Kidnapping the Assassin: The Mafia Don’s Fatal Mistake

The Professional Standard

Chapter 1

[Elara]

There are exactly three ways to dislocate your own thumb to escape a pair of steel cuffs.

The first way is the fastest, but it risks tearing the ulnar collateral ligament. The second requires leverage I didn't currently have. The third was excruciatingly slow, but it left the hand functional enough to hold a knife afterward.

I was three minutes into method number three when the heavy steel door at the top of the basement stairs groaned open.

I stopped twisting my wrist, letting my hands rest against the heavy iron pipe suspended above my head. My shoulders burned from being strung up for the last six hours, but I kept my breathing perfectly even. Panic was a luxury for civilians. I was a professional.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed down the concrete stairs.

I didn't need to see him to know who it was. I could smell him. Bergamot, expensive Italian leather, and the sharp, metallic tang of gunpowder.

Cassian Rossi.

The newly crowned Don of the Rossi Syndicate stepped into the dim light of the holding cell.

He didn't look like a grieving son, and he certainly didn't look like the panicked, inexperienced heir the underworld tabloids claimed he was. He wore a charcoal three-piece suit that probably cost more than the bounty on my head. He was tall imposing enough to block the single bulb hanging from the ceiling and built with the kind of lean, predatory muscle that couldn't be bought in a gym.

But it was his eyes that caught my attention. They were a dark, endless obsidian, currently devoid of any human warmth.

He stopped just out of striking distance. A smart move.

"You don't look like a ghost," Cassian said. His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated against the cold concrete walls.

"And you don't look like a Don," I replied, my voice raspy from dehydration. I tilted my head, letting my tangled dark hair fall over one shoulder. "Your tie is crooked."

A muscle feathered at his jaw. The only sign that my words had landed.

Cassian stepped closer, invading my space. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gripping my chin. His fingers were ice-cold, digging into my jawline and forcing my head up so I was forced to look directly into his eyes. A sudden, unwanted jolt of electricity sparked where his skin met mine.

I hated that I noticed it.

"Do you know why you're here, Elara?" he asked softly. The kind of soft that preceded extreme violence.

"I assume it’s not for the wine tasting," I said, keeping my face entirely blank.

His grip tightened. "My father was murdered last night. Three bullets to the chest, one to the head. The signature of the Viper. The greatest, most elusive assassin in the western hemisphere."

Cassian leaned in, his lips inches from my ear. His breath was warm against my skin. "And yet, my men found you asleep in a motel room on the edge of the city. You didn't even put up a fight."

"I was heavily sedated," I corrected him calmly. "Insomnia. But if we're talking about professional standards, let's look at the facts."

I jerked my chin out of his grasp. I hated being touched.

"First," I said, holding his deadly gaze. "I charge five million dollars for a high-profile hit. Nobody wired me five million yesterday. Second, if I had killed Antonio Rossi, he wouldn't have been found with his head still attached to his neck. I don't leave identifiable corpses."

Cassian stared at me. The silence in the basement stretched, thick and suffocating.

"You're lying," he finally murmured. He pulled a silver, blood-stained bullet casing from his pocket and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. "This is custom ammunition. Guild-issued. Your handlers sold you out, Elara. They gave me your location."

My heart gave a single, violent thud against my ribs, but my face remained an emotionless mask.

The Guild. My handlers. The people I had killed for, bled for, and trusted to keep my identity a secret. They had framed me. And worse, they had handed me over to a rabid dog to take the fall.

"I didn't kill your father, Rossi," I said, my voice dropping an octave, losing the sarcastic edge. "But whoever did is laughing at you right now. You’re interrogating the wrong person while the real rat is probably sitting at your dining room table upstairs."

Cassian's dark eyes narrowed. For a fraction of a second, I saw the hesitation in him. The paranoia. He was a new Don. He knew the knives were out for his back, too.

But then, the vulnerability vanished, replaced by a cold, terrifying smirk.

He turned around and walked over to a small metal table in the corner of the room. He picked up a manila folder.

"You're a tough woman to crack, Viper. I'll give you that," Cassian said, slowly walking back toward me. "My interrogators said physical torture wouldn't work on you. They said you're a sociopath. That you care about absolutely nothing."

He stopped right in front of me and flipped the folder open, turning it so I could see the contents.

The breath was punched out of my lungs.

It wasn't a photo of his dead father. It wasn't a contract.

It was a photograph of a pale, fragile teenage girl lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to a ventilator.

"But everyone has a weakness," Cassian whispered, his eyes locked on mine, watching the carefully constructed walls of my indifference crumble into absolute terror.

He tapped his finger against the photo of my comatose younger sister.

"So," the Don murmured, a cruel, devastating smile curving his lips. "Let's talk about Lily."