The Hitman
I’ve been a button man for the syndicate long enough to know when a job smells like a setup. The boss—Moretti—had been getting paranoid lately, cleaning house and liquidating anyone who knew too much about his off-the-books ledgers. I still remembered six months ago in a damp basement off 4th Street when Jimmy V suggested a cleaner exit route for a drop. Moretti didn’t even argue. He just pulled his snub-nosed .38 and put a round through Jimmy’s eye right in front of me, stepping over the twitching body without breaking sentence.
That was Moretti. Cheap, cruel, and terrified of anyone smarter than him.
So when he handed me this snatch-and-hold job and made a big show of calling it high-value, picking an isolated cabin three hours out in the pine woods, my instincts redlined. Standard operating procedure for a burn site. I knew the moment I took the contract that once Victoria Garber was handled, Moretti would send a cleanup crew for me, too.
I plucked her right off the sidewalk as she was reaching for her car door. She fought just enough to look convincing, but as I jammed her into the passenger seat and zip-tied her wrists, I caught her reflection in the side mirror. No screaming. No hyperventilating. Just a calm, deliberate tracking of my hands, my sidearm, and the dash. The focus of someone running an algorithm.
At the cabin, I shoved her into a back room with a single barred window and a rusted spring mattress.
“You’re staying here,” I grunted, slamming the heavy wooden door and throwing the deadbolt.
I sat in the main room for two hours, cleaning my piece, listening for tires on the gravel. Moretti was supposed to send instructions, but the silence kept stretching. Before opening her door, I deliberately kicked a loose floorboard near the entrance, then paused. Inside, the quiet rustle of fabric stopped instantly—she was listening for floorboard creaks, mapping the cabin layout.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside with a greasy paper bag of fast food.
“Here. The boss don’t want you starved,” I said, tossing the bag onto the bed.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, looking up at me. Her pulse fluttered visibly against the pale column of her neck as she pulled the bag against her chest. But beneath that trembling exterior, her gaze darted down—not to the door, but to the heavy key ring on my belt, then to the exposed holster at my ribs.
“Thank you,” she said. Her voice wasn’t a desperate sob; it was low, smooth, and unnervingly controlled. “Is
Moretti coming himself? Or is he sending the rest of his crew?”
The specificity caught me off guard. Most victims asked if they were going to die. She was asking for a roll call.
“He told me to wait,” I muttered, stepping closer.
She shrank back against the headboard, but her chin remained level. I reached down and grabbed her chin, tilting her face up. Looking down at Victoria Garber, three competing impulses warred inside me: my survival instinct telling me Moretti was coming to put a bullet in my head, a hitman’s training warning me that this woman was calculating every move I made, and a sharp, intoxicating attraction to her complete lack of real fear.
“Boss said to keep you comfortable,” I growled. “He didn’t say anything about keeping you lonely.”
“Did he tell you who my father is, John?” she asked softly.
“I know who Louis Garber is,” I said, my grip on her chin tightening slightly. “And I know the syndicate calls me
‘John’ on the open wire to keep federal wiretaps guessing. But my actual name isn’t John.”
“I know,” Victoria murmured, a faint, razor-thin smile touching her lips. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she tilted her head back, her breathing shallow, her eyes fixed on mine with a dark, probing intensity. “Your name is Klaus. You ran logistics in South Philly before Moretti bought your contract, and you’ve been looking for a way out since he executed Jimmy V in that 4th Street cellar.”
Hearing her lay out my exact file hit me like a splash of ice water. She hadn’t just studied the hit; she had vetted the man sent to pull the trigger.
I unbuckled my belt, my thumb hooking under the leather as I pulled out my cock. “Open up.”
Her lips parted. I pushed the head past her teeth, sliding into the slick warmth of her mouth. Tears welled at the corners of her eyes—a natural physical reflex—but her jaw stayed relaxed, accommodating me with deliberate precision. As I gripped her dark hair to guide the rhythm, her tied hands came up, pressing firmly against my thighs. She wasn’t trying to push me off. Her palms were measuring the tension in my muscles, testing my balance, feeling how heavily I leaned into her.
“Look at me,” I commanded.
Her eyes locked onto mine. Behind the wet sheen of her eyelashes burned a razor-sharp mind. Every thrust into her mouth felt less like an assertion of my power and more like a test I was being subjected to. After I pulled out with a wet sound, her lips swelled, yet she controlled her breathing, keeping it steady, rhythmic, and restrained.
I shoved her back onto the mattress, tearing her skirt up to her waist. She wasn’t wearing underwear. Her pussy was already glistening in the dim light.
“Please don’t,” she whispered.
“You’re a liar,” I muttered, lowering myself between her thighs. “Your body’s already making decisions.”
I spread her knees and buried my face in her heat. My tongue traced her folds, swirling around her clit before drawing it into my mouth. Her hips bucked off the bed, a genuine gasp breaking her composure as I drove two fingers deep inside her wet passage, curling them sharply while my thumb worked her clit.
She arched, her fingers tangling tight into my hair. But instead of pushing me away, she held my face locked against her groin, riding the wave of physical intensity. Her inner walls clamped hard around my fingers, a violent shudder ripping through her as her orgasm broke.
When the tremor passed, she didn’t collapse. The illusion of the helpless captive dissolved entirely.
Suddenly, a tiny LED light on her lace collar flashed a rapid yellow, then went dark. Victoria’s eyes flicked to the ceiling, a microscopic tightening in her brow. Her signal was wavering. Her father’s team was losing her tracking feed.
She didn’t panic, but for a fraction of a second, I felt her pulse spike beneath my hands—a real, unscripted glitch in her grand design. She adapted instantly.
Before I could pull back, her hands shot out, gripping my shoulders with startling strength and hauling herself up.
She leveraged my sudden surprise to shove me hard onto my back. In one fluid movement, she swung her leg over, straddling my chest, pressing her wet, throbbing pussy directly over my mouth.
“Make me come again,” she commanded, her voice dropping into an icy, unshakeable register. “And don’t stop until I tell you to.”
The sheer authority in her voice sent a jolt of adrenaline straight to my core. I grabbed her hips, my fingers digging in, but as I drove my tongue back inside her, I paused—testing her authority, holding back the rhythm.
Victoria didn’t falter. She reached down, placing two fingers against my throat, right over my carotid artery, applying just enough pressure to let me feel her control.
“I know Moretti brought you here to die, Klaus,” she whispered, leaning down so her lips brushed my ear. “I know about Jimmy V in the basement. I know you’re a tool he’s ready to discard. Work for a dead man, or work for the woman who controls the board.”
Her psychological grip slammed home. I didn’t just surrender to her body; I surrendered to her mind. I drove my tongue into her with fierce, grinding thrusts. She rode my face, using my jaw for leverage until her second orgasm shattered over me, soaking my skin.
Without missing a beat, she slid down my torso and aligned her wet core over my shaft. In one continuous drop, she impaled herself, taking every inch of me.
“Fuck me,” she commanded, gripping my chest. “Harder. Show me what my father’s money is about to buy.”
I slammed my lower body up to meet her, the heavy slap of skin filling the small room. I reached up, pinching her nipples, dragging a sharp cry from her throat. She leaned forward, dark eyes boring into mine, reading every flicker of my expression.
“Turn around,” I growled, testing her grip on me.
“Now here,” she countered, spinning effortlessly to present her rear, guiding my hands to her hips. “Take it.”
I positioned my slick head against her tight rear entrance and drove forward, burying myself to the hilt. She let out a long, shuddering groan, pushing back to swallow me deeper. I hammered into her from behind, my hand reaching around to roll her clit until her anal muscles clamped around me like a vice, her body quivering violently.
We rolled over—her on her back, me kneeling above her. She squeezed her breasts together, forming a slick channel. I drove my cock between them, watching my head emerge near her collarbone with every thrust.
“Come for me,” she commanded softly. “Cover me.”
With a guttural groan, I snapped, painting her chest and neck in thick pulses. She reached up, wiping a trace from her collarbone, bringing it to her lips.
“Good boy,” she purred.
A thrill shot through my chest, sharp and unmistakable—she wasn’t just rewarding me; she was marking me.
Then, tires crunched on the gravel outside.
Victoria’s eyes flicked to the window. Her tracking signal had been dark too long; Moretti had arrived twenty minutes ahead of schedule. Her father’s cavalry wasn’t outside yet. The master strategist was suddenly naked in a remote cabin with no backup.
As the deadbolt outside clicked, Victoria looked down at me. For the briefest fraction of a second, the cold, impenetrable mask slipped. I saw a flicker of raw, genuine vulnerability in her eyes. She didn’t know if I would stand by her or let Moretti put a bullet in her head to save my own skin.
In that quiet, suspended breath, I made my choice. I gave her a subtle, barely perceptible nod. The relief in her eyes was instantaneous before her impenetrable armour slammed right back into place.
The heavy door creaked open. Moretti’s wide-shouldered frame filled the doorway, smelling of cheap cigars and sweat. His dark eyes took in the scene—me on my knees, Victoria sitting upright, naked, covered in my release—and his face twisted into pure rage.
“What,” Moretti growled, “is the meaning of this?”
Victoria didn’t reach for a blanket. She sat there like a queen.
“He was following orders,” she said smoothly, her tone cool and venomous. “Keeping me comfortable.”
Moretti stepped into the room, drawing his sidearm. “I told you to hold her, Klaus. Not turn her into your whore.”
“He didn’t,” Victoria said, stepping off the bed, completely unabashed. She stepped directly into his space, ignoring the gun. “I did.”
Moretti blinked. “You forget your place, girl.”
“No,” she whispered, leaning into his ear. “You forget yours. You thought you brought me here as leverage against Louis Garber? You think you’re playing the grandmaster?”
She turned her eyes to me. “Klaus. Disarm him.”
Moretti swung his gun toward me. “You listening to this bitch? Put a bullet in her!”
I didn’t hesitate. Months of built-up rage over Jimmy V, over Moretti’s cheap setups, and over a life built on surviving incompetent bosses crystallised in a single second. I lunged, grabbing Moretti’s wrist, twisting it sharply until the gun clattered to the floor, and swept his legs out from under him.
He hit the floorboards hard, gasping for air. I pinned his arm behind his back and forced him to his knees.
“She’s calling the shots, boss,” I said, my voice dead flat. “And she’s a better strategist than you ever were.”
Victoria picked up Moretti’s phone from his discarded jacket. “You’re going to call your second-in-command,” she dictated calmly. “You will authorise the transfer of your Panama accounts, sign over the land deeds to the downtown fronts, and turn over the logistics routes to my father.”
Moretti spat blood onto the floor. “And if I don’t?”
“If you don’t,” Victoria said, kneeling so her face was inches from his, “I won’t kill you. I will dismantle every lieutenant you employ, hand your ledgers to the federal prosecutor, and leave you rotting in a Supermax while my father takes your city. You won’t even have a legacy.”
The sheer, cold logic broke him. With shaking hands, Moretti dialled, choked out the authorization codes, and hung up.
“Strip,” Victoria ordered him. “On your back.”
Moretti panicked, but a knee in his spine from me made him tear off his shirt and lie flat on the stained mattress.
Victoria climbed onto the bed, straddling his waist, forcing him to hold her gaze as she brought her wet centre down over his mouth.
“You wanted to destroy my family,” she said softly. “Now swallow your failure.”
She forced him to work his tongue, using him purely to keep herself wet while she motioned me forward. I lined up behind her, sliding deep into her rear. She let out a sharp moan into Moretti’s mouth as I hammered into her from behind, her tight heat gripping me while Moretti lay helpless beneath her.
“Good boy,” she whispered over her shoulder to me as her orgasm clamped down around my cock, milking my violent release deep inside her.
Hearing her use the exact same words on Moretti slammed the reality home. In a single evening, she had stripped an empire, dismantled a boss, and claimed me as her own.
Just as we separated, heavy engines hummed outside. Two sleek black SUVs pulled onto the gravel.
“Right on time,” Victoria murmured, pulling on her blouse with crisp, precise movements.
“How?” Moretti wheezed from the floor.
“I allowed myself to be taken, Moretti,” she said, giving him a cold smile. “My micro-transponder cut out briefly, but my father’s team knows my protocols. This cabin wasn’t my prison. It was your trap.”
The cabin door swung open, and two of Louis Garber’s top enforcers stepped inside, hauling Moretti to his feet.
“Miss Garber,” one said respectfully. “Your father is waiting.”
“Take him,” she said.
They dragged Moretti out into the morning light. Victoria turned to me, her sharp edge softening into quiet curiosity.
“You turned fast, Klaus,” she said softly, adjusting my collar. “When did you decide?”
“The moment I realised you were the smartest person in the room,” I said, my hands resting on her waist.
“Moretti treated me like a disposable gun. You treated me like an asset worth winning. I’d rather work for the person running the board.”
I meant every word. This wasn’t submission born of defeat; it was a conscious promotion. I wasn’t just a hitman following orders anymore—I was choosing to anchor myself to someone who possessed real vision, real ruthlessness, and the intelligence to back it up.
A satisfied smile touched her lips. “Consolidating his territory is going to be bloody.”
“Good,” I said, leaning down until my lips brushed hers. “I’m very good at bloody.”
She kissed me—deep, possessive, and absolute—before stepping out toward the SUVs.
I followed right behind her. I wasn’t a masterless hitman anymore. I was the right hand of the woman who was about to take the city.
