Chapter 11: Codename: Blackheart Chapter Eleven
In the underworld, keeping your identity is vital to survival. It’s very easy to kill someone and have their families want revenge, even if your actions weren’t personal. So among hit people and assassins – yes, there is a difference – we are only referred to by our codenames. As I’ve explained, we tend to come about them based on our chosen kill method. I ended up earning the name Blackheart because I tend to exsanguinate my victims and watch them die and those who have met me describe me as cold and emotionless.
Codenames have only been in use for roughly the last century, which is why only three generations of my family have them. Our codenames are our identities, and no one ever gives up their real name unless the person is someone you’d trust with your life. Mr. Grigoras, however, does not fit into that category.
“I’m certain you didn’t arrange to meet me just to discuss my name. Either state your business or this meeting is over,” I say icily.
This makes Mr Grigoras’ eyes widen a fraction before returning to their normal size. “I wish to hire your services,” he says, getting to the point. It’s about damn time.
“I assumed as much. What is it you would like done?”
He pulls a photo out of the inside of his jacket and slides it over to me. I pick it up and examine it. It’s a photo of a very handsome man. Tan skin, thick, short quaffed dark brown almost black hair, thick eyebrows, sexy stubble, perfect nose, pointed chin, ocean blue eyes and a wide heart-stopping smile. Such a shame to have to kill something so gorgeous.
“His name is Alec Lowell, he’s a supplier I do business with, and he recently overheard something he shouldn’t have. I can’t risk him going to the authorities or worse, selling me out to the competition. I would like you to handle him,” he tells me calmly.
“And what is the reason you can’t handle it yourself? He doesn’t directly work for you. His death could be tied to anybody. Why use my services?” I ask in a bored tone.
Peyton looks annoyed by my questions. I’m so hoping he gives me a reason to put him in his place. I still can’t shake that something about him is familiar. The way he occasionally glares at me gives me a strange sense of déjà vu.
“I would rather be safe than sorry. I want to ensure this can’t come back to me at all. Can you do it?”
Just as he finishes his question a waiter comes in with an ice bucket in a stand with the champagne I asked for along with two glasses. He places the stand down, places the glasses on the table, and proceeds to open the champagne, pouring two glasses before nodding and leaving.
“I can do it,” I say as I place the picture in my purse. “My fee is one million. Five hundred thousand up front, the rest to be delivered upon completion.”
He nods in understanding. “Send me the wire information and you shall have it.”
“A burner will be sent to you tomorrow; this will be our only method of contact. I will text the account details to this phone. Once the contract is completed you’ll return the phone to me, and I will destroy it. Our business will be done after that.”
He nods again in understanding. “How long before the job is completed?”
“It’s done when it’s done. No sooner, no later.”
He rolls his eyes. I never tell them that I do a month of recon first. Keeping them in the dark about my methods is entirely for my own benefit. You can’t trust anyone, not even the person hiring you. My instincts are impeccable, and right now they are saying not to trust Peyton Grigoras. Something just seems off, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Not yet at least.
“Very well. I expect to be kept informed,” he grunts.
“If there is anything worth informing you of, then sure,” I say dismissively. I raise my glass, “Shall we toast to our deal?”
He raises an eyebrow but proceeds to raise his glass. We clink glasses and take a sip. I savour the taste of the cool liquid as it coats my tongue and glides down my throat while he downs his glass like an animal. No appreciation for quality champagne.
“If there is nothing more, Miss Heart,” he says, emphasising my name. Yeah, that’s my name, don’t wear it out. “I shall take my leave.” He gets up doing up the button of his suit. I quietly watch him, taking another sip of my drink. Once he turns his back I quietly take Crimson out of my purse along with a small, thick square white card, and hold them in my lap.
“Mr Grigoras?” I call out.
His shoulders slump in annoyance before straightening as he turns around. “Was there something else?” he asks disinterestedly.
“I never got your signature. A contract must be bound,” I say matter of factly.
He huffs and walks over. “Do you have papers and a pen?” he asks, not even attempting to hide his annoyance. If this is how he does business I’m surprised any work gets done at all. Or is it something about me, in particular, he doesn’t like?
I hold out my left hand for a shake. He stares at my hand in confusion and then shakes it begrudgingly. In one quick, fluid motion, I tighten my grip on his hand, turn his hand over and with my right hand, slice the pad of his thumb with my blade. I then quickly press his thumb down onto the card, leaving a bloody thumbprint behind.
“Bitch!” he shouts as he jumps back, grabbing his hand. He examines his thumb before glaring at me with fury in his eyes. I remain unaffected as I slip Crimson and the card back into my purse. He grabs a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapping it around his thumb. “You crazy bitch, what the fuck was that for?” he spits. His temper is quite amusing.
“I said I needed a signature; a contract is bound by blood. Pleasure doing business, I shall be in touch,” I tell him as I pick up my glass and sip while ignoring his presence. I’m aware of him fuming in anger from the corner of my eye. Once he realises I’m not going to respond and probably realises attacking me would be a deadly mistake, he storms out. I smile enjoying the rest of my drink.
In our line of work leaving a paper trail is unwise. Our contracts are sealed in blood. A simple cut is placed along the pad of the thumb, deep enough that it will leave a scar. This is so if a client ever tries to claim they did not order a contract or claims some other bullshit, the mark on their thumb acts as proof that they did sign a contract, and my possessing of his thumbprint and sample of his DNA proves I was the one the contract was signed with.
While I enjoy my champagne and the solitude of the room I pull out the picture I placed in my purse and examine it again. Alec Lowell. You’ve gotten yourself into such a mess. I actually feel a bit sorry for the guy, but emotions have no place in this line of work. I quickly push the sympathetic feelings aside and start thinking of my next move.