Fuck. Me.

My wife is trying to kill me.

She might as well rip my heart out with a knife. It would be kinder.

~*~*~*~

KATIA

I stare at the large compound surrounded by a barbed wire fence. Inside there are two massive warehouses, and out front, a line up of bikes for a mile. I close my eyes, my hands shaking. These are the only people I could think of who would help me. They’re bikers. They’re known to be bad-ass and ruthless, and they’re not going to tell anyone. It’s cliché; I know that, coming to a biker lot. It’s the only place I could think of that made sense right now.

“Oi!”

I flinch and turn to see a huge, burly man storming towards the gate.

“You fuckin’ lost?” he asks.

I swallow, straightening my shoulders and pushing my fear back into the darkness. “I’m here to see the president.”

He cocks a grey brow. “Who the fuck are you? His pussy? Never seen you ’round here before.”

God.

“I, ah, I need his help.”

He narrows his eyes. “You a fuckin’ cop?”

“No.”

He swings the gate open, reaches out and hurls me in. Suddenly I’m slammed against it, my face pressing into the wire. His hands start running up and down my body. I close my eyes, waiting for it to end but not really feeling anything. I have no emotion right now; everything is just a big fucking blank space.

I’m not even sure I’d care if they killed me.

“You’re clean, so why the fuck are you here? You a reporter?”

“No. I need . . . your services.”

He snorts. “Services?”

“I need to hire a hitman.”

He flinches behind me. “The fuck did you say?”

“I was told . . . or . . . I thought . . . you would be the right people to ask.”

“You lost your fuckin’ marbles, woman?” he barks.

“If you can’t help me, I’ll leave.”

“The fuck you will. Walk.”

He turns me and shoves me towards the massive warehouse. I walk slowly through the dirt until we reach the front door, where he flings it open and pushes me inside. I’m faced with a room full of bikers, women, and a whole lot of drugs and sex. I stare at them, but there is no fear.

“What you got there, Fatso?” A young man laughs. “Didn’t think someone so pretty would go for your fat ass.”

“Fuck up,” Fatso grunts, shoving me down the hall.

He leads me to a massive blocked off room, and reaches around me to bang on the door.

“Fuckin’ what?” a somewhat masculine voice growls.

“Got a visitor for you, Pres.”

There are the sounds of shuffling, then a moment later the door swings open and I’m faced with an extremely attractive man. He’s tall. He’s built. He’s deadly. I stare up at him, and he returns the favor with full force. “What’s this?”

“Bitch shows up at the fence sayin’ she needs to pay someone to do a hit.”

The president raises his dark brows. “No shit.”

“Shit. She’s yours.”

He shoves me towards the man, and then disappears back into the sex-fest going on in the main area. The man in front of me reaches out, curling his fingers around my arm, and hauls me into the room, slamming the door shut.

“You a cop?”

“Your friend already frisked me,” I mutter.

“You a journalist?”

“You guys need some new questions,” I deadpan.

He turns to me, narrowing his eyes. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Are you going to give me yours?”

He tilts his head. “No.”

“Then you don’t need to know mine. I heard I could pay you to do a hit. Can you, or can you not?”

He narrows his eyes. “What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ askin’ a biker club for a hit?”

“Does it matter?”

“Does if I’m goin’ to do it.”

I shake my head. I don’t have time for this. If he’s going to ask twenty questions, I’ll find someone else.

“You know what? Don’t bother. If you can’t do it, that’s fine.”

“I never said I couldn’t do it,” he says when I turn for the door. “Now, tell me who you want to fuckin’ take out?”

“My husband.”

He flinches. “He beat you?”

“No.”

“Rape you?”

“No.”

“Then why do you wanna risk shit, to take him out?”

“Because he destroyed me.”

He must see something in my eyes, in my dead, cold eyes because he sighs and mutters, “Fuck me. Fine. You got cash?”

I look back at him. “How much?”

He crosses his arms. “Twenty, large.”

I nod sharply.

Shit.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MARCUS

I shoot back the amber liquid and it scorches my throat as it slides down. Ulio is pacing the room, growling down the phone. My knee bounces as I wait for him to end the call and tell me what the fuck is going on.

“Well?” I ask, when he finally hangs up.

“Had our guy followin’ her. She was just seen at the Tinman’s Soldiers compound.”

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ shittin’ me,” I bark.

“Nope,” he says, shoving his phone back into the pocket of his jeans. “She’s serious. Whatever she’s planning, she’s serious.”