Perfect Prey (A Cat & Mouse Mafia Romance)

BRYCE

Stabbing someone takes more effort than you think.

Unlike the movies, the blade doesn’t easily slide straight into the heart. First there’s skin, then that little cushion of fat, then muscle—God, Anthony has so. Much. Muscle—and if you’re unlucky, the rib cage. They don’t exactly make a Wiki on how to stab someone in the heart (or, do they?), but tonight is my one and only chance.

If I fuck this up, I’m as good as gone.

Anthony stares at me wide-eyed, his cock still buried inside me, mid-thrust, as thick, viscous blood pools from beneath the hilt of the blade (which I managed to force all the way down, thank you very much) and all over my hands.

He gasps, choking on a sound in the back of his throat. “Bry—”

I jerk the blade free before he can spit my name, grunting loudly as I do so, and climb off of him. We were in the middle of having sex, and sure, I hate the man, but it wasn’t all bad. But for me, it was all for show—a part I had to play as a new loving wife. For him, we were consummating our marriage, but he had no idea I had the blade tucked between the mattresses.

Anthony’s hands fly to his chest, but it does nothing to mitigate the bleeding. The white sheets beneath him bloom red. His light is flickering fast.

“I would say sorry, but I’m not,” I say, cleaning the blade on my satin nightgown that I bought for our honeymoon. “I’m mostly sorry that this sorry excuse of fabric cost me five hundred dollars, and it’s now ruined.”

Anthony stares at me, his face already going white, until finally, he goes slack. I want to give him a long, dramatic monologue, like a Shakespearean play, but I don’t have the time for a Soliloquy. And something tells me he wouldn’t be listening, anyway.

I bend low and pull the duffel from beneath the bed, the one I stashed before we said our vows, and frantically unzip the bag. My hands are starting to shake, and adrenaline is the only thing keeping me going as the reality of I just fucking killed someone comes crashing down.

Twenty-seven, with a marriage and a murder now under my belt—all in the span of twenty-four hours. How’s that for a résumé?

I pull free a cheap box of hair dye and a change of clothes and beeline for the bathroom. Once inside, I flick on the light and stare at myself in the ornate mirror, as if taking an inventory. Blood dries in the lines of my palm and speckles against my forearms and chest, but other than that, I look the same. I lean close, staring into my own green eyes, searching for some flicker of change. Nothing. Just as empty as they were the day we buried my mom. But we don’t need to get into that right now.

I quickly scrub my hands clean from the blood and yank the nightgown off my body, discarding it on the floor. At this point, I don’t give a shit about evidence. The De Lucas’ will know it is me who killed their youngest son once they find me missing and their son, cold, on the bed.

I rip open the package of black hair dye and spread out the contents of the box, mixing the chemicals quickly and squeezing the mixture haphazardly onto my head.

Thank God I am getting rid of this blonde. Not only did it fry my naturally dark hair in a desperate attempt to become the perfect candidate to marry the youngest De Luca bachelor (he notoriously had a thing for the blondes), but it also makes my skin look ghostly. Blonde is so not my color.

Once I’ve spread the dye as evenly as possible, I set a timer on my phone and pull out the small hoop I’ve kept stashed inside my makeup bag. With surprisingly steady hands, I poke the hoop back into my septum, clicking it shut and ensuring it’s secured in place.

Bit by bit, I’m shedding the disguise my father made me wear, becoming the Bryce he ordered me to bury for the sake of our plan.

I peek my head out to make sure Anthony is still on the bed. He is. I don’t know why I think he’ll just climb out and call his entire family of crime lords to come and kill me, but the thought crossed my mind more times than I’d like to admit as I was smothering my hair in dye.

I even check his pulse. Nothing. His skin is cold and hard against my fingers, and I grimace at the wound in his chest. I pull the blanket high over him, not out of respect, because fuck that, but because his unseeing eyes unnerve me.

After I ensure he is as good as dead, I sit on the couch, completely naked, while I wait for the dye to process and call Dad on the phone he provided after the kill was completed. He answers on the second ring.

“Bryce,” he says.

“I did it,” I answer. My throat tightens, and my chest squeezes. This was a long time coming. A long fucking time of pretending, smiling so fake it hurt my damn jaw, batting my lashes, and letting a monster call me his girlfriend, fiancée, and eventually wife—granted, wife only lasted ten hours, but still. It made me want to vomit in my mouth each time Anthony did.

“Your mother would be proud,” Dad replies. His voice is wavering; the emotion he hardly ever shows is evident. “I’m proud.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. I thumb a tear from my lash line before it can fall. “I’m getting ready to head out soon.”

“The hotel is ready, under the name Devin McNabb.”

I nod. “Alright. I’ll let you know when I get—”

He already hung up, but it doesn’t bother me. Dad has always been a man of few words. A straight-to-the-point, no bullshit kind of man. I check the timer on my phone to see a minute left, so I stand and head to the shower to wash the hair dye and sins clean from my body.

I shoulder my way into the dingy hotel room, dropping my bag to the floor and yanking off my hoodie. Sweat prickles down my spine, cementing my black tank top to my back. Sure, I look like a lunatic walking around in 80-degree weather in jeans and a hoodie, but I can’t risk being spotted since Anthony’s family has eyes everywhere.

I send Dad a quick text, telling him I made it to the hotel, then collapse in bed just as fast. Yanking off my jeans, I settle over the covers, the AC not doing a goddamn thing for the heat.

Staring up at the water-stained ceiling, a soft, unfamiliar calm begins to settle in my bones. It isn’t a weight lifting from my chest, like I initially thought it would be. It’s more like a void being filled, the jagged, empty space she left behind now packed tight with a satisfaction that fills me to the brim. The Del Lucas took the one person who mattered to me, stole her in a desperate, pathetic attempt to take my father down.

And now, I took their last blood heir.

A slow, feral grin spreads across my face.

Revenge, it turns out, tastes a hell of a lot like victory.