The Mafia Killer’s Wife by Rosa Milano
One
Ethan
Ilook at all the people surrounding me, my brain making automatic calculations. Weight. Build. Estimated heart rate. That bulge under his coat. A Glock or a trick of the light? Onto the next person. Same process over and over.
All the civilians are doing is queuing for a nightclub. Out for a good time. Any one of them could be trouble. Could know I'm here for my last contract.
I'm about to retire.
It's a simple system in my line of work. Until the age of forty, I'm tied to the famiglia. After that, I'm free to retire. I turned forty today. This is my last job and then I'm done. I can walk away, go live on an island somewhere. Just me and my dog.
I parked my car right around the corner. I can get to it in under sixty seconds if this goes south.
My face remains neutral but for every person who I walk past, I've already worked out the fastest way to kill them and which exit route to take after it's done. From here to my place is seventeen minutes on foot if I can't get to my car, considering two closed off alleys and avoiding being seen on any of the city's prolific cameras.
I'm heading into the hottest nightspot in the city. Silhouettes. Owned by the Don. Normally, there's a six week waiting list but not for people like me.
I don't wait. I walk past the queue and up to the door. The best way into a venue like this is the front door. No one expects the killer to walk in like this.
The man with the clipboard takes one look at me and his face turns pale. He sees through the beard and knows it’s me at once. "Ethan," he says, swallowing hard as he steps aside. "Please, enjoy your evening."
"Thank you, Carl. Lost some weight I see."
"Wife's put me on a diet." He unhooks the rope and then I'm inside.
A few protests from the queue, but I ignore that. Civilians are always grumbling about something.
The doorman knows who I am. He's not going to grumble. He's heard the rumors about me. They swirl around me like the mist rising from the river early in the morning.
Some of them are true. Some entirely fictional.
I do not try to correct anyone. The more they believe, the more they fear me. That makes negotiations significantly easier when I have an issue I wish to discuss with someone.
I'm already scanning the exits as I head into the club. I have to be on my guard at all times. I can never relax. It's the way I've stayed alive all these years, always prepared. Always ready. I won't let what happened to my father happen to me.
The people in here look like they're enjoying themselves. Not me.
A man like me only enters a nightclub for work only, never for pleasure. It's not the environment I would choose for a job like this. The noise makes it hard to hear someone approaching.
Too many dark corners, civilians bunching up near the exits. Crowds that hide their true intentions. When I choose to enter a nightclub, I get in, get the target whacked, get out in under a minute.
I've not been inside for thirty seconds before I see her. She's not my target. I'm supposed to be looking for a Russian man in a white linen suit. This is a girl. Eighteen at most. She's a lamb surrounded by wolves. Drunk and getting drunker and she hasn't noticed all the hungry male eyes on her.
She's too young for a place like this, too innocent. Hair dyed crimson red, framing those almond eyes, that button nose, those lush kissable lips. She looks good enough to eat. If I was given to emotion, I might feel something more than a stirring in my cock at the sight of her.
She's with another girl and a lot of men surround the two of them.
I'm so busy looking at her, I don't realize something is wrong until I'm attacked from behind. Someone is grabbing my shoulder. They're right on top of me. If it was a garrotte, it would be over my throat by now.
I turn and get hold of a wrist, half a second from breaking it, when I realize who it is holding onto me.
"Ouch!" Paulie cries, wincing as I let go of him. "Fuck, man. I was only going to say happy birthday." He slaps me on the shoulder and laughs. "Nearly had my arm off there, buddy."
I raise an eyebrow at him. "I'm working," I tell him. "Never sneak up on me when I'm working, you know that."
He shakes his head. "No work. Not tonight." He grins at me. "Only way I could get you here. Happy birthday, Ethan. Bet you thought you could retire quietly without me knowing about it."
I work it out fast. The contract the Don gave me. Go to Silhouettes, take out the Russian in white. Paulie is holding a cocktail out toward me. "A White Russian," he says. "Geddit? Got the old man to play along. Time to live it up, my friend! You're free as a bird."
I take the drink and sip it, wincing. "You enjoy these?"
The girl I saw is dancing nearer to me, close enough to touch. I move away from her. I can't let myself get involved with civilians. The other men continue to circle her as she moves away.
Paulie's watching her too, and I feel a flare of jealousy. Where did that come from?
"What's wrong with White Russians?" he asks. "I'll have you know my father drinks these whenever he plays poker."
"What the Don drinks is up to him."
"Everyone else copies him but not you, Ethan. That's why I'm going to miss you. Too many kiss asses in this life. You go your own way. What's the plan then? Get laid for a few days and then a few more? Few more after that?"
"Nope. I've a meeting with Jerry at 9.15 tomorrow and I intend to be sharp for it."
He takes the glass off me and drains it in one go. "Right. Collecting all those fat stacks. Don't want to be groggy when counting it all. Got any plans for it? Could buy a lot of wives with all that money. Set your own family up somewhere, become a Don yourself. Get some kids under the belt. Be the doting dad I know you really want to be."
"Not interested."
"So let me guess what you want. I'm psychic like that." He waves a hand in the air. "I got it. You want whiskey, right? Wait right there. I'll go get you one."
He goes and I look at the girl. She's dancing toward me again. I make a decision. It's a decision that, though I don't know it at the time, will change my life forever.