Deadly Affection

Life unfolds in unpredictable ways, offering a multitude of possibilities that can shape a single moment. These moments, whether significant or seemingly trivial, hold the power to alter the course of our lives, steering us towards either improvement or adversity. Reflecting on my own experiences, a particular instance comes to mind.

Picture this: you're rushing through your campus, gearing up for a final exam, when an unexpected encounter with a man interrupts your stride. Initially, it seems inconsequential – just a brief collision. However, as fate would have it, he accidentally drops his keys, prompting you to return them. In that fleeting moment, you notice his attractiveness, intelligence, and a smile that could captivate any woman. Despite sensing a hint of a mysterious past, you decide not to pry too deeply, understanding that everyone harbors secrets they may not wish to share.

He appears to be the epitome of a typical hot guy, potentially the perfect choice for a college fling to explore your burgeoning inner desires. Yet, as life unfolds, it becomes evident that appearances can be deceiving. What initially seemed like a good decision turns out to be the worst possible choice one could make. This person, whom you might have avoided going on a date with, could have led you down a straightforward path toward becoming a chemist, perhaps eventually building a family.

However, life takes an unexpected turn when you decide to embark on that date. The repercussions are astronomical, challenging and reshaping the very fabric of your existence. The narrative underscores the unpredictable nature of life's twists and turns, illustrating how seemingly inconsequential decisions can have profound implications, altering the trajectory of one's journey in ways unimaginable.

Certainly, there are moments when life appears serene, almost like a dream. Picture this: you find yourself in your neatly arranged dorm room – a single, a testament to your hard work in high school, and the financial stability that followed. There you are, engrossed in your textbook, with him quietly present, basking in the afterglow of an hour of passionate intimacy. The scene unfolds further as the two of you indulge in cannolis you've prepared in his apartment, the place you'll call home after just six months. Then, in an unexpected twist, love blossoms between you.

The progression is swift, marked by his impeccable choice of words and the unique emotions he stirs within you – both physically and intellectually. However, the idyllic facade shatters when you unearth a shocking truth – he is a murderer. Faced with the rational decision to walk away, something inexplicable holds you back. You defy all reason and choose to remain by his side.

Rather than opting for a conventional exit, you make a daring choice to run away with him. This seemingly irrational decision propels you down a path you never anticipated, eventually transforming you into a murderer yourself. The narrative unfolds with unexpected twists, highlighting the complex and entangled nature of the choices we make in the face of tumultuous revelations.

His eyes trail my body, like the thousands of men before him. Like all men do when they see me as if I was a piece of meat. "I've had my eyes on you since the moment you stepped into the room." Of course, you did. I wanted you to. His cheeks are rosy, his breath stinks with the alcohol that I provided him.

I strip off my long black trench coat in front of him. My breathing is even. Not a hint of worry is present on my face for him to see. Under the trench coat is my bright red Merriweather lingerie that matches my tall red heels.

A cliché stripper ensemble, to say the least, but it works. It works well enough for this man to take me back to a hotel room.

"I heard red is your favorite color," I say seductively, using an Italian accent. My role is a poor Italian stripper who wants a chance to get a few dollars from him-a girl like all the others he brought here to sleep with. God, just a little longer, and then I can go back home and relax in my bed. My feet are killing me in these heels.

I slowly walk towards him while he's sitting in his throne-like chair, only in his underwear. My hips sway with every step I take. He watches me, anticipating every step I take as he licks his lips. I can tell just by his face alone that he's turned on. His huge belly covers his penis from my field of view.

My newest target is Martinez Louis. One of the most renowned drug lords in Italy. He owns about fifteen percent of the world's cocaine business. If he died, the distribution of cocaine would decrease significantly for a while.

But, I know, like any logical person, his business is just going to be taken over by someone else-most likely by one of his sons in the coming weeks. I could kill them all one by one with no problem saving a few people from an early cocaine overdose.

But the boss man, as he would call himself, said the client only cares about him. So, to conclude, it's most likely his own family that wants to kill him. So much for the family is the most important thing to an Italian man.

The things people do for power will always amaze me.

But it doesn't matter to me. I'm only here for a job.

I can admit, he was a little bit more complicated than my usual jobs. It took me weeks to get him alone. His security is tight, and the type of women he's attracted to is even tightly niched.

For this job, I had to disguise myself as a stripper, who doesn't mind doing something extra for cash, so he would even give me the time of day. After stalking him for what seemed like an eternity, I came to this conclusion.

His type is particular-redheads or red, to be more exact. The rumor around the girls indicates that if you wear red under the dark lights, you're bound to catch his eyes. This rumor explains the ginger wig I brought and the lingerie. If he likes red, he's going to get it. Every night he's in a new strip club looking for his next prey.

The women all flock towards him so they can have his next illegitimate child and a large check every month makes me sick. To bring a child into the world for money never sat right in my soul. And these men are all the same no matter if they are married or not. They can never resist a beautiful woman.

This guy's life is worth one hundred thousand dollars. I'd say I'm being underpaid for the job, but I don't have the balls to complain. Our HR department is non-existent, and complaints are warranted with tossing out the window or a knife to the chest. Silence is better.

He lets out a heavy breath causing the room to smell foul. You would think, based on this smell alone, that he was dead already. The more he breathes, the more putrid the air around me smells.

"What do you want me to do to you, baby?" The words that come out of me are foreign. Baby? What do you want me to do to you? My arms go around his sweat-covered neck, and I straddle his lap.

"I want you to make me feel good."

I lift myself slightly from his lap and dig into my nearby bag. Papers, guns, knives, and whatever else I stuck in it touch my fingers except for the only thing I want. The item that guarantees a quick, easy, and clean death.

My fingers touch a circular silver object. I almost fall from his lap when I remember I have these. I pull out the pair of handcuffs. This makes everything a lot easier. I twirl the handcuffs in my hands and continue to sport a seductive smile.

"Oh, I'm going to make you feel so good."

The fucker promised me a thousand U.S. dollars for one night, but I'm getting paid a hundred times that for this job. It's easy math and an even easier job just to kill him.

I grab one arm and then the other, pulling them behind his back and cuffing them. You're locked now, trapped in my web of death.

I think if you're a drug lord, you shouldn't let a random woman lock you in handcuffs or even bring a bag into the room without getting it checked.

What if she turned out to be an assassin?

I purr into his ears. I feel the vibrations in my own body. I am excited. I am eager to kill this man. "Do you want to know why they call me Tiger?" I bite at his lip and he bucks. He wants me. He wants to be inside of me.

"Why," he huffs.

"Guess," I kiss his cheeks-one by one, but I can tell he wants me somewhere else. Most likely on my knees.

"Because of your hair." My fake hair makes me look like a natural redhead-a rare commodity in Italy. I shake my head, reaching for my needle. His eyes are only focused on my own. I lean forward, my breast touches his chin as I force him to look at me.

"No, wrong. guess again." I will be your last memory, Martinez. You should be happy. Not many people can say they saw a demon who looked like an angel before they died.

"Because you're so fierce?"

"No," I say, whispering in his ears, dropping my Italian accent. "Because Tigers always catch their prey." I stab him in the neck with the syringe. The needle is big, big enough that I know it hurt when I pressed it into his skin. He attempts to touch his neck, but his handcuffed arms stop him.

"What did you do? Who sent you?" He screams.

I lift myself off him ignoring his screams. "I can't tell you that, Martinez. Frankly, because I do not know myself. Also, does it matter? You're going to die soon. It doesn't quite matter, in my opinion." My accent is now completely gone, and it's just me. My regular voice, he now knows I'm American.

His thrashing soon stops, and he relaxes in his chair. Why is he so calm? He's about to die in less than a minute. My targets are usually screaming for help until they draw their last breath but him? No, he's calm-a nice change of pace.

"You're taking this well." I will admit I'm curious as to how he can be so calm. Maybe this is a calm before a short storm of him thrashing and somehow managing to get out of the chair. "Why are you so calm?"

"Why?" he laughs. "Because I know when I've lost." I put my trench coat back on. "I should have listened to my wife. She told me to retire and leave the whores and the drugs alone. You know," he says, laughing. "She told me to stay in bed today because she had a bad feeling. Now, look at me. I'm about to die handcuffed to a fucking chair in my underwear."

"Well, you should have listened to your wife. Never question a woman's institution. You might have lived another day."

"He grins, locking eyes with me. I cock my head, concealing my own smirk. Martinez, you're an amusing and intriguing individual. "Yeah, you're right. But before I kick the bucket, I've got something to tell you."

"What is it?" I inquire curiously. What revelation could a dying man possibly have for me?

"You're not going to last. Someone will seek vengeance for me. It might not happen tonight or tomorrow, but-"

His words trail off, and his eyes widen. There he goes. Martinez begins to convulse uncontrollably, and his eyes roll back into his head. Well, the poison is finally taking effect.

Note to self: consider the target's body weight before administering the injection. It seems to take longer for larger targets. While effective, I prefer their demise to be instantaneous to spare me another pointless speech that I couldn't care less about.

Martinez isn't the first to predict that someone would avenge them as their body betrays them. Whether any of their dying declarations hold any truth is uncertain. According to some, I should have met my demise a long time ago. Yet, it seems like Martinez missed the memo.

People tend to forget about you once you're gone."

"Retribution holds no meaning, and it yields no rewards. It merely results in unnecessary violence, leaving you empty-handed. It won't bring anyone back, and the temporary satisfaction quickly fades away.

Yet, the emptiness lingers.

Martinez's convulsions cease, and his body goes limp. With my task completed, I can return to New York. I methodically collect my belongings-one by one. The handcuffs, the syringe, and I meticulously clean anything that might trace back to me. Taking a life is simple; it's the aftermath that proves challenging.

I gaze at his lifeless form. A satisfied smile graces my face. My beloved Aconite, it never fails-swift and efficient. My passion for chemistry and botany has turned my niche business of distilling poisons into a lucrative venture. It has also streamlined my role as a professional assassin, especially when it comes to covering my tracks. Thanks to the chemical, his demise appears as a natural occurrence-a heart attack, plausible for someone of his size and age, fooling everyone."

I close my trench coat and place the syringe back in my bag. Now, I just do not mind spending an arm and a leg for a hotel. It's almost surreal in here. I wish I had more time. I might have taken a bath while his body rotted nearby. I walk through the enormous room. I finally find a nearby phone and dial the Italian equivalent to 911. I clear my throat before they answer-got to make it believable.

"Emergency services, how can I help you?" The operator says quickly in Italian.

"Help! Help! He's not breathing," I scream over the phone.

"Where are you?"

"Don Pierre Hotel, presidential suite. Please hurry!" I respond without a second thought, all while adding his room number. I hang up the phone and recompose my breathing. I take a look at Martinez's dead body.

Okay, the target dead.

They'll write it off as a heart attack. Good, good, no hiccups. Everything is sanitized except for the phone. I spray the telephone. No fingerprints, nothing to put me at the scene. As a person who actively travels to all parts of Italy regularly. It would be a bitch to have cops on my ass.

Everything seems to be in order. I better leave before the cops come. I adjust my wig and quickly leave the hotel. The cool night air causes me to shiver. I'm so cold, next time I'm packing actual clothes. iIts hell when I must walk back in lingerie and a fucking trench coat.

I can finally go back home tomorrow-I'm glad. I miss my home, my happy place in this fucked sup kill or be killed world. I plan on taking a week-long break...hopefully if I'm allowed. But, knowing my boss, the man with a two-foot leash tied around my neck, that won't be the case. I am his seductress, his black widow who doesn't mind being naked for hundreds of men to finish a job.

I need a vacation.

I hail a taxi; they take me to my hotel that's only a few minutes away. I could have walked but not in these heels that are determined for me to have to use a wheelchair by my next birthday.

The hotel I stay at is nice, not as nice as Martinez's, but it works. Open bar when you first come in, a luxury store inside mand a cute bellhop that is determined on staring at me whenever I come in. He nods his head as I get closer to the doors that he already had open a mile before I got there. His face is red, and his hair looks neat under the hat.

I smile at him. "Good Evening," I say in Italian. "Do you speak English?" He nods his head quickly. "How long before your shift ends?" I now say in English.

The bellhop looks at his watch. "Five minutes," he says, followed by a small cough. I smirk to myself; five minutes won't make a real difference. Who gets fired for five minutes? I grab his hand and lead him towards the elevator. "Ma'am, ma'am, where are you taking me?"

I ignore his obvious question.

I'm taking you to my room to fuck your brains out.

I tap my foot against the carpeted floor, waiting for the elevator to open. Come on, I don't have all day. The elevator finally opens, and I push the bellhop against the wall. He's still confused. It's cute.

One moment I'm clicking my floor number, then the next, I'm attacking his lips. I keep my eyes slightly open to witness his reaction. His eyes quickly turn from shock to lust, and then they're closed to enjoy my own.

He follows the movement of my lips. I take full control-I need to be in control. He reaches for my ass and squeezes lightly, causing me to moan into his mouth. I feverishly run my hand through his hair. A bell indicates the elevator is opened to my floor. Our lips separate, I grab his hand, snapping him out of his dazed state. I walk no run to my room.

I need this. I want this release.

I turn to open the door; he runs his tongue along my neck as he holds my waist. I can't concentrate on the door­-I miss a few times as he reaches my ear. The door finally opens. I turn my full attention to the bellhop. I continue to kiss him, leading him to my bed. I drop my trench coat on the way in.

I push him on the bed and straddle his lap. I place kisses along his neck as I unbutton his white collared shirt. His hands cup my ass as he moans, spouting a bunch of Italian curse words. I know, I'm good at what I do. I know how to pleasure a man, but tonight is not about you. It's about me.

I leave a fever of kisses on his body. His shirt is open, and I begin to kiss his chest-all the way down until I get to the buckle of his pants. I begin to unbuckle his pants, but the bellhop stops me. Our heavy breathes, and the passing cars are the only thing that can be heard.

"I don't even know your name," he says, tucking a strand of my brown hair behind my ear.

I must have dropped my wig somewhere on the way in.

I lean down and kiss him on the lips once more. "My name is Cecilia."

"Cecilia," he says. "What a beautiful name."

I ignore the complement, and our kiss deepens, and his pants are off.

Sex means nothing to me anymore.

I have concluded that sex is just a way for two people to let out their frustrations with the cruel world they were placed into. Of course, some would disagree, and say something along the lines of they have sex because they love the person. Or because they want to pleasure their partner or even please them.

I have sex to forget about the cruelty of this world, to feel a bit of euphoria even if it lasts for a few seconds. The euphoria is not guaranteed, no matter what position I take.

Mounting the bellhop was okay. Nothing spectacular. He was about average in length, and he didn't deliver when it came to what Italian men are known for in girth-two out of ten.

Though he lasted a little longer, he didn't deliver me the toe-curling orgasm that I so needed. Sex is so different with everyone. You could meet guys like him who fumble a lot and don't know where to touch. But then you meet other guys who push you over the edge. Who can easily make you throw your head back without you even noticing and scream while you gush under him?

I bite my lip at the memories of him-the worst mistake of my life that I'll always crave, Anthony.

Few people had brought me where he has.

Anthony is the only man I've ever loved. The man who also tried to kill me.

At the tender age of nineteen, I met him. I was a naive college student studying Chemistry, who unfortunately fell hopelessly in love with a man she knew nothing about.

He was mysterious, with a voice so deep it made my bones shake. He captivated me with his gaze and his kind words. It didn't take me long to fall in love with him. He made it so goddamn hard for me not to love him. It makes me sick.

It seemed like loving him was who I was, and I was happy with it. Being with him made me happy, so happy that nothing else mattered.

Not even my family, for that matter.

We eventually moved in together, a stupid idea now that I think about it. A fresh twenty-year-old and fresh twenty-four living under one roof while neither could cook, hated to clean, and had sex all day? A dream, but it all ended in a nightmare.

He had a habit of leaving late at night, a habit I found strange, and when questioned, he often told me not to worry. I mean, how could I not worry? My boyfriend, who I am madly in love with, leaves every night and often goes on day-long trips.

So, one night, I allowed my curiosity to take over my body, and I followed him wearing all black. I thought I was some sort of spy, sneaking through the night, and he was my prey.

I had a speech prepared and everything. I was going to call Anthony a bastard, a cheater, a man-whore.

God, if he were just cheating on me, everything would have been a lot simpler. I would have broken up with him reclaimed my dorm room, and been done with him. I would be done with school by now and on my way to achieving something great. I would have been a completely different person.

But instead of another woman. I found out something else.

I found out he was a killer. A stone-cold killer with blood splattered on his face and a gun in his hand. The dead body lay in front of him, and it was as if it didn't faze him whatsoever. It was as if it was normal-something he did every day.

Business as usual.

It didn't take rocket science to figure out what he had done or who was. He asked me if I wanted to continue to be with him. If I would subject myself to live in the shadows with him. I thought I couldn't live without him. I thought he was my entire life.

So, I did it.

I abandoned school and my family to follow Anthony to Italy. A place where I knew nothing. Not their language, their culture, or a single soul other than him. He was it. He was my entire being wrapped into one attractive body.

I was a fucking idiot-an idiot misguided by love.

At first, I was scared. I looked over my shoulders at every turn. Any sound would make me leap out of bed. But then, after months, it became easier. I could sleep. He allowed me to leave on my own after a few months.

I picked up the language and became a regular at some nearby shops. It felt great when he came home to me every night. I almost forgot who he was. What we were running from.

Then he changed overnight. One night he asks me to marry him, and then the next day, he's trying to kill me.

That night, I woke up with his hands gripped around my throat. I kicked and scratched him until he let me go. Then I did the one thing that broke me in more ways than I ever thought possible.

I killed him.

I killed the man that I loved, and not long after, The Boss found me. Anthony's boss, to be more specific, is my boss now. I thought he was going to kill me, but instead, he offered me a job. He said if I could kill one of his best men, then I deserved to be one of them.

I had no family, no money, and I was already a killer.

So, I took the job.

After his death, I still subconsciously find myself in Italy-wishing that Anthony would pop out of nowhere. He would show up and whisper my name with his thick Italian accent when I least expected it.

But dead people don't talk.

I lay on my back and stared at the wall. The room is dark. Only the light from outside illuminates the room. It's quiet, too quiet than I would like. The bellhop stirs in his sleep while holding my waist. Oh, I almost forgot he was here.

What was his name again? Lorenzo, Lionel? Whatever his name is, he needs to leave. I have to catch a flight in the morning, and he looks like the pillow talk type. I tap his shoulder, and his eyes immediately open. He's confused, then he realizes where he is and what just happened.

You had an hour of bliss with me. It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience that thousands of men dream of.

I sniffle and blink, forcing the tears to begin to form. The more tears, the faster he will leave.

"Hey, um...shit, sorry." I push back my hair so he can get a look at me.

He sits up when a sniffle comes out of me. "Are you crying?"

A night with me, the seductress. The woman who can please any man with no effort always warrants the same thing-a number, a promise that I'll see them again. People would say that's common for women. But my statistics of the men and women whom I slept with would say otherwise.

Men always want more.

Sometimes I cry, sometimes I lie. But the result is always the same. They always leave.

"I'm sorry," tears filled my eyes. He looks concerned. Tears always make it work without fail. "My boyfriend just died and... I thought that this would make me feel better. But..." a tear falls out of my left eye. Lorenzo rubs my naked shoulders.

You're so kind, Lorenzo. Maybe in another life, we would have worked.

"I understand, beautiful. Are you sure you need to be alone?" I merely nod my head and bury my head in my hands. I hear the sounds of a belt jingling and light curses as to where his socks are. I let out a few whimpers. He stops and quickly continues, this time going much faster.

The faster, the better. I have to check the news for my newest target. He places a kiss on the top of my head.

"If you need me, I'm downstairs."

I won't. You aren't worth a second one-night stand.

The door shuts, and I wipe my fake tears away.