Sin
I hate this fucking city.
Cold air bites into the skin on my hands and face while I approach a building that I would have preferred going the rest of my life never having set foot in.
Where others on the street have luxurious awnings and arched windows, this one is nothing but smooth cement and minimalism. Apparently it’s “brutalist” inspired—whatever the fuck that means. To me, it just looks like a concrete prison.
Unsurprisingly, this fortress of cement is home to the city's glitterati. Yet some of its residents deal in things far less glamorous than they'd have you believe.
Dipping down the alleyway, I decide to avoid the main entrance, figuring that's better for business. Once I reach the side door, I lean against the wall and light a cigarette, taking a long drag.
Any minute now the door will open and I can get this night over with.
Exhaling the smoke above my head, I glance up once again. Stuck between two towering buildings, I can just make out the night sky above. No moon tonight. Just some stars and the usual vast blackness that greets me every time I open my eyes.
I guess you could say I’m not exactly a fan of sunlight. Or mornings. Or people. Or anything for that matter.
I’ve always felt numb. My earliest memories feel the same as the memories from yesterday. I don’t have a single emotional attachment to the life I lead, to the jobs I take, the food I eat, clothes I wear, or even the two people in my life I’d consider friendly. Though, I wouldn’t say I have friends.
I’m not built for it. Not built for a lot of things. The truth is that I think I was born for one thing and one thing only. And you know… I’ve accepted it.
I figure it was probably some time after my first job. It didn’t make me feel anything per se, it was just easy. I didn’t have to try so hard, or think about it, I just did.
Most people would probably classify me as a monster. The things I’ve done, or the things I’ve helped other people do, would surely make even the most forgiving person question if redemption were even possible.
I’m not sure if I was born like this, or if my name was the nail in the coffin for me. I’ve read that people believe the name of your child will decide their future. And naming your kid ‘Sin’? Well… you can’t be surprised if they turn out like the devil, now can you?
My routine self loathing is cut off by the door clicking open, just enough for me to slide my hand in and catch it. I toss my cigarette into a puddle behind me and glance over my shoulder, checking for anyone that might be watching. With no one in sight, I tug the door open, slipping inside as I scan the dim hallway. Whoever my assistant was tonight didn’t stick around and I don’t blame them.
I shove my hands into my pockets and head for the staff elevator, keeping my head down. Even under the dim lighting the smooth marble floors sparkle to the point that they're almost blinding. After I push the call button, my fingers curl around the antique lighter in my pocket that I’ve had since I was nine.
While the elevator numbers tick down, I slide my thumb along the engravings in the cool metal of what I guess you could call my most prized possession. Exhaling a slow breath, I roll my shoulders, melting into the calm that’s become second nature to me.
When the doors slide open, I step into the pristine metal box and tap the penthouse key card against the panel. A green light flicks on, followed by a cheerful beep. The elevator begins its ascent and I clear my throat, fisting my palms at my sides.
Just before I reach the penthouse, I slip on a pair of black latex gloves, snapping them around my wrists. The elevator dings, the doors part into darkness and I step inside the silent penthouse.
I hesitate in the dark foyer, silent and unmoving. Even if the job was scheduled for a time the higher ups were certain the place would be empty, I’ve had more than enough surprises to know that their intel isn’t always accurate.
With no obvious movement or noise, I decide to get a move on. The sooner I can locate my objective, the sooner I can get the hell out of here. I cling to the shadows while I head for the stairs, knowing my target is suspected to be in the east bedroom.
Taking the steps two at a time, I decide this is going too well. Suspiciously so. My fingers itch to curl around the handle of my switchblade or the pistol holstered under my arm. I can’t tell if it’s instinct or if I’m simply accustomed to jobs going to shit on a regular basis. Usually by now there’s a pile of bodies on the floor with the scent of gunpowder and copper in the air.
The shadows on the landing swallow my frame as I head for the bedroom at the end of the hall. The place is dead quiet, so I guess the higher ups got it right this time—which is practically cause for celebration. Perhaps I should call my handler and congratulate him on not being a complete fucking moron.
I’ve been begging for a simple job for months. Something that’s actually worth the money they’re paying us. Not that I’m really in it for the money. Once you find your calling, it’s pretty much sustenance. You don’t have a choice anymore. You do it because if you don’t, you’re certain your entire life would fall apart.
Once I reach the bedroom door, I twist the handle and push it open. Two steps into the room and a scent hits me. One that’s unfamiliar and utterly intoxicating.
Before I can even think about finding its source, what I can only assume is a vase of some kind is smashed over my head. The sound of glass shattering splits the air before the ringing in my ears takes over—along with my reflexes.
My hand shoots out, fingers curling around a delicate throat, squeezing just enough to choke but not strangle. Not yet, anyway. I slam the body into the wall, lifting my head to get a good look at the first person to get the jump on me since… ever.
A pair of deep brown eyes meet mine and I freeze. Blood drips down my forehead, sliding down my cheek. It’s not enough for me to be too concerned, but it is enough to make her eyes widen. Guess she’s never hurt someone this bad before.
Her scent, her face, her everything is making me fucking spiral. Something long thought dead behind my ribs twists and snaps into place. Aside from the adrenaline spilling into my veins, I can feel exactly where the rest of my blood is flowing to and I grit my teeth. Frustration mixed with unbridled fascination at this creature I’ve got pinned against the wall swells in my gut.
As soon as my ears stop ringing, I speak. “Name.”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares at me. Her jaw is tight, but her eyes are giving her away. She’s terrified.
I tighten my grip on her throat and yank her off the wall, only to slam her against it again, punching the air from her lungs. The sound she makes—gasping for oxygen—is music to my ears.
“I said,” I growl, my nose brushing against hers. “Name.”
Her plump bottom lip starts to tremble, then I see the tears welling in her eyes. She blinks them away, grunting in frustration. I release her throat enough so that she can speak.
“Hannah,” she croaks, her voice already hoarse from my grip.
I exhale through my nose, trying my best to stay calm. Not only has she fucked up my night—my job—but she’s annoying the hell out of me and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s doing it on purpose or because her voice is making me feel something other than the numbness I’m used to.
My chest is aching and I can’t fucking breathe. I’ve heard rumors about some of our “victims” using new types of weaponry to fight back against us. Maybe they’re pumping something into the air that's going to make my heart explode or my brain melt.
That’d be quite a shame, though. I’m pretty sure this girl would be scarred beyond belief if she had to witness that.
Woah… and why the fuck do I care about her?
I shake out my head, as if to dispel the idiotic thoughts swimming around it. “And your last name, Hannah?” I bite out.
She clears her throat, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip for a moment before answering. “McFadden.”
Jesus fucking Christ. This has to be some cruel joke. A McFadden? As in the McFadden crime family? Oh, I’m so dead it’s not even funny.
A bitter, rough laugh spills from my throat and she furrows her brows. “Hannah McFadden?” I repeat, licking my lips. “And what exactly are you doing here?”
Her shoulders stiffen at the question. But is it not an obvious one? Wouldn’t anyone ask that in this situation? This isn’t her house. And last I checked her family had a pretty volatile rivalry with the asshole who owns this penthouse.
But, it finally clicks and a smile curls across my face. I shift closer to her and feel how she tries to shrink back, how she tries to put space between us. “Oh, I see,” I murmur, eyes searching hers before dragging down to the slinky, black, satin pajama set she’s wearing. “And does his wife know you’re here, Hannah?”
Her jaw works on venom I’m sure she wants to spew at me, but I just laugh. Tipping my head back as I do. Oh, this is too perfect—and my escape plan.
“Fuck you,” she growls.
Those two words burrow into my brain and send a shiver up my spine. “Fuck me?” I repeat, nudging my nose against hers again. “Is that what you want?”
A whimper spills from her throat and I groan, sinking my teeth into the delicate skin of her neck. She shrieks, head tipping back, her spine arches off the wall which just pushes her perfect tits against my chest. Her hands shove against me, but I’m just another wall caging her in. She’s not going anywhere.
Goddamn, what the fuck is this girl doing to me?
I pull back, but not before swiping my tongue across her salty skin, tasting her fully. “You’ve got two choices, Hannah,” I rasp, eyes lifting to hers. “You can keep your pretty mouth shut and head back home to Daddy. You saw nothing, know nothing, and we both go on our merry way.”
“And what’s my second option, asshole?” She snarls.
“Your second option isn’t so pleasant. Trust me, Hannah. Take the out,” I tell her, my voice rough but serious. “Go. Home.”
Her eyes search mine, no doubt catching my fucking drift. Though, I’m not sure she’s able to fully comprehend just how screwed she’ll be if she doesn’t leave now.
“Make me,” she replies. Her voice is shaking, her hands trembling against her thighs.
My head tilts to the side and I smirk down at her. “Oh, Beloved,” I rasp, the nickname spilling from my lips without a second thought. “You really shouldn’t have said that.”
Before she can make another sound, I yank her off the wall and slam her against it, harder this time. Her head instantly lolls to the side and I throw her over my shoulder.
My arm curls around her thighs as she dangles over me, out like a light. I head for the nightstand, grab the box from the drawer—the objective I’m actually here for—and shove it into my pocket.
Heading for the exit, I leave the penthouse with Hannah fucking McFadden hanging over my shoulder like some demented consolation prize.
Job well done, I suppose.
