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Is the devil capable of love?
Xavier doesn’t do trust. He breaks. He kills. After living through hell, he’s transformed himself into El Diablo, the baddest motherfucker around. His only weakness is the sister he lost as a child—the one Boss promises to help him locate. The only catch is he has to work for Killer of Kings and learn to play nice with the other hitmen. He does his job, determined to prove himself. Then she walks into his life, and nothing is ever the same.
Alesha hits the jackpot when she’s hired as Xavier Moreno’s house cleaner. She has her own private suite, and the wealthy businessman is rarely home. Things change in a heartbeat when he comes home drunk one night, covered in blood, and telling her stories about murder-for-hire and a secret group of assassins. He also reveals a side so broken that she can’t help but fall for him. Can a killer fall in love with his cleaner, or will he add her to his hit list?
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Xavier slid the patio door closed behind him, careful not to make a sound. The rich scent of coffee wafted in the air. Most people loved the smell. He fucking hated it. He pushed away childhood memories of picking coffee beans in his bare feet for twelve grueling hours a day. Right now, he needed to stay focused.
He was there to kill a man.
The oceanfront paradise belonged to a dirty trader. He’d pissed off the wrong people, spreading rumors and creating false market values. The men who’d lost millions because of him had hired Killer of Kings for some swift justice.
Xavier had been working for the notorious group of hitmen for over ten months now. He’d done his training with Chains and Killian, and he’d been fulfilling contracts for a few months. The work paid well, so he couldn’t complain.
Lazy footsteps shuffled down the hallway. He twisted a silencer onto the end of his Glock, not liking the leather gloves Boss insisted he wear. Mr. Strogonov wasn’t expecting him this morning. Nobody wanted a visit from El Diablo.
He watched as the man lifted the carafe from the coffeemaker and poured himself a drink. He wore a plush navy bathrobe and matching slippers, humming a carefree tune as he puttered around the kitchen. Strogonov was forty-three, only a few years older than Xavier himself. The bastard had some city miles, probably from the stress of ripping off his associates. When he turned around and noticed Xavier sitting at his dining table, he dropped the mug, the ceramic pieces scattering on the marble floor.
“Who are you?” His voice trembled, his lower lip quivering.
“Who do you think I am?”
The man looked from side to side, then reached for his neck.
“Your personal alert won’t work. I’ve already deactivated it. You didn’t think they’d hire an amateur, did you?”
“W-who hired you?”
Xavier smirked. “You have more than one enemy? You’ve been busy.” He waved an arm in the air. “Stealing certainly pays well, doesn’t it?”
“I never stole anything.”
He set his gun on the glass tabletop with care, then stood up, slowly pushing the chair back into place. He rolled out his shoulders. “You’re far from innocent, Mr. Strogonov.”
“I can pay you. Whatever they’re giving you, I’ll do better. Name your price.”
There was no reason for him to talk to this guy. Strogonov could beg and cry and offer him the world. It wouldn’t do any good once Killer of Kings was contracted. This was more than money; it was about reputation, respect, and getting the job done. He’d spent a lot of time with Boss and his men over the past year, and for the first time in his life, he felt connected. Being on top, ruling with an iron fist in some of the most ruthless gangs and cartels never fulfilled him. It only added to the loneliness, the disconnect he’d always felt. Chains and the other players at Killer of Kings were his equals, and the level playing field was surprisingly satisfying.
“I need you to write a confession letter. Go on, grab a paper and pen. I’ll wait.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Don’t make me ask you twice.”
The man scrambled around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers. Sweat beaded on his forehead, highlighting his receding hairline.
“The top drawer beside the sink,” he said. “And bring a glass of water back with you.” Xavier had already scoped out this place, and taken all the steps to ensure the contract went smooth and clean. He had something to prove to Boss. Once the man had the pad, pen, and water, he continued, “Now, you’re going to apologize and spell out exactly what you did to alter the market.”
Once he had the suicide note, he could finish this hit. His gun was only a precaution.
“I can’t do that. They’ll lock me away for the rest of my life.”
He shook his head. Jail was the last thing this bastard should be worried about. “Do you know what they called me back in Colombia?” Xavier massaged one of the man’s shoulders, making him flinch. “El Diablo. If you don’t know, that means The Devil. Some said I was a sociopath, that I lacked empathy. Others were more blunt, calling me a monster. Maybe they were right. But monsters aren’t born—they’re made.” He could have gone on, talking about his bullshit childhood, being sold to the barrio gang to pay a debt his mother owed. About the little sister torn from his arms. Sometimes he unloaded it all, knowing whoever he told was about to meet their maker. It was his therapy, a confession of his sins. He shoved Strogonov down into a chair. The man whimpered. “You don’t want to piss me off.” The trip down memory lane plus a wicked case of blue balls had put him in a less than stellar mood.