Death of an Assassin (Saint Roch City Book 1) Read Online Free

can see. To his credit, his recoil is only just noticeable. I can control my appearance in ways that every teenage girl would kill their best friend for. Sometimes, the changes don’t really fall under my control, though. A reflex.
    My eyes are boiling red now.
    “I want four hundred under my door by Friday.”
    “Ah, that’s the other problem. It’s all or nothing. They refuse to pay until the brothers are both dead.” Malcolm speaks quickly like I’ll be less angry if he gets the words out there fast.
    “Well, then
you
better come up with four hundred thousand dollars by Friday for me, Malcolm. Otherwise, you can find someone else to be your whore.” Gripping the envelope hard enough to puncture it with my nails, I stalk toward the door.
    The hipster at the counter mutters, “Jeez, bathe much?”
    I stop and consider grabbing him by his douche beanie and snapping his neck, but resolve to just kick the stool out from under him. His chin slams into the counter, and blood sprays across the granite surface as his glasses shatter into his forehead. He probably doesn’t even need them.
    I leave the bagel store before they can call the police. I won’t be trying their pancakes today.



he champagne served at the Donahue’s engagement party reminds me of the eternal smell of cat urine in the apartment I grew up in. One of those awful smells so strong you can taste it. We didn’t even own a cat, and the landlord couldn’t remember any of the tenants ever having one.
    The week had gone by silently, which disappointed me. Every day I had hoped to get a text from Malcolm that the hit was off. Or that I wouldn’t get the money on Friday. But Friday night showed up as it was scheduled to, and after another late-night balcony session―with no civilian accidents―I came back in for a glass of Jack and tripped over a trio of envelopes. He couldn’t fit all of the bills in one.
    Four hundred thousand dollars. I could fill my bathtub with Benjamins if I wanted.
    The string quartet begins to play something elegant and just a bit flighty. Not really my taste, but it did beat the club tunes likely playing tonight several miles away in the center of Saint Roch. The Manchester Country Club, situated on the only cove of the Swift River, was a favorite of the Donahue family. The Donahues being one of the Seven.
    Saint Roch has a menagerie of creatures like me. I couldn’t begin to tell you why so many of us have flocked to the same place, but we have. And anyone who believes we don’t own the city now is simply kidding themselves.
    But the Seven have managed to hang on. Seven human families still holding on to what little power they can. It’s funny, really. They could be wiped out by us in a night, but they still retain so much control over Saint Roch that the city would collapse without them.
    Take Richard Donahue, for example. The Old Man. Malcolm’s briefing didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. His family owned Saint Roch long before our numbers ever showed up. Rumor has it he still holds the deeds to over half of the buildings in the city.
    I sip my champagne, the bubbly having its intended effect on the rest of the party. A man with too bushy of a mustache has already removed his tie and begun playfully snapping the women who pass by. They squeal in delight at the attention, but more likely the flowing liquor of the party is the reason for their elation.
    At the head table, just over the line of sobriety, sits my prey.
    My ears jingle just so as I set my glass down on the bar, the diamond earrings I’ve selected for the evening far gaudier than I have the taste for. But the job calls for such things on occasion. I carefully sweep back a bundle of my curled locks of platinum blond hair, letting it drape over a bare shoulder to only just tease the plunging neckline of my black dress. Using the dimly lit mirror positioned behind the bartender, I adjust my eye color. Blue. Blue. Blue. Now just a hint of green.