Femme Fatale

Chapter 3

5 years later

I threw the black duffle bag onto the lavish wooden desk, making a loud thud echo throughout the lavish and modern office. My client was dressed in an expensive Armani suit, sitting in a leather chair. He was a tall and masculine man, and his body language made it obvious that he was a confident and cutthroat business owner. It was after hours at his facility, so the lights were dim and the building was empty. The city lights of Manhattan were the only source of illumination in the dark and eerie office.

"Jobs done." I said coldly.

The CEO hesitantly reached over and started to unzip the duffle bag. He opened it and gagged repeatedly when he saw the decapitated head of his competitor, his masculinity vanishing at the sight. His hands fumbled as he quickly zipped the bag closed.

"What the fuck!" He exclaimed, his voice cracking like a boy going through puberty as he frantically pushed his chair away from the duffle bag on his desk. He pushed too hard, and ended up flipping the chair over, and it fell onto its back on the floor, taking him down along with it.

"My payment." I said seriously as I grabbed a cigarette from the pocket of my leather jacket and brought it to my mouth.

"Y- you can't smoke in-" My client started to stutter as he stood up, but when I looked up at him, his words halted. He gulped before I continued to light the cigarette and take a long drag, blowing the smoke in his direction just for the hell of it. He quickly reached under his desk and pulled out a briefcase, and placed it gently on the desk.

"Quarter mill. Cash, just as you requested." He said as I walked over until I was in front of his desk. I held the cigarette between my teeth as I opened the briefcase. Bands of hundred dollar bills were organized and perfectly placed within the case. I lifted a few bills, checking for any kind of wire or tracking device underneath the cash, and was pleased when I found none.

"Pleasure doing business with you." I said as I closed the briefcase and started walking out of the office.

"Wait! What the hell am I suposto do with... that?" My client asked as he cautiously poked the black duffle bag on his desk. He was looking at it as if the severed head would pop out of the bag and jump at him at any moment.

"Keep it, burn it, toss it, mount it up on your wall, doesn't fucking matter to me." I said before I walked out of the office and started to head towards the elevator. I put out my cigarette in an ash tray near the doors, and put it in my pocket, not wanting to leave any evidence that I was here.

The doors slid open, I walked into the elevator, and hit the button for the ground floor. The sleek metal doors closed, and I looked at myself in the grey reflection.

After I was overthrown from the Mafia, everyone thought I was dead, and to be honest, so did I. I fell five hundred feet into a bed of jagged rocks with a broken arm, knee, nose, shattered ribs, and a severe concussion. As I fell to what I thought would be my death, the only thing I could think of was how disappointed my father would be if he was alive to see his only son getting his ass handed to him and losing the title of Don.

After Martino got initiated as Don, Gio and Angelo risked their lives and ran away the same night. They searched for hours until they found me washed up on the shore, barely breathing. They took me to a hospital under a fake name, where I remained there for five days. It was too dangerous for us to stay in Italy, so the day that I got released from the hospital, we fled to New York, and haven't been back home since.

Now, I'm known as one of the most deadly and notorious assassins in the United States: Il Mietitore. I've been hired by politicians, businessmen, celebrities, hell I even did a job for the Vice President before. I don't give a fuck who I have to kill, I'll do any job... for the right price that is.