Beautiful Assassin

By Skyla Madi

Have you ever wanted to go back in time?

To undo a bad decision? To save your future?

 

What I wouldn't give to erase the night I met Cristiano Russo, the notorious mafia prince of Sydney Harbour. 

He is a toxic smog over my life, a controlling a-hole who keeps me on the tightest leash known to man. 

 

Because of him, my life is turned on its head. 

Because of him, I become hunted by association.

 

Stefan Valentino watches me down the scope of his rifle, and it's terrifying not knowing when he'll pull the trigger... if he'll pull the trigger. 

 

I could die tonight.

I could die next week.

 

Just when I think his game ends at a distance, he comes in close, thrusting himself into my life.

 

We are at war, he and I...

 

... and I don't know whose side I'm on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skyla Madi
• Release date: Apr 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215566015

Skyla Madi

Skyla Madi is an internation bestselling novelist of a moxed bag of romance who lives in sunny Queensland, Australia. She spends most of her time indoors, writing with one hand and raising her three youn children with the other.  Skyla lovs to hear from readers and encourages messages on her website, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Goodreads.  All business related inquiries can be sent via email to [e-mail]

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Beautiful Assassin

Copyright © since 2016 by Skyla Madi

Copyright © 2022 Second Edition by Skyla Madi

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All rights reserved.

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No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet without the publisher's permission and is a violation of the International copyright law, which subjects the violator to severe fines and imprisonment.

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This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents, and places are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events are entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment. Ebook copies may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share with a friend, please buy an extra copy, and thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Beautiful Assassin is a culmination of the hard work, sweat, blood, and tears of the author. No word, sentence, or paragraph in Beautiful Assassin was generated by AI.

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Guts & Glass

Death & Dust

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The Consumed Series...

Consumed

Too Consumed

Forever Consumed

Always Consumed

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The Slammed Duet...

Slammed

Crushed

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The Unfortunate Trilogy...

The Unfortunates

The Fortunates

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The Sinful Duet...

Into Temptation

Deliver Us

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Standalones...

Beautiful Assassin

On Her Guard

ONE

I shiver in the frigid air conditioning of a secluded wing of St. James Hospital and glance over my shoulder. Someone is following me. Someone has followed me for months. 

I keep my head down and continue marching along the empty corridor. My heels click against the slate grey tiles with every step, and echo through the barren space like gunshots. It's not surprising that my stalker is here tonight. He's here most nights I am, but like most nights, he's a silent watcher. An admirer. A waste of bated breath. It has been months, and he's yet to make a move. 

I first suspected I was being followed once Marco, Don of the notorious Russo family, declared I was to marry his son, Cristiano. I've been a favourite of Marco's since I saved his darling wife's life. Gabriela was choking on a feta stuffed olive in an Italian restaurant south of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I managed to squeeze it out of her using a manoeuvre I hadn't perfected. That night changed the trajectory of my life. I went from being a poor undergraduate med school student to a rich one. I went from living in a crappy dorm to living in a high-rise apartment in the heart of Sydney.

Ten years ago today, I saved Gabriela Russo's life, and I've been stuck in an intricate web woven by Sydney's elite mafia family ever since.

I wanted out years ago. I tried to end it when the Morettis moved into the harbour, and associating with the Russos became undeniably dangerous, but by then, my fate was sealed. I was too far under the thumb of the mob to break free.

Clearing my throat, I reach up and tighten my high ponytail and pick up my pace. The last thing I want is to keep Cristiano Russo waiting any longer than I already have. If anyone is more impatient than Marco Russo, it's his son. 

Sticking my arm out, I swipe my palm underneath a hand sanitising dispenser unit. Groaning, it squeezes out a coin-sized amount. I rub my hands together until the liquid absorbs into my skin, then I push through a set of double doors and march through the nurse's station. It's stark and empty, a ghost of a dream that could have been. It's been this way since they opened it in September last year. What was supposed to be a bustling children's ward is now a deserted waste of space. Why? Because Marco ordered so.

Marco panicked when the hospital announced I would be the doctor to lead the children's ward. He couldn't have the only doctor he trusted too busy to patch up his mob as needed. In an effort to keep me to himself, he purchased the wing and shut it down. He's holding it hostage until the hospital hires a suitable replacement. He crushed my dreams, and I haven't said a word about it.

I owe the Russos a lot. I do. Since the night I saved Gabriela's life, they have been more than accommodating, making a broke med students wildest dreams come true. Now they control every aspect of my life, and I'm powerless. I'm a pawn to be moved around the chessboard as they see fit. 

I choke on the resentment and push open the door to surgery six. It's the same surgery I use to patch up other made men. I step in and close the door behind me. 

There she is, Cristiano says from his reclined position on the examination bench, bleeding through his white button-up shirt. You took your time, Doc. I was beginning to worry you weren't gonna show. 

I lift my stare from the ground to his face, and my heart pounds. He's an attractive man—too attractive. With eyes like the midnight sky, and a smile that twists my stomach, he didn't have to work hard to entrap me. 

I hate him for it.

Cristiano Russo was born with money, with power, but neither of those things ever appealed to me. I want a good man. A hard worker. I want a man who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty with honest work or disobey his father. 

I force a smile. Have I ever let you down? 

As I move across the room, Cristiano rakes me from head to toe, his dark stare crawling over me. No. You haven't. 

I eye Tony, Cristiano's best friend, who sits in the corner of the room, his muscular arms folded over his broad chest, his charcoal gaze as cold as a great white shark's. He was made Capo in February last year, completing Marco's set of three.

Christ, Cammie. Is the thermostat in here connected to your heart or something? Tony asks as I open the surgical cupboard. 

I grab a pair of tweezers, scissors, sutures, sterile gauze, and a syringe of saline. Too cold in here for you, Tony?

A little.

I pluck a tampon from the open pack on the top shelf and toss it at him. He catches it in his long-fingered hand and frowns.

He cuts his eyes at me. What the fuck is this for?

I lift my shoulder in a shrug and elbow the cupboard closed. Your pussy. 

Cristiano laughs as Tony tosses the tampon away and scowls down his aquiline nose at me.

You're real funny.

I smile as I drop my instruments and consumables onto a metal tray. I cross the room and sidle up to the examination table. Cristiano clenches his side, his breathing shallow.

What is it this time? I slip into a pair of gloves, then grip the white fabric of his shirt and reach for my scissors. Bullet? Blade?

Blade.

I cut his shirt and see the damage for myself. It looks painful. I touch the edges of the injury, and more blood oozes. You need to be assessed for internal damage.

Nah.

Cris—

Just stitch me up.

I exhale. There's no arguing with him, so I get on with it. I offer anaesthetic, but he refuses. I peer at his face as I lift the saline and begin irrigating his wound. He hisses and sucks air between his teeth.

I hope the other guy looks worse, I murmur, not taking my eyes off the deep wound. 

L'altro uomo è morto.

The other guy is dead.

I look at Cristiano, and his dark pools flare with pride, chilling me to my core. The Russos are the nicest people on the planet until they're not, and the coldest, most ruthless of them all is the man in front of me. He gets what he wants when he wants it. God help anyone who denies him anything.

As I put in the final stitch, Tony saunters beside me, and I spare him a suspicious glance. He grins and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Wafts of cigar and sweat billow over me, mixing with the coppery scent of Cristiano's blood.

What? I ask.

Have you picked a date yet?

I frown. A date for?

Your wedding.

Oh. Cristiano focuses on my face, but I don't dare lift my gaze as painful tendrils of dread burrow through my stomach. The last time he pushed an engagement on me, I drove to the harbour bridge, drunk, and threatened to jump off it. Cris and his friends stopped me before I could put my car in park.

In exchange for me not killing myself, he bribed me with time. He would give me as much time as I needed to come around to the fact I'd be his wife. I haven't yet, and I'm running out of it.

That's still in the grand plans, huh? I mutter, playing dumb. You haven't found a nice Italian girl yet?

I know plenty of nice Italian girls. Cris groans as I apply sterile gauze to his wound, pushing harder than necessary. "But Papà and Mamma like you. Anche tu mi piaci..."

I like you too.

I smile at him, and it hurts.

I wish I never met you, I think to myself.

I hate that Marco made me take Italian lessons six years ago so I could communicate with the family better. Life would be easier if I didn't know what they were saying.

When I'm done dressing the wound, Tony hands Cristiano a black hoodie and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Cris moves off the bench to wash his hands. Then, he shrugs into the hoodie and leans against the table. He folds his arms across his chest, wincing at the tenderness of his injury. I shuffle around the room, cleaning up the mess.

What are you doing tonight? he asks as I drop the suture into the sharps bin and dispose of the rest in the regular trash.

Uh... I push the metal tray out of the way and tug off my gloves, dumping them on top. I'm here for another few hours at least.

Disappointment flashes across his features. How long has it been since we were last intimate? A fortnight? I'm with Cristiano at least twice a month. I don't want to do it, but when Cristiano Russo shows up at your door at two in the morning, you don't dare turn him away.

He reaches out and snags the cuff of my coat. He tugs me forward, and I go with it, as if caught in a rip, until I'm tight against him.

When do you have to go back upstairs?

My skin crawls at the sound of his gruff voice, thick with arousal. He's out of his mind if he thinks I'm onboard with doing anything inappropriate at my place of work. Lifting myself onto the tips of my toes, I press a gentle kiss to the corner of his lips. I have to go now.

He pinches the end of a lock of my hair between his thumb and forefinger, and pushes it over my ear, cupping my cheek as he goes. I don't think you do.

Cris leans in and kisses me like he has the right to. Like I owe it to him. Without hesitation, he slips his hand underneath my coat and onto the small of my back. I return the kiss, and he mistakes my reluctance for passion.

Groaning, he slides his hand over the curve of my backside and grips the fabric of my black pencil skirt. As he kisses me, I peer up at a small white clock high on the wall. The alarm I set on my phone will go off in forty seconds, allowing me to rush off without consequence. It's the longest forty seconds of my life.

He massages his tongue against mine, pulling my skirt higher and higher until it's in danger of slipping over my ass. The door squeaks and my heart stutters. I tear away and tug my skirt down with haste.

Tony! Cristiano shouts, hurting my ears. What the hell are you doing?

A minute later, Tony pops his head into the room through the crack in the door. Did you call me?

"Yeah, I called you. What the hell are you doing, pervertito?"

Tony frowns, confused. "Who are you calling a pervertito?"

You.

While they argue, I put on a new pair of gloves and grab my dirty instruments. Crossing the room, I drop them into a hole in the wall that leads to the Sterile Processing Department.

I ain't no perv.

Why are you opening doors while I'm having a private moment with my woman?

The fuck are you talking about? I didn't open any doors.

You're full of shit.

Right on time, my phone goes off, mimicking my ringtone. I take it out of my coat pocket and shut it off, exhaling in relief.

I was down the hall. I didn't do nothing.

I stroll across to Cristiano and pat his chest as I kiss him on the cheek. Gotta go.

He pays me no mind, choosing to argue with Tony instead. I flee the room, smoothing my hands down my pencil skirt. I walk quickly, not giving either of them the chance to catch up. I storm through the nurse's station and down the hall. I hold my palm out as I approach the sanitising dispenser and stop when I see it atop the bulky plastic. 

A single white rose. 

My stomach squeezes, and I press my hand against it.

I step toward the dispenser. Beads of water glisten like diamonds on the small petals, and I grab it, careful not to prick myself on its sharp thorns. Swallowing hard, I peer directly into the centre of the rose.

La rosa della morte. The rose of death. 

My heart races. It wasn't Tony who opened the door. It was him. Stefan Valentino. 

TWO

Perching on the end of my bed, I rest my elbows on my knees and slide my teeth together. My head has thumped since I got home last night, and my migraine medication can't touch it.

I knew Moretti wanted me dead. I knew they had a hit-man watching me, but I thought it was a pathetic show of force, something to keep the Russos on their toes. Hiring an elite hit-man like Stefan Valentino for an unimportant doctor like me is an overkill. 

I've never seen Valentino, but I've heard his name while walking the halls of the Russo mansion. I know Stefan Valentino murdered Cristiano's uncles, Ciro and Ronaldo. A few years later, he killed his older brother, Rosario. Now he's after me. Why? Is it because the Morettis think I'm an asset to the Russos? That killing me will somehow affect the family and make them vulnerable? I'm not, and it won't. The only conversations I'm involved in are secret recipes, vapid gossip, and suggestions for baby names. I'm not privy to their business modules or war plans.

Exhaling, I lift myself off the bed and saunter down the hall of my high-rise apartment. Dragging my hand over my tired face, I yawn and enter the—ding.

I freeze as the coffee machine finishes brewing a pot I never scheduled to brew. With my hand covering half my face, I peer around the kitchen. Steam billows from the pot's spout, and condensation gathers at the lip. Beside the pot lays a glistening calling card. 

A single white rose.

My mouth runs dry.

Hello? I call into my silent apartment, and I get nothing back.

I smooth my clammy palms down the front of my cotton nighty and tiptoe into the kitchen. I pick up the white rose and bring its open bud to my nose. I inhale the sweet floral notes into my lungs and hold it there. I've always loved the smell of roses and how their silky petals feel on my skin.

It's a shame this rose is given as a threat of death, not as a declaration of love. I can't remember the last time I received flowers. The thought disturbs me. I should be more concerned that a stranger was in my home than I am. Have I grown so used to dangerous men infiltrating my personal space that I don't see it as a violation anymore?

I place the flower on the countertop and knock a tiny pill across its surface. It stops when it hits a glass of water. I frown at it. Ibuprofen. For my headache? Desperate for a reprieve from the pounding in my skull, I down the pills with water and grab a mug from the cupboard directly above the coffee machine. I pour the coffee in and lift the ceramic cup to my lips. Before I sip, I turn on my heel and lean against the countertop. I peer out the window wall at other skyscrapers in the vicinity. The morning sun bounces off the glass towers and warms the city, readying it for another day of hustle and bustle.

I tilt the mug, and the hot coffee kisses my top lip. As the bitterness of it engulfs my senses and my mouth waters, I spot him. Stefan Valentino.

Standing on the roof of the neighbouring apartment building, watching me through binoculars. I clench the mug as my heart races. It slams into my stomach, and I want to throw up. Stefan Valentino is but an ant across the gap. I inhale my coffee, filling my lungs with fumes, then lower the cup as realisation dawns on me. Why is he watching? I glance at the black drink. What if he poisoned it? What if the ibuprofen I just took wasn't ibuprofen at all?

Shit.

I twist toward the sink and drop my mug inside, then I take the full pot and tip all its contents out. Without a second thought, I stuff my fingers down my throat and force up the water and pills. When I'm done, when my stomach is empty and sore, I swipe at my mouth and straighten. My limbs tremble, my throat burns, and I peer over my shoulder toward the building where Stefan stood. He's gone.

I rush around the kitchen bench, unable to move fast enough, and I hurry to the living room, where my phone sits on the coffee table. I snatch it, hitting my nails on the glass table, then unlock my phone. I scroll to Cristiano's name and hover my thumb over the call button. I don't press it. As I stare at it, I realise calling him is a bad idea. If he finds out, he'll lock me up. I'll be a prisoner for the rest of my life. I'd rather die free than in his gilded cage. 

I take a deep breath and return to the kitchen. I place my phone on the bench and prepare another pot of coffee. While it brews, I meander to the living room and turn on the T.V. 

...in other news, the streets grow dangerous as tensions flare between the Russos and the Morettis. Onlookers claim they saw mob prince, Cristiano Russo, and his associate, Tony Dellotto, enter St. James hospital, where long-time girlfriend and respected doctor, Cammie Connors, works. Witnesses also told Eight News they saw Cristiano Russo clenching his bloodied torso following a brawl on Sydney's south side late last night. We have reached out to authorities for more information—

My stomach rolls at the mention of my name. So much for anonymity. I switch off the TV. The Russos and the Morettis have a lot of PR work to do if they want to keep mainstream media and the police off their backs. It's funny though, what the news anchor called me. Respected. Respected doctor, Cammie Connors. I'm not respected. I'm feared. 

Ding. I meander into the kitchen at the sound of my coffee pot brewing and make myself a coffee. I rest against the bench as I sip at it. Its warmth billows through my chest cavity, deceiving me about what kind of day I'll have. Coffee makes the day feel good. It makes the day flourish with purpose and possibility. Coffee is a liar. 

I startle as my phone rings. I turn and place my mug on the countertop, then swipe my palm down my stomach, wiping away the sudden and anxious sweat. Cristiano's photo flashes on my screen. It's a beautiful photo of him. I swipe the screen, and put the phone to my ear. 

Good morning, I say, laying the faux affection on thick.

Those fuckers blasted your name and place of work all over prime time news! 

In the background, something shatters.

Don't worry about it, I tell him, lifting my coffee. "I'm not