Beauty and the Devil

chapter 2

Clyde’s POV

The alley stank of piss, gunmetal, and cheap desperation.

Rain misted off the cobblestones, softening the edges of the city but doing nothing to wash the blood off the man kneeling in front of me. He coughed, hacking something wet onto the pavement. Could’ve been a tooth. Could’ve been a prayer.

“I swear—please, I have a daughter—she’s only three, she’s sick—”

I stared down at him, unmoved. The Beretta in my hand was still warm. My suit was tailored, black wool, blood-specked now—small, red stars blooming near the hem. A shame. It was one of my favorites.

“You should’ve thought about this,” I said, voice low and even, “before you took my money.”

He shook his head, sobbing. The sound made my molars ache. Like a song out of tune.

I pulled the trigger.

The silence that followed was almost peaceful. The spray hit the wall behind him, delicate as paint. Then he slumped, a puppet cut loose from his strings.

Aaron stepped back, nose wrinkling. “Shit, man. That was cold.”

I turned to him. “That’s why I’m still alive.”

We got in the Maserati—a deep black Ghibli with illegal tint and custom plates. The leather was cold against my back. I peeled off the ruined shirt, tossed it into a duffel in the backseat, and buttoned up a fresh one. Navy blue. Crisp. Still smelled like the dry cleaner’s starch.

Another Tuesday.

I used to get sick after a kill. Cold sweat. Vomiting. Sleepless nights. That ended after the third body. You learn fast in this line of work—or you die with your eyes open.

Aaron lit a cigarette. Cracked the window. “Did you want the girl or not?”

I looked at him, brow raised. “You take care of it?”

“Yeah. Already called the spa. They’re sending her.”

“Good.”

We didn’t speak much on the drive back.

The city blurred past—neon signs flickering, steam rising from subway grates, hookers in stilettos dodging the wind. A thousand lives spiraling toward nowhere. Me, I already got there. Built my kingdom in the shadows while the world watched the light.

The gates opened automatically when we reached the compound.

Mansion wasn’t the right word. This place was a fortress—old mafia bones with new tech muscle. Wrought iron, brick, barbed wire curled like thorny vines around the perimeter. Cameras covered every angle, drones patrolled at night. After the seventh hit attempt, I stopped pretending I was invincible.

First time, they tried to poison my drink. Second time, they rigged my car. Third time, they got creative—set a bomb in my kitchen while I was in the pool.

They all failed. But they got closer each time.

Inside, the house was quiet. Cold. The kind of silence that echoed off marble and stained glass. I stripped, dropped my shirt on the floor, and stepped into the shower. Steam swallowed me whole.

Soon she’d come. The girl from the spa.

Samantha Wayne. Massage therapist. No red flags. Quiet life. Struggling with her brother. Pretty, in a simple kind of way.

Perfect.

The water scalded my skin, but I didn’t flinch. The plan was in motion now.

She had no idea what was waiting for her. No clue what kind of deal she just walked into.

Once she stepped inside this house—into my world—there was no leaving.

Freedom? That was a story people like her told themselves before the fall.