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Chapter one
Jade
Iwasoncetoldthat love gives you strength.
For years, I lived by those words. They were true as long as I stayed inside the warm shelter of my mother’s embrace. So that’s what I did.
But of course, one can only stay in the blissful ignorance that comes with childhood for so long. Unfortunately, mine ended early, and with that end came a realization.
Love is a luxury.
When you grow up in a family like mine, it can be what drives you. It can be what saves you. It can also be what traps you.
I learned that lesson too late in life.
And now? I’m trapped.
Which is why I’ve been waiting in the shadows of a dark office for the past half hour. Watching. Making sure I have the timing perfect.
My mark’s kids have gone to sleep. His wife came in ten minutes ago to wish him goodnight. The house is quiet.
So now, I strike.
It’s unnerving—watching someone quietly going about their day, completely unaware that they’re currently taking one of their very last breaths.
Tonight is no different.
The man, whose name I never bothered to learn, is currently sitting at his desk, sipping on a thousand-dollar scotch while reading the newspaper. His feet are propped up next to a closed laptop, his leather shoes polished to perfection.
When I step out of my hiding spot, I don’t make a sound. I learned at a young age just how much value lies in being able to sneak around unnoticed.
I can’t help the pride that unfurls in my chest. He has no idea I’m even in the room with him.
The weight of my knife in my palm steadies me as I step up behind his chair. Then, in a single movement, I clap a hand over his mouth, yank his head backward, and slit his throat.
No screaming.
No begging.
No last words.
Some enjoy taking a life. I’m not one of them, but this type of kill is definitely my favorite. Quick, easy, and emotionless.
It’s less distracting—and, if I’m being completely honest, less irritating. Men are the most annoying when they’re desperate.
The glass of scotch falls to the ground as he struggles, but it barely makes a sound, thethuddulled by the rug under my feet. I watch for a moment as the alcohol spreads over the material, only removing my hand from his mouth once he’s sagged into his chair, lifeless.
Almost too easy,I think to myself, looking around his dark office.
For a split second, I wonder if it’s a trap. But before the thought has even finished flitting across my consciousness, I brush it off.
My brother wouldn’t bother putting this much effort into getting rid of me. A bullet to the head would be so much simpler.
Still, I have no desire to get caught red handed next to a bleeding corpse. So I wipe my blade off on his crisp white shirt before sheathing it and doing the same to my gloved hands.
That’s the thing about slitting throats—it gets messy. But it’s so satisfying to get up close and personal to a mark without them realizing it. Over the years, this type of kill has become what I almost always gravitate toward.
I peel off my gloves and shove them into my jacket pocket before slipping out one of the office windows. I land behind a bush and crouch down. This guy’s security is so lax I could’ve completed this job in my sleep, but that’s no excuse to let my guard down. I’ve got too much to lose to be stupid.
