through their issues and find a way to fall for each other. I’m happy to report that Clare and Frederick knocked this one out of the park for me.”

—
The Book Pushers

“
Last Breath
far exceeded my expectations. It appears as if there is nothing these ladies can’t write about, and I anxiously await to see what they will do with the third book in the Hitman series.”

—
The Muses’ Circle

“I’m seriously at a loss for words to describe to you how good this book is. It has everything you could ask for. There’s tons of action and suspense. But somehow there are tons of sweet and sexy moments in this and it just all works together so well. If I ever have to be rescued by a man—I hope it’s someone as dreamy as Daniel. . . . I cannot stress enough how much I think you should read this series and particularly this book. It’s one of a kind and you won’t regret it.”

—
All Romance Reviews

Praise for the novels of
New York Times
bestselling author Jessica Clare

“Blazing hot.”

—
USA Today

“Sexy.”

—
Smexy Books

“Sizzling! Jessica Clare gets everything right in this erotic and sexy romance . . . You need to read this book!”

—
Romance Junkies

Praise for the novels of
USA Today
bestselling author Jen Frederick

“Sexy and sinful.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Katy Evans

“I love these strong characters.”

—
Sizzling Pages Romance Reviews

“Wonderful . . . I wholly recommend you read it.”

—
Nocturnal Book Reviews

TITLES BY JESSICA CLARE AND JEN FREDERICK

THE HITMAN SERIES

Last Hit

Last Breath

Last Kiss

Last Hit: Reloaded
(Intermix)

OTHER TITLES BY JESSICA CLARE

THE BILLIONAIRE BOYS CLUB

Stranded with a Billionaire

Beauty and the Billionaire

The Wrong Billionaire’s Bed

Once Upon a Billionaire

Romancing the Billionaire

One Night with the Billionaire

BILLIONAIRES AND BRIDESMAIDS

The Billionaire and the Virgin

THE BLUEBONNET NOVELS

The Girl’s Guide to (Man) Hunting

The Care and Feeding of an Alpha Male

The Expert’s Guide to Driving a Man Wild

The Virgin’s Guide to Misbehaving

OTHER TITLES BY JEN FREDERICK

WOODLANDS SERIES

Undeclared

Undressed
in the anthology
Snow Kissed

Unspoken

Unraveled

JACKSON BOYS

The Charlotte Chronicles

KERR CHRONICLES

Losing Control

Taking Control

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

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penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

Copyright © 2015 by Jessica Clare and Jen Frederick.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19681-0

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Clare, Jessica.

Last kiss / Jessica Clare, Jen Frederick.

p. cm.—(A hitman novel ; 3)

ISBN 978-0-425-28152-9 (paperback)

I. Frederick, Jen. II. Title.

PS3603.L353L38 2015

813'.6—dc23

2014048285

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley trade paperback edition / May 2015

Cover photo by Claudio Marinesco.

Cover design by Meljean Brook.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

To Cindy
Thank you for taking a chance on us.
We hope you never regret it.

To our editor, Cindy Hwang, who believed in this crazy series enough to send us into bookstores and libraries around the country.

To Meljean, who has to endure our constant inquiries and requests for changes and general author craziness and who allows us to be her friend when in fact she’s the superior author.

To Caroline, for thinking up the perfect name for
Last Hit: Reloaded
. We forgot to thank you before. Please accept this belated, but profuse, expression of gratitude.

To our assistants and publicists, Nicole, Morgan, and Jessie. Would anyone hear of the books without you? We don’t think so.

To our blogger friends: Michelle, I don’t know why you still open emails from Jen. She bugs you constantly. Lisa, do you ever get tired of those IMs? And to Mel, Lea, and Eagle at SMS Book Obsessions: You crack us up every day. Never stop.

To all of the other bloggers and readers too numerous to name, thank you so much for every word that you’ve written about this series. You’ve made it happen and your love and will power us forward.

One Month Ago

VASILY

“You think to lead the Petrovich
Bratva
?” Georgi Petrovich cries from far down the table. He is so far removed from the main branch of the Petrovich family tree he barely warrants a place here. “You aren’t even blood Petrovich!”

“Am I not?” I ask. There’s no need to raise my voice. Any emotion indicates weakness. I am not a weak man. “What makes a Petrovich?” I stand then and begin to walk around the table. “Is it blood? Then half of you should be executed on the table for failing to have the requisite DNA. Who shall go first?”

I point to Thomas Gregovorich, a loyal member of the
Bratva
for at least two generations. His father served in the KGB during the Cold War.

He gives a small nod in deference acknowledging that the
Bratva
was a true brotherhood made up of allegiances rather than blood.

“Or you, Kilment, when we took you and your brother in when you were left orphaned on the street, did you believe you became a true Petrovich when you made your first kill? Conducted your first job? When we speak of the
Bratva
, we speak as one voice. What is done to one, it is done to all. Or does that maxim no longer hold true, Georgi?”

There are low murmurs of approval and Georgi sits back, folds his arms, and looks petulantly at the table. We are meeting today to discuss the future of the
Bratva
after the death of Sergei Petrovich. A death I helped orchestrate, and many suspect it, which makes it difficult for me to enact my next step—to kill Elena Petrovich. Two Petrovichs dead so close together smells of a coup. We are an unstable lot, and lopping off the head of this snake would result in chaos. In order to achieve my ends, the
Bratva
must be stabilized.

However, in this den of iniquity, it is not love that holds the loyalty of each man. It is fear. The Petrovichs have held power over us all by setting us one against the other. To rise above, I have eliminated all weaknesses.

What sets me apart is all that I am willing to do. Each of these men at the table has had limits. I have none.

The men that sit at this table are divided. Some view me with awe and respect, and others with disgust. The latter are the ones I respect, because a man who would kill his own sister, a man such as I, deserves to be in a dungeon, locked away from all of humanity.

Instead I stand here as the potential leader of this room of villains and thieves. And it is a position I seek, not because I lust after power, but because if I control the
Bratva
, then nothing is out of my reach. I have one goal now.

“Will you kill your mother to save the
Bratva
, Thomas? And
you, Pietr, when your sister whispers to her lover Pavlil Ionov, do you worry that she’s telling secrets? Or Stefan, your son, I saw him the other day holding hands with . . .” I stop behind Stefan’s chair and rest both hands on the back. I can almost feel him inhale the fear. “. . . a smart young thing. They looked to be enjoying themselves.”

Pietr coughs. “So you are willing to kill us all to maintain hold of the
Bratva
? That is not a good reason to follow you.”

“No, but you all know that I will sacrifice everything and everyone to protect the brotherhood.”

They are all silent because unlike the others, my sister, Katya, is gone. Disposed of by my own hand at the order of Elena Petrovich.

I end my stroll around the room behind my chair. “I am the one who led us away from munitions and dirt to telecom interests. In less than a decade, the
Bratva
’s primary businesses will be legitimate, which means that you no longer have to hide behind your armored vehicles. You no longer have to rely on bodyguards that could be bought off. You need not fear the KGB or the
militsiya
. You can invest in your
futbol
teams and mansions in Londongrad without fear of reprisal.”

Leadership means effective utilization of the carrot and the stick. I lead with the stick. Always. The Petrovichs believe in only the stick. For them the carrot does not exist or is viewed with suspicion.

The
boyeviks
—the young muscle our old warlord Alexsandr groomed from urchins on the street to protect the brotherhood—grow tired of the constant threat to their homes and family. They sleep with one eye open, their hand over their heart, wondering if the brother next to them will be killing their mother or raping their sister in retribution for some
Bratva
infraction.

The older generation such as Thomas and Kilment and those
who sit on the Petrovich
Bratva
council are loath to hand over the power of this organization to me, a mere foot soldier sold by his father to repay debts. With Sergei dead and the vicious Elena the only real Petrovich remaining, I am left with a choice. Attempt to wrest control of the brotherhood from the old guard or walk away.

And I would walk away. I have some money stored but I’ve been a Petrovich for a long time and there are many enemies that would crow over my death. No, in order to survive, the Petrovich
Bratva
must remain strong.

If I have learned anything, it is that people with nothing are victims. It is those with power and money and might who have the ability to protect others.

Thomas rubs a hand across his jaw. “There is one thing you could do.”

“That is a legend, Thomas,” Kilment groans.

“I will do it.” Legends persist because people believe, and if belief means I can bring down Elena Petrovich and secure a peaceful future, then I will pursue this foolishness until the painting is mine. Their desire to recapture the past is absurd and yet another reason the old guard should be replaced. “You wish me to procure the Caravaggio.”

Cries of wonder and confusion fill the room.

“So you know,” Kilment says flatly.

I pretend no ignorance, for it is a story that Alexsandr shared with me long ago. “I know that a famous triptych painted by Caravaggio once hung in the palaces of the Medicis in Florence, perhaps the Careggi Villa. It was commissioned as an altarpiece but considered to be too profane, as many of his pieces were judged. It was gifted by the Medicis to Feodor the First, who then lost it,
and Russia entered the Time of Troubles. When the Boyars rose to power in the seventeen hundreds, it is rumored the painting was recovered by Peter the Great. Citizen Petrovich’s grandfather was gifted this set of three paintings and it hung in the great hall of the Petrovichs until it was lost, sold, stolen during Sergei’s time. Many say that he who holds it, holds the world.”

Thomas nods at this recitation, but Kilment looks unconvinced.

“It is known as the
Madonna and the Volk
,” I conclude. The Petrovichs loved the painting because the woman who sat for Caravaggio was purportedly a true Mary Magdalene—a whore. And the
Volk
? It is a man-wolf who is eating Mary, and despite the gruesomeness of the depiction, there is an expression of ecstasy on her face.
Volk
, too, was seen as a play on the old Russian criminal rank of
vory
. Thieves, wolves at the door. We were the predators. Everyone else is prey. I saw it only once, when I was given to Elena Petrovich like some birthday treat. It seemed fitting that Sergei sold it to fund some sordid perversion of his own. “But why is it that it is of any importance? It is a mere painting.”

Thomas stares at me. “It is a symbol of our wealth and power, and we have lost it. And no Caravaggio, one of the greatest painters of all time, can be dubbed a mere painting. It belonged to Peter the Great. It is priceless, one of a kind. Why would we not want it? That it is in the hands of someone else is shameful, a blot against the Petrovich name. Now more than ever, we must show our enemies we are strong.”

“So you want it, but why is this your loyalty test? Have I not proven myself again and again? Have I not shed the blood of my own family for the brotherhood?” I spread my scarred hands out as if they hold the proof of my allegiance.

“The Caravaggio has been lost to us for years. Many of us
have tried to find it but have failed,” Thomas admits. “If you find it, you will show yourself to be a man of resource and cunning, a man who is unafraid. You will restore the pride to the brotherhood and prove your worth as a leader.”

I hold back a lip curl of disgust at this. Leadership is not running around the world seeking one painting. Leadership is moving our assets out of dangerous and risky ventures and into more stable enterprises. Leadership is generating loyalty by providing a way for the members to feed their families and protect their loved ones.

This is a snipe hunt, an impossible task designed to make me fail and appear weak amongst those who would support me. Or worse, in my absence they will eliminate those they deem a threat. To kill me here would generate a revolt.

No, this is not about a painting. This is punishment, revenge, retribution. But I am one step ahead of them. I guessed that this is the task they would set before me. They think I will be gone long, chasing my tail for months. I will be happy to prove how wrong they are.

Thomas sits back and looks around the table. He has been a member of the
Bratva
for a long time. They respect his voice. “Bring us the Madonna, and the
Bratva
will be yours.”

I smile and raise my palms in a gesture that says
fait accompli.
“Then it is done.”

—

I am not so sanguine two hours later as I sit across the table from Ivan the Terrible. Ivan Dostonev is the leader of the Dostonev
Bratva
, an organization whose base is in St. Petersburg. The Dostonevs posture that they are descendants of confidantes of the tsars. Perhaps
they are, but we are all criminals. We bathe in the blood of our enemies and eat our own young.

“I hear the Petrovich
Bratva
is troubled, my friend,” he says with studied casualness. Ivan has held power not because he is particularly clever but because he is a man of his word—a rarity in these parts. People trust him—and fear him. He trades in favors and you do not know when your favor will be called in, only that when the time comes you must heed his call or reap terrible consequences.

I owe this man a favor, and I knew from the moment I saw his name on the screen of my phone that my reckoning had arrived.

“When there is a change in leadership, some are disconcerted. That will change,” I reply.

“My people tell me that the council has set a challenge for you. Meet it and the Petrovich brotherhood is yours.”

I meet his boast that he has infiltrated our organization with my own. “And my people tell me that your son has no interest in following in your footsteps. What will happen to the Dostonevs then?”

“Bah! Vladimir is young. He wants to drink and fuck. Let him have his fun.” He swallows his vodka and gestures for me to drink. I do, tipping the glass and allowing the clear liquid to coat my tongue and glide down my throat. “Enough of the niceties. Fifteen years ago, you asked a favor of me. I granted it. Now it is time for you to repay your debt.”

“Of course.” There is relief in finally discharging my debt. For so long I’ve wondered, not what I would be asked to do, but when. The uncertainty will soon be behind me. “What is it?”

“I want you to bring me the Caravaggio.”

His request astonishes me.

“Why does everyone love this painting?” I’m truly bewildered.

He holds out his arms; heavy jewels adorn nearly every finger. Put him on a throne and one would easily mistake him for a prince of old. “I’ve always wanted it. It hung in the palace of Peter the Great. It was commissioned by the great Cosimo de’ Medici.”

“And you thumb your nose at the Petrovichs.”

He grins. “That too.”

“No.” I refuse tersely. “Ask something else.”

“I want nothing else.” He waves his hand. “You know they are setting you up. This painting means nothing to them. They want you out of Moscow so that they can weed out those amongst your young soldiers who look up to you. The old guard will not give up power so easily.”

I stare impassively. The old guard is senile. Their plays are so obvious they are read by outsiders. “I did not know you had interest in the Petrovich holdings. You’ve always said Moscow is full of peasants.”

He flicks his fingers in disgust. “I do not want your precious
Bratva
. I have no interest in your businesses. And frankly, Vasya, neither should you. Let the Petrovich
Bratva
burn. Find me the painting and you can bring her home. Fifteen years is a very long time to have not laid eyes on your precious sister. What would you do to have your family restored to you?”

I fight not to bare my teeth at him, to not jump over the table and strangle him until pain replaces his smug smile.

“I know they expect me to fail and be distracted for months, but when I return with the Caravaggio, they will not be able to deny me. They have prepared their own shallow graves.”

“So you have found it?” He quirks his eyebrow.

I shrug but do not answer.