Free Hitman's Baby (Mob City Book 2) by Holly Hart Page B

a fine silk, or the best Egyptian cotton. I could have rested those fingers there for days. I tapped her on the neck, either side. "These are your carotid arteries." I pulled the knife out of her hands, transferred it to my left and raised her right with mine to her neck. "Can you feel that?" I asked.
    She nodded, terrified, her eyes fixated on the knife. I relaxed my face, desperately hoping to direct her attention to me. I wanted her to see that I wasn't a threat. I cursed my words, they sounded so clumsy, so ineffective, so unequipped to convey my meaning.
    "They lie just below the surface." I raised the knife, resting it on Ellie's left carotid with my left hand. It would only take a slip, a sudden movement, and she would die as easily as if I'd shot her in the head. I blinked. I didn't want to imagine her death. "Ninety percent of your brain's blood goes through them. If I made an incision, you'd pass out in two seconds, maybe three. You wouldn't even feel yourself dying. There is no surviving it."
    "Please," she begged. "Kill me, or don't, I don't care. Just please, stop."
    I let go of her hand, and her eyes flickered to the door. I knew what she was thinking. Fight, or flight. The thing is, if she left, she was as good as dead. Victor's men were all over the city, and with the bounty she had on her head, she didn't stand a chance of surviving. I reversed the knife, holding it by the blade. It was Japanese, made with a high carbon steel, only the best, and sharp too. It's a myth that cooking with a sharp knife is more dangerous. The sharper the knife, the less likely you are to hurt yourself, but a bad workman always blames his tools.
    I raised the blade to my neck, angling the point so that it rested gently on my right carotid, and motioned for her to take the handle. "Grab it," I ordered. This was it, the moment of truth. Either this worked or… Or the truth was, I didn't know. I didn't have a plan B.
    "What?" She said, as if terrified it was all a trick, like I was a cat playing with a mouse, giving her enough rope to hang herself with before reeling it back in. I could understand that. I'd watched the same movies as her, read the same books, and heard the same songs. But then, I'd lived a very different life to her. Not easier, necessarily, but different. I'd taken lives, hurt people, murdered people. I was the enemy. I was the thing that went bump in the night. The darkness in everyone's soul, but I was there, sitting right in front of her, not in a movie, or the pages of a good book.
    "Take it, the knife," I repeated. I held it steady, my hands void of movement. I knew that I would never be up to persuade Ellie that I didn't want to hurt her, not using my words, anyway. I bet if she were in my position, she'd be able to do it. I read her pieces in the paper, I know what she could do with language. And I knew I'll never have that skill. But when you've killed, like I have, you realize that life doesn't hold any value, not in itself. Not even your own.
    Ellie glanced at the door once more, and then the knife, as if deciding whether to dash for it or to play my game. I hoped that she wouldn't run. I didn't want to keep her here against her own will, and I wouldn't do it. I couldn't save her life by myself. I needed her to be my partner, not my captive. I pressed the knife into her hands and she took it. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
    "I won't stop you, if killing me is what you want to do. The knife's sharp, I did it myself. It'll slide in, like a shovel through fresh snow. I won't feel it, and it will be over before you know it."
    What I didn't say was that I wished she would kill me. I wished that she would do what I couldn't, take away my pain, and take away the memories of every evil thing I'd ever done. For all the people I'd killed in my life, there was one person I could never hurt. Myself.
    The blade trembled against my neck, almost vibrating with Ellie's nervous energy. I was putting my life in