@theuncreator [ Closed starter ]
Some are not born wicked . . . but the garden they are blooming in, force them to develop thorns and fill their petals with poison to break through weeds and ivy trying to stifle them. Clare was never the one liking the ‘ lack of air ’. . . when she had the skill to clear everything that was trying to smother her. Bitter woman was clever enough to mold this talent into a specialty many now feared and offered spoils collected through blood and darkness, just to make sure her gun is not pointed toward them.
Red curls were falling over the ivory shoulders as she pulled the headband off of them, dragging it over the wrist just in case she might need it later. But that headband was never decorating the ruby colored hair for style purposes, no. . .it was so the already blood colored strands are not stained with other crimson. The currency with which she was dealing with, the real “ America-express ” card.
More blood, more prosperity…and more intimidating reputation.
In the world many closed their eyes to, rolled in their beds at night praying the three locks on their doors and security system will protect them from the reality dwelling among the streets of their city, was the only choice Clare saw for herself. It sat well on her as silky robes on tender skin, merging with the soul and helping her achieve what she craved the most. Superiority among all, driving fear in bones of people purely by mentioning her name, making everyone run in terror from the merciless woman because they knew just how deadly the beast’s teeth were. And Clare had every intention of becoming the monster with the sharpest teeth around.
However, no matter how good she was in what she did, these hallways always echoed with murmur of despise and doubt. Golden east palace, one of the most prestige and ravishing building in the heart of New York, was also the headquarters of Tarasov family, one of the most influential mafia organizations in the area. They’ve put down their roots in almost every part of illegal business they could. Drugs, cartels, prostitution, organ market, human trafficking . . . everything was stained with their presence. Even some high ranked politicians feared that name, trying to make a proposal for a deal that would satisfy both parties, but Tarasov's refused to be entangled with politics, purely because they did not want to answer to anyone, so, killing the obstacles off was the most ‘ reasonable ’ way to deal with the disturbances in their business.
Clare stopped in her tracks when she reached the golden doors of Viggo Tarasov's office, being ‘ greeted ’ by a tall man, having at least 150 kg around his bone structure, unwelcoming look residing in his pale irises. Emerald eyes of the woman stared back with no fear nor hesitation, ordering him to let her pass with a mere glare.
Tone sharp and low, almost like a deadly breeze announcing the final moments of life. Eyebrows of the man knotted, lips in a thin line and stand obviously radiating with resentment.
She was never one of them . . . no matter how her actions only benefited the family, no matter how valuable of an asset she was, no matter the amount of loyalty her deeds presented. . . she was just a chess figurine that one day will fall as everything else does on this playing board of fate. That was the belief of everyone, except . . .
“уйти от двери.“ ( Move from the door.)
Viggo Tarasov. Raspy and authoritative voice came from within the ‘ golden gate ’, as the big man clearly felt a sudden rush of discomfort and penetrating fear. His wall of flesh was removed from the entrance at once, letting the red haired woman pass through. Killer gaze was not unglued from the one giving her trouble, not for a second, like she was making him a promise without words, that one day . . .he will wish he had moved sooner.
“Hydra… Мне кажется, или я чувствую, что над этими плечами парят еще более злобные головы?” (Hydra… Is it just me, or I sense more vicious heads hovering above those shoulders?)
Smoke from his cigarette shaped every word she understood without any difficulty. Silver fox of a man sat in his leather chair, grinning at the newcomer. His eyes shone with curiosity, hunger for information about the job he gave her.
Clare was a quick learner, always feeling more comfortable when her brain is as sharp as a knife and was able to translate any situation and language, making sure nothing goes behind her back. So, Russian language that was heavily used among these walls was a necessity.
She knew what he meant, once again calmly allowing him to call her by the nickname he himself had baptized her with, it was always the similar question when she had returned from a mission. Job. ‘Trip’. Obligation….whatever they called it.
Hydra. The mythological Greek creature with three heads that devoured everything on its path, and was impossible to kill, because every time some ' wanna be hero ' chopped one of its heads off, two new ones emerged from the damaged body part. Viggo found a perfect comparison for his valuable asset, seeing Clare’s tattoos of snakes, ink hugging and climbing around her thigh, and the bloodthirsty nature of the young woman. Eyes filled with rage and craving to become the death itself. Clare . . .accepted the nickname, and it spread like a disease among the private circles of hitmen and mafia organizations.
“ Minister Smith will not be sending any more proposals, sir. ”
Answer came in English, but without disrespect. She chose that variant because she could almost sniff out another person near. One that would bask in satisfaction of hearing her speak Russian, and making sure he tells her that her desperate tries of fitting in will never work.
“твоя собака как вернулась.” (Your dog has returned.)
Iosef Tarasov, spoiled son good for nothing, emerged from the dark corner of the room, bony fingers playing with a lighter. Clare did not even flinch when she heard him, or sensed his presence behind her.
“You sure you did not leave any…pair of eyes behind? Hmm? Bloodstains…?”
Iosef’s digits almost pressed against her forearm, where her leather jacked was smeared with caked blood of the Minister. But before he could reach, a sharp object appeared on the spot where her arm was just a second ago. A thin black blade just under his palm, ready to pierce it through without thinking twice about it. Eyes did not move from Viggo when she did this, and he could not help but to smirk on her swiftness.
“ты принадлежишь нам, чертова сука, не заставляй меня затягивать эту цепь на твоей шее.“ (You belong to us you damn bitch, don't make me tighten that chain around your neck.)
“Берегись, Иван, потому что собака может просто задушить тебя этой цепью.” (Watch out Iosef, because the dog just might strangle you with that chain.)
In prefect Russian, Clare answered, still not giving him the pleasure of returning his hateful glare. Infuriated by her words and disrespect, Iosef raised his hand in attempt to strike her, but before he could, a voice filled with wrath that sounded like thunder ripping through grey clouds, echoed the room.
“ ENOUGH! You shall keep your mouth shut in my presence boy. ”
Viggo growled, slamming his palm on the pricey mahogany table. The only one Iosef feared showed his authority, and the man was smaller than a bean in a second. Balling his fists, rebellious son turned and stepped closer to his fathers seat, resenting the redhead with all his being.
“ There is something else I wanted to talk to you about Hydra. "
As Viggo spoke, Clare’s gaze wondered around his face. The surface of the memory lane was stirred, making her recall just how this life had started. With this man, giving her the chance to unleash her inner demons on the world. . .and make a living off of it on the side. The treasures this job paid had nothing to do with her choice of living this kind of life. It was a mere privilege that came with the territory, nothing more. The real reasons why she chose this path of iron smell of blood, bathing in other’s misery and feasting on people’s despair…were buried deep underneath her flesh.
" It is obvious your ferocity grows with each day. Skills, abilities. . . "
Intense pause, man's face carrying a hidden agenda that he had no intention of hiding any longer. " John has been teaching you well. " Plump, cherry colored lips abused by the pearly whites on the mention of her ' tutor '. Baba Yaga. The legend. Elusive, immortal . . . Grim Reaper in flesh. Bitter woman recalled the day she met him, memory carved in the stones of the past. John's mere aura crushing the mountains of her rebellious behaving, effortlessly intimidating even Lucifer with those coal black eyes. Clare swore the skills of her own will surpass his, force Baba Yaga's knees to taste the sensation of bone hitting the ground. . . but instead, from the resistance was born respect, admiration. . . forbidden fondness she kept locked up behind the bars of secrecy.
" I think it is time to bring your lessons on a next level. " Viggo's voice snapped the woman back to the present moment, silently awaiting the point of this conversation.
" You will be moving into his residence. Becoming his shadow, soaking in every move, taking every opportunity to learn why he is what he is. "
Shock spilled around sharp facial features, breaking her usual hard composure. Full lips twitched, slightly opened to voice the protest while the heart slammed at the skeleton cage. Callused palm raised in order to stop her from replying.
" You are moving in tonight. Arrangements had already been made. John is expecting you. "
Hourglass shaped rolled over the silky sheets of the bed that was not her own. Jade orbs were greeted by the sun rays piercing the wide window with opened curtains. Batting the black, long eyelashes and releasing a low, irritated grunt, Clare propped herself on the slender arms, scanning the moderately but tastefully furnished guest room.
Cursing under the breath, long, inked legs slipped from the crumpled sheets, nostrils bitten with the sweet, inviting smell of espresso slipping under the white door of her room. Body remained static for a split second, ears focused to detect sounds from downstairs from where the enchanting coffee smell was coming. Nothing. Scoffing, she shook her head. Of course there was not a sound, the man moved silently as a cat. No wonder he was the ghost of death itself. Oversized t-shirt with a rock band logo ACDC barely covered the peach-shaped backside, strained material over the chest a result of the lush breasts. If she was at her own house, her sanctuary, this ' outfit ' would be enough to go grab the much needed caffeine, however . . . this was not her home --it was his. Turning her gaze back to the door, a forbidden thought flashed in front of the pine-green eyes. How would he react if she comes down dressed like this? Would the black pearls of his eyes trace every tempting curve, would the hunger be evident on the usual emotionless face? Would he care? Heart accelerated on the hypnotizing thought. Thought that should never had been formed. Clare could sense her own body reacting on that fantasy, shaking the head to push it out. Deep exhale as she pulled on the hem of the t-shirt, throwing it to the bed and heading for a cold shower to calm down and wash the lust away.
Jumping over two steps at the time, scarlet haired woman entered the kitchen in silence. Wearing her usual combination, tight leather pants which emphasized the curvy hips, black tank top revealing the thin waist where the tattoos on the ribs were exposed, and a black leather jacket, she moved elegantly towards the coffee machine -- not greeting the owner of the house which was in the same room. Taking the coffee and almost chugging down the entire mug, she finally turned and offered acknowledgment to the other soul. If they both had such a thing considering their calling. She had to admit, it was highly unusual seeing him without the sooty suit and guns in his hands, the scene was almost comically unreal.
" Why did you agree to this? "
Direct and sharp question, signature cold tone for the redheaded beauty.
" I doubt Viggo had any kind of leverage over you to place someone at your damn house. "
She wondered was it really as simple as paying the man off to agree to this, but if it was, he never seemed as someone wanting to invade his personal space. Circling the room like a lithe panther, she scanned the untouched take out food from yesterday, the day she arrived -- and refused to associate for the evening. Not because she despised the man, not because she didn't enjoy his company -- but because it was quite the opposite. The rooms filled with his scent, seductive perfume, his presence in every corner awakened things she tried to forcfuly suppress. . . she had to move away and face what came next in peace. Pulling the chair out and taking a seat, she crossed her legs, hands covering the mug that released the steam from the remaining coffee. Founding his dark eyes, she struggled and forced herself to keep a steady eye contact -- something that was never a problem with others, but him . . . it seemed nearly impossible, like moving mountains.
" What, you will give me cooking lessons? I don't see why this shit was not possible from our own homes. Doing jobs together a few more hours a day would do the trick. "
Clare was certain there was lot more to this than that, but it didn't stop her from her usual behavior. Even with John . . . well, maybe a bit less. She was stubborn but not stupid -- this man was a true killer, poking the lion with a stick for too long might just get in you in serious trouble.
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