Then, having what I need, I convince myself it’s time to go. But the bags. Fuck me, the bags! They’re stunning.
I find myself pausing when I come past a limited-edition Hermès, my fingers already reaching out, but I stop myself. I couldn’t, but damn it, I want it. I took this woman’s husband, and sure, that’s going to be rough, but to take her limited-edition Hermès? Now that’s just crossing the line. Besides, what would I even do with it? Chuck it in my closet with the rest of my crap?
No, it belongs here in this climate-controlled walk-in where it can be displayed like the shining star that it is. I can’t take such a beauty away from its home like that, not when I won’t give it the life it deserves. But I can sure as hell give it a quick sniff. Besides, with my career, there have been times when I have had to escape at a moment’s notice and leave my life behind, which is part of the reason why I don’t allow myself such luxuries. I couldn’t bear to leave them behind, but I’d have no choice. The only thing I’ve ever risked going back for is the absolute love of my life, Spikezilla.
Fuck, I love that cactus.
Leaning into the beautiful Hermès bag, I sink to my lowest of lowsand take a deep breath, breathing in the rich leather and desperately wishing that I could run my fingers across it if only for a moment. My knees go weak, and my thighs clench as a heavy pulse thrums deep in my core.
Wait. Am I about to come?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Pulling back from the bag, I try to remember who the fuck I am. I shouldn’t be in this woman’s closet. I’m a goddamn assassin, for fuck’s sake. I should already be on a jet getting as far away from the crime scene as I can, yet here I am sniffing her bags and spontaneously combusting.
Get a fucking grip, Kiara! You’re better than this.
Shaking off the designer fog, I make my way out of the best walk-in closet I’ve ever dared to set foot in before pausing at the door and glancing back, my gaze lingering on the stunning limited edition.
Letting out a sigh, I share my deepest, most soul-wrenching goodbye. And with that, I turn away and slip out of the room.
Despite needing to get out of here, I spend the next few hours discovering Nice and snapping enough pics for my blog. I moonlight as a travel blogger, and though it’s the fakest shit I’ve ever dared to post, my eager followers can’t seem to get enough. Over the past few years, I’ve gained half a million followers, each one of them desperate to know where my travels will take me.
I suppose it’s not entirely fake. I actually visit the places I blog about, giving recommendations for little cafés or secluded beaches Ifind along the way, but I more than exaggerate my trips. This three-hour stop in the South of France will be described as a two-week stay in the beautiful town of Nice. I might even allude to a summer fling during my stay. They’ll eat that shit right up.
Moonlighting as a travel influencer has been a godsend. It means I can travel freely across the globe without question. My neighbors don’t bat an eyelash when I leave at a moment’s notice. My posts bring in a nice chunk of spare change, and if I were to ever hang up my assassin’s blade, I’ll have a nice career to fall back on that will ensure I get to keep traveling the world.
After snagging a few pictures of local cafés and hidden gems, I make my way to the beach and snap a few photos of the shore. I get the shells in the sand, the full view of the coastline, and even a few selfies, before finally deciding it’s time to haul ass out of here.
Almost fourteen hours later, I’m completely wrecked as I drive into the underground parking of my apartment complex. I love France, which is why I’m always so quick to accept contracts over there, but it’s not until I’m actually boarding a flight that I remember just how far away it is. Totally worth it, though. Plus, the million-dollar check that’ll land in my account once I confirm completion of the job is the sweet red cherry on top.
Driving through the parking structure, I turn the corner and go down the ramp to the lower level, heading toward my designated space—304. As I turn the final corner, I come to a dead stop.
“What theactual fuck?”
The parking lot is filled with concrete pillars that support the complex, and between every pillar there are two spaces, separated by a single white line. My number, 304, is painted at the top of my space, and next to my space—surprise, surprise—is the parking space for apartment 305.
The only issue is that a sleek, blacked-out Audi RS7 is currently parked in the very center of the whole space, no regard for the white line that separates the two spaces, and the absolute rage that pounds through my veins is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
Is it irrational? Potentially. But there’s nothing more sacred than a woman’s parking space. You don’t fuck with that. Ever.
The overwhelming need to slash tires pounds through my veins, but instead, I drive deeper into the complex. Mrs. Macy in 410 doesn’t drive anymore, so she has a permanently vacant space, and I effortlessly back my black Urus into the space before grabbing my things.
Locking my car, I wander over to the Audi RS7 to investigate, all while my hand itches for the blade hidden in the side of my boot. It would be so easy. Just a quick flick of my wrist and these tires would be done for. But then it’ll take even longer for the asshole to be able to move the car, and I’ll be stuck in 410 for ages. Not that it really matters. 410 is a great space. It’s easy to get in and out of and closer to the internal elevator than any other spot. But it’s notmyspot, and call me crazy, but I’ve become very attached to my spot.
I don’t have many things in life. I don’t get to keep friends. I don’t keep pets or even have family. But what I do have is my apartment,Spikezilla, and that parking space, and I’ll be damned if someone tries to take that from me.
Keep your cool, Kiara. It’s just a parking space.
I blow out a breath, trying to relax the insanity pulsing through my veins. I’ve never seen this car before, so it likely belongs to a visitor of someone in the building, and instead of having them park out on the street like everybody else, they were given access to the underground parking. They should be gone soon, and when they are, I’ll be right back down here, moving my car back into its designated space.
I hope.
Trying to put the parking situation to the back of my mind, I head toward the elevator while thinking of exactly what I’m going to post on my travel blog. I looked over my pictures on the plane, and I’m pretty happy with them. They need just a touch of editing before they can be posted, but there’s more than enough images to claim I was there for a two-week vacation, and with a little creative writing, I could sell it easier than the black market sells me beautiful blades. Nobody would ever know I was there for only three hours and managed to slaughter their dirtiest politician while I was at it. All they’ll see is a young woman living her best life and posing for the camera.
Reaching the third level, I step out of the elevator and stride down the corridor. My eyes immediately zone in on the two movers carrying furniture directly into the apartment next to mine.
Well, shit.
