J͟͟͟͞͞͞e͟͟͟͞͞͞n͟͟͟͞͞͞n͟͟͟͞͞͞i͟͟͟͞͞͞e͟͟͟͞͞͞.
To many, I am a myth.
The 'Kiss of Death', a hired killer, revered by some of the greatest criminal organisations in the world. Trained by the bratva themselves, without conscience, without mercy.
The per...
It's been a week since Jungkook killed O'Hara and now here we are, ready to take out the rest of his list.
He called a truce and of course they agreed to it, because they're mafia and they believe there's honor among thieves, but they don't know Jungkook, or they just aren't paying attention, because I had him pegged in one look. For Jungkook, boundaries don't exist and ethics are laughable. I think that's what makes me want him. I haven't felt truly safe in a very long time, but Jungkook manages to make me feel protected in a world where I'm the predator, because sometimes, in order to fight the monsters under the bed, you need a monster of your own.
Jungkook stands in the doorway, his arms folded over his chest as he watches me strip down my rifle.
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(His outfit ^)
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(Her outfit ^)
My baby, my pride and joy. Actually, that's a lie, because I have twelve exact replicas of the same gun stored in various places around the globe. It's a custom .25 calibre assault rifle. I clean and oil the pieces, going through it methodically, like a ritual. I need this, like the calm before a storm, especially now.
This...being here with Jungkook, it's throwing me off.
Now more than ever I need to cling to my cool indifference, the training that's so ingrained. I always clean my guns before a hit, even if I don't need a gun. There's something about the compulsive routine of it that centres my mind and allows me to find the cool focus I need.
I don't look up at Jungkook but I hear him move closer, the wooden flooring squeaking beneath his shoes.
"Nice gun."
I spare him a brief glance. "Thanks." His confidence he wears so easily looks strained, even masked behind the intimidating stance that he can't turn off. If I'm a chameleon then Jungkook is a big cat, roaring and baring his teeth, unapologetic about exactly what he is. The irony is, he doesn't even need the teeth. He only has to say the word and someone dies. His power is growing, even in the short time I've been here.
Sasha has his ear to the ground for me. I've told him I'm working a job for the Italians. Nothing else. But he keeps me informed, tells me about the whisperings of the New York capo so ruthless the rest of that mafia fear him. Marco Fiore has been heard to call Jungkook a rabid dog, and talk like that will get him killed.
"Nervous?" I smirk.
He tilts his head and whatever lack of confidence I saw a second ago disappears. He circles around behind me, and I fight the urge to turn around and keep him in my eye line. I steel my spine and focus on taking a bullet from the ammo box, placing it on the table in front of me. A tremor works over my skin, an awareness of the dangerous presence so close, lingering right behind me. I may fuck him, and to a certain degree trust him, but not completely. Dealing with Jungkook is like walking on a knife's edge, feeling the cold bite of the blade on the soles of my feet and finding a sick satisfaction in it. He's a dangerous and twisted adrenaline rush, not unlike the same thrill I get when I kill.
His fingers brush my neck, making my breath hitch as he scoops my hair up in one hand. His hot breath blows over my neck, followed by the scrape of his teeth. "Don't miss." He says quietly.
I click a bullet into the chamber loudly. "I never miss." I promise.
He bites my neck hard enough to send my pulse skittering and have my stomach tightening, before he steps away.
Be calm.
Focus.
The icy anticipation of the kill. That's what I need. The images running through my mind at this second are anything but...
