Death Is A Cruel Mistress

Mango’s body was slammed against the wall and slid down to the top of a dresser, knocking off a few pictures and trinkets in the dimly lit room.

She didn’t care though. She was preoccupied. Mango’s breath came hot and fast against John’s lips, their mouths crashing together with force, hunger. They weren’t kissing—they were devouring each other.

They were just swapping spit, but she could tell it was going to be good and rough

Just the way she liked it.

She didn’t know what bedroom she was in but it was obviously a guest room with nothing but a small bed, a bathroom, two dressers and a single window on each of the two outward facing walls. It confirmed her suspicion that the owner was rich.

Who else has a guest room in their college apartment?

But it’s good they had privacy now. It was just him and her and the bumping music covered any sound they made. It was perfect but she wanted to be loud. NEEDED to be loud.

He was controlling her body with strength and swiftness, touching her everywhere. He kissed her neck moving lower and lower till he began licking the top of her breasts that were sticking out from the top.

He likes foreplay, She thought.

Perfect.

Foreplay is a sign of an experienced lover. He couldn’t have been older than 22 and yet he knew how to take his time and build up everything the right way. He wasn’t so desperate to take it immediately, but hungry enough to pull down her dress top and lick her nipples like an animal.

John moved her effortlessly, adjusting her on the dresser. Her arms locked around his neck, pulling him in closer. His hands roamed, tracing the curves of her body—her waist, her hips, her thighs. His fingers slid higher, pushing up the hem of her dress.

Then—

SHINK!

Steel flashed.

Before she could react, John had ripped the knife from her thigh holster! Flipping it around quickly in his hand, he thrust the knife toward her neck.

Her instinct took over and Mango’s right arm shot up, blocking his strike. The blade stopped inches from her face.

She didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp twist of her wrist, she knocked his hand back, forcing him open. His grip was still on the knife.

Then she kicked him hard. Her foot slammed into his chest. He barely moved. He chuckled slightly. She kicked again, harder with both of her feet.. This time, he stumbled back.

Mango slid off the dresser, planting herself firmly on the floor.

Fuck, why’d he have to find the knife?

He pounced on her so fast, she didn’t have time to stash it in her purse. Her purse is in the bathroom though, discarded without care as soon as they were alone. She quickly looked up, expecting him to pounce again, but he was just standing there staring at her.

What the hell is he looking at?

John cleared his throat.

Oh yeah, she thought.

She fixed her dress, covering herself.

What a gentleman.

“You know you, we never locked the door.” he said.

“What can I say?” said Mango, “I love danger.”

“You can still walk away.”

“Aw, you don’t think I’m pretty?”

John rolled his shoulders, shaking his head with a smirk. He flipped the knife into a proper grip, blade pointing forward. He rolled his wrist looking at the blade.

“I thought it’d be bigger,” he said.

Now he’s a funny guy?

Mango kicked off her wedges. The moment her feet hit the ground, she cracked her neck and raised her fists.

John grinned. “Come on,” he taunted. “Show me that smile.”

Then he lunged.

Mango dodged, shifting backward as the knife sliced through the air. His strikes came fast, relentless—one after the other, stabbing, slashing. But he wasn’t fast enough.

She sidestepped, catching his wrist in a hard grip. In one fluid motion, she chopped at his hand, knocking the blade free, then drove her elbow into his face—once, twice.

John wrenched away, cradling his nose, blood trickling between his fingers.

Mango didn’t give him a second to recover.

She stepped in and kicked the inside of his knee, making it buckle. He dropped onto one leg, snarling.

She moved to finish it, lunging forward with a knee aimed for his face—

But he blocked. He shoved her back and got to his feet.

At least he doesn’t go down easy. This was going to be fun.

Mango pressed harder, unleashing a flurry of lightning-fast punches, Wing Chun style. But John matched her, parrying each one with precision.

Then, with a sharp twist, he hooked his leg and threw her with a Judo flip.

The floor slammed into her back, knocking the breath from her lungs.

John didn’t waste time. He lifted his boot and aimed for her head.

Mango rolled—just in time. His foot hit empty space.

But before she could rise, he pivoted and kicked—catching her mid-roll.

Her body slid across the floor, slamming into the wall with a painful thud.

He was on her in a flash with a second kick coming, fast, brutal.

She rolled again, narrowly avoiding the impact. Then, in one swift motion, she pushed off the floor and sprang to her feet.

John wiped the blood from his nose, still grinning.

Mango squared up.

Now, it was a fight.

A dull ache pulsed at the back of Mango’s neck as she rolled her shoulders.

John stood a few feet away, watching her closely. His stance was steady, but his expression was finally happy.

He’s really into foreplay.

Mango smiled.

“I think I love you,” she said.

John smirked. “Prove it.”

She struck fast, sending a sharp kick toward his chest.

John barely flinched. He absorbed the hit, catching her foot in his hands.

Mango twisted, using the momentum to roundhouse with her free leg. He barely had time to react before her heel slammed into his shoulder, breaking his grip.

John staggered back, his jaw tightening.

Then he attacked.

Elbows—hard ones. He threw them in quick, brutal strikes, forcing her on the defensive.

Mango blocked as best she could, but he was relentless.

Then came the left hook.

A strong one.

She barely dodged, tilting her head just enough to let it whip past her cheek.

PLUCK!

A sharp sting.

Mango blinked, pausing. Something felt weird.

Her fingers touched her ear.

Wet.

She looked at her hand.

Blood.

John’s brows furrowed in confusion. He opened his palm—his breath caught in his throat.

Is my new expensive earring gone?

A beat of silence.

The only sound being the hard club like beat from the other room.

“…That… that was an accident,” John muttered.

Mango’s eyes darkened.

Oh he did NOT do just do that!

She instantly began her furious barrage of punches, bypassing every one of his defenses. She wasn’t holding back anymore.

She grabbed his shirt and threw him against the wall. He rebounded—just in time for her foot to crash into his chest.

He slammed into the window.

A deep crack splintered across the glass.

John pushed off, launching back at her with a vicious kick.

Mango ducked under it, pivoted, and uppercut his knee.

He yelped in pain, stumbling.

She didn’t let up.

As he staggered, she flicked her foot up, kicking the fallen knife off the floor. The blade flipped through the air—

And she caught it.

With a single, smooth motion, she stabbed him deep in the side and slammed him into the wall.

John wailed, his body sagging. He slid down the wall, collapsing onto the floor, his breath ragged.

Mango stepped back, catching her breath.

She adjusted her hair, hands on her hips. “Damn,” she panted. “You lasted longer than most.”

John groaned, wincing at the blade lodged in his side. “So I’ve been told.” He coughed, eyes glassy from pain. “I don’t understand… How is this possible?”

Mango smirked. “You’ve got moves,” she admitted. “But you gotta learn how to dance. Now I—”

A wave of dizziness hit her.

She blinked.

Her knees buckled.

“…The fuck?” she muttered.

The world spun.

Her body tilted.

WHAT IS HAPPENING? WHAT IS HAPPENING? WHAT IS HAPPENING?

Her mind was racing but her body wasn’t responding. She didn’t get stabbed and such little blood loss is nothing to her!

John exhaled, shifting against the wall. “Finally,” he murmured. “Thought it’d never kick in.”

Kick in?, she thought. That could only mean… poison?

Mango’s breath hitched. “When…”

John pressed a hand to his bleeding side. “Damn,” he muttered. “You really got me.” He twisted slightly, assessing the damage. “Gonna have to deal with that later.”

Mango’s limbs felt heavy. Her vision blurred.

John sighed. “Can’t believe you drank it all,” he said, shaking his head. "You just drink anything someone hands you? I mean you were in the bathroom so long, I could’ve doubled the dose. Maybe I should've because you got some nice hands. I spotted you when you walked in, but I had to be sure. My brother hired you didn’t he? Some sort of ‘oh, he’ll never expect me to hire a woman assassin’. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.” He chuckled. “Then again… he is an idiot.”

Mango tried to speak, but her lips barely moved. John slowly stood up, leaving the knife in its place. An amateur would’ve ripped out a blade that deep and close to a vital spot by now and Mango would at least have the satisfaction of knowing he would bleed out.

No such luck.

“You knew?” she whispered, her voice weak.

John grinned, stepping over her. “I told you,” he said, looking down at her fading glare. “I’m going to be a garbage man. The best in fact. I’ll make sure the filth of this world is taken away.”

Mango’s body hit the floor.

No, no, no, no, no!

Her breath was shallow, her glassy eyes locked onto him, piercing, burning. She could feel herself slipping.

GET UP! GET UP!, she screamed in her head, a tear leaving her eye.

John walked to the door. He opened it, glancing back one last time.

“It’s a shame,” he said. “How often ‘party girls’ OD, isn’t it?”

Mango used all of her strength to speak.

“Who… Who are you really?” she muttered.

He turned to her and looked at her with stern cold eyes. The eyes of a reaper. You have to cut yourself off emotionally from your victims or they will haunt you forever. The only problem is to do that, you have to cut a piece of yourself off. Eventually there’s nothing left of who you used to be. She could see him making the slice in his soul through his eyes.

“I am John Nero,” he said coldly, “The youngest son of the Late Don Nero of the Nero family. The last of the Moors. And I am a garbage man.”

Then, he stepped out.

And Mango closed her eyes.

***

John walked out of the apartment and down the stairs to the parking lot.

John staggered through the night, one hand pressed against the knife still lodged in his side. Blood soaked his shirt, sticky and warm, but he barely acknowledged it. His breath was steady. His expression was tired.

The black limousine sat at the curb, engine humming low. Without hesitation, John opened the door and slid inside.

The soft scent of leather and expensive perfume filled the cabin. He sank into the seat with a quiet grunt, wincing as fresh pain flared up his side. The wound was bad, but not fatal. Not yet.

A voice drifted from the front. Smooth. Light. Almost amused.

“I see you enjoyed yourself.”

John exhaled, head tilting back against the headrest. “Wasn’t my type.” He closed his eyes. “Take me home. I’m pooped. I didn’t think he’d start so soon.”

A soft chuckle. “At least one of us had fun.”

John cracked an eye open. “And you didn’t?”

The driver turned her head slightly. Lea. Now dressed in business casual with black pants and jacket and a white shirt. The buttons on her shirt fought to keep everything in her bra from popping out.

“No,” she said flatly. “I gave it to you right in front of her, and she didn’t even question it.” She gave a quiet sigh. “How boring.”

John huffed a low, humorless laugh.

Lea’s eyes flicked to his in the rearview mirror. “So… are you finally ready to listen to the Director? We told you this would happen. And now that the game has started, it won’t stop till it’s done.”

His smirk vanished. “I can’t kill my own siblings, Lea. I’m not in the mob..”

Her lips curled. “Tell that to the knife.”

John glanced down at the handle still protruding from his side. He had no response.

Lea turned back, shifting the limo into drive. The city lights blurred as they pulled away.

“Your siblings won’t stop,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Not until there’s only one of you left to inherit it all. Now that your father’s gone…”

John started to speak—then stopped.

He turned toward the window, watching the neon glow of the city smear into streaks.

Leia’s voice softened, almost persuasive.

“Someone’s going to win,” she murmured. “Don’t you think it’s best in the hands of the United States?” With that, Lea took out a badge from the glove compartment and clipped it to the side of her pants.

With a quiet whirr, the privacy screen rolled up, revealing the emblem of the CIA.

Chief is gonna have a field day with me, John thought as his mind began to drift.

Outside, the black limousine slipped seamlessly into traffic, its dark silhouette lost in the flashing lights of the city—

Until it disappeared completely.