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I just feel sorry for the fucker he runs into.

But I don’t have time to worry too much about it now. I need to get this meeting sorted out. The one that was only a few hours away.

***

With no time to spare, I have prepared everything.

I am parked across the street from the meeting spot in a paneled van covered in a dozen screens. Each one offers a different angle from inside the private room of the restaurant.

“Colby, remember the camera is on your chest and the audio is in your ring, make sure to keep your hand on the table,” I speak into the microphone.

He offers the smallest jolt in response that I see through the CCTV from inside the van. “Yes, I remember. I still am not sure about this, sir, but I will respect your wishes.”

I made the decision at the last minute for Colby to take my place. While I felt mostly invincible, even I knew you could never be too careful.

And I need this to not be traced back to me, it would be impossible to even determine my ownership of this restaurant.

“They should be there soon,” I tell Colby.

I’m not really sure what to expect, I had never had a hitman want to meet before, they usually interacted via encrypted emails and crept around in the dark.

I wasn’t even sure of their gender. Cinnamon seemed to be a pseudonym, it certainly wasn’t anyone I had crossed paths with in the past.

On the top screen, I watch as a woman walks through the front entrance.

That can’t be her.

But then, she is being led back to the private room.

Shock and…want intermingle within me as I watch her move.

She is beautiful in a way that I cannot comprehend, curves that I know would fill my hands. Freckles I want to kiss and count. An upturned nose that is reminiscent of a button.

An unruly mane of crimson hair that I imagine myself pulling from behind as my cock fills her rounded as—

What the fuck?

My cock is harder than it has any right to be, and I have to physically shake the feelings that she stirred up.

She’s a black widow.

And I realize begrudgingly…

For these men?

She’s exactly who I need.

12

Buttercream Stains and Mistaken Orders

Cinnamon

“Apologies, Mr. B.L.T. couldn’t make it, but I am Mr. Jack, and I have been provided all of the information needed and can assist with any necessary items.” The older man gestures for me to sit across from him. He wears a silk suit complete with diamond cuff links, and I realize that the dress I wear with the smallest stain on the hem—I think that’s buttercream—might not have been the best choice.

I stumble a bit as I fall into the chair but attempt to play it off. This entire meeting has made me realize how little I am prepared to be a private chef.

Do I know how to cook? Hell yeah.