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"Will you fucking die already?" Voltaire pressed the right heel of her gold Zanotti’s into the bullet hole in the man’s neck. The idiot keeping her from her date struggled—a futile effort, if she did say so herself. His cobalt-blue eyes stared up at her from his position on the floor, pleading for mercy while his body twitched. Wet sounds gurgled in his throat, then he coughed. Dark red blood flew everywhere, dotting the back of her heel and running like a red stream down the corner of his mouth. Pink tears leaked from his eyes.
"Damn it, now look what you’ve done." She lifted her foot off his throat to inspect the damage to her shoe. "I bought these today, specially for this occasion, and you go and fuck them up."
Men. Can’t train them, or horsewhip them in the middle of the street. What the hell is there left to do? Kill ‘em.
She knelt beside the man, who was getting bluer by the minute, and shook her head. "You know, that colour does great things for your skin tone." She grabbed the sleeve of his white shirt and wiped off her heel. Blood pooled under him, sinking into the plush, grey carpet. She glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. He had some fabulous things in this office—she’d take a tour of the house if she wasn’t so damned strapped for time.
A dull buzzing started on the left side of her skull, annoying as a mosquito.
"Will you stop already with the fucking mind control? You’ve been trying it all night, and has it worked?" She lifted an eyebrow and projected her thoughts to him. Obviously not. You pissed off the Council and they’ve marked you for extinction. She bared her teeth. "Unfortunately for you, they gave you to me as a going away gift."
Tugging the bowie knife from her ankle strap, she slashed his throat with a flick of her wrist.
"That’s for taking up so much of my goddamn time."
She fished the disposable cell phone from the back pocket of her jeans and pulled off her black gloves with her teeth. Hitting the redial button, she straightened and stepped delicately over the body on her way to the door.
Voltaire paused at the threshold and took one last look over her shoulder to admire her handiwork. Damn, sometimes she astonished even herself. The married father of four hadn’t batted an eye when she’d sent him a drink at the bar then offered herself to him for the night. She gave him bonus points for not taking her to his marital home. Apparently Mr Moneybags kept an apartment downtown for his nightly hook-ups.
Fucking men. Is nothing sacred anymore? Sure, she’d been paid a couple of mil to kill him, but still.