Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,61

Ricardo’s hair, a gesture that might have come across as tender if not for the wicked glint in his eyes. “Do you really think I’d actually contract a hit on you?”

Ricardo arched an eyebrow.

August laughed. “No. Just no. I would never hire someone to kill you, not even in jest.” And then he leaned down and…

Oh, fuck. He kissed Ricardo.

Right on the mouth, full-on, like he goddamned meant it.

Before Ricardo could even made sense of what was happening or how much he liked it, August broke away, met his eyes again, and added, “If I wanted you dead, I’d kill you myself.”

Then he tousled Ricardo’s hair and strode out of the kitchen, leaving Ricardo off-balance and breathless.

What the fuck had just happened?

And what the fuck were they getting into?

Chapter 14

There was an art to being an asshole, and August? August was the fucking Leonardo Da Vinci of assholes.

It started with how you looked. You had to be the right kind of asshole for the particular place you were trying to get into. You’d never make it into a casino’s private rooms smelling like a drunk and dressed like a bum, and you’d stand out like a sore thumb if you showed up at a street race in a bespoke suit from Savile Row. It hurt to give up the suits, but August could do it if the job required, and if that job had a particularly juicy target. God, if every client asked August to put a kidnapper in the trunk of his own car, seal it shut with a nail gun—the occasional misfire totally acceptable—and then push it off a bridge into the river, he could die a happy man.

This particular job called for something in between the two. August needed to be flashy, but he didn’t quite want to tip over into garish. Everything about his appearance had to ooze money, make him seem like the ultimate playboy, louche and loud about it. That meant tamping down on signs of respectability and amping up the signs of gratuitous wealth.

Fortunately, he had gratuitous wealth, and a decent collection of his personal belongings in his basement apartment—which wasn’t a “lair” no matter what Ricardo said, the jealous bastard.

Two hours after Ricardo came up with his batshit crazy plan, August Morrison—now playing Augustus Mason to the hilt—roared up in front of a small, family-owned Italian restaurant in a late-model Lamborghini he was technically taking on a “test drive.” He grabbed the keys and tossed them to a man sitting on a stool outside the restaurant in a T-shirt, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. August didn’t react to the gun tucked down the back of the man’s pants—Augustus wouldn’t have even noticed such a thing. He just threw his keys at the startled man’s face, then pointed at the car.

“Underground parking only, and I want it watched the entire time I’m inside. Hire someone for fifteen minutes if you have to, and I’ll make it worth your while.” He pulled out his wallet, slipped a hundred dollar bill free, and stuck it just behind the front page of the man’s newspaper. “Thanks, buddy.”

He walked by the stammering man and inside the foyer of the restaurant. It was clearly an actual, working establishment—the days of dim, smoky back rooms and private booths where the don could survey his empire were gone. The Cavalcantes were trying to improve their image, and that meant scraping off the sharp edges of their most public places and making them look like legitimate businesses.

This particular restaurant was managed by none other than Pedro Silva, an up-and-coming local businessman with a reputation for honesty, fair dealing, and an interest in charitable works. He was also the most public face of the organization that had ensured that Judge Rawlins and her husband were murdered. There wouldn’t be any way to tie him to it—what good was a front man for the mob if he wasn’t squeaky clean, after all? But he had to know about the job. Hopefully he knew enough.

August stopped at the hostess’s booth, where a young, dark-haired woman wearing bright red lipstick was staring at him. August casually shot his cuffs, revealing his incredibly douchebaggy, eighteen-karat gold Apple Watch. It was a dated timepiece, but it was the sort of luxury trash Augustus Mason adored. “Hi there…” he drawled, smiling just a bit too wide at her as he inspected her nametag, “…Jennifer. I’d like to speak to the manager.”

“Um.” She looked around like she