Table Of Content

THE DARK KNIGHT ANGELS AND ASSASSINS: BOOK IV K. ALEX WALKER JESSICA WATKINS PRESENTS CONTENTS Also by K. Alex Walker Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Giorgio’s Vow Epilogue The Dark Knight Playlist About the Author To Kerrie, John, Ava, and Jay. ALSO BY K. ALEX WALKER The Game of Love The Game of Love: Book I The Game of Love: Book II Angels and Assassins The Wolf: Book I The Protector: Book II The Anarchist: Book III A Fighting Chance - An Angels and Assassins Novella More from K. Alex Walker Fated - A Contemporary Erotic Romance The Woman He Wanted With A Kiss, I Die The Things We Hide - Coming This Fall (2019) CHAPTER ONE G P ’ , IORGIO OZZA DIDN T DRINK MUCH BUT THE SCANTILY DRESSED WOMAN balancing drinks on a tray had passed by four times already to take a peek at the vodka he still had in his glass. Each time, she would plaster one of her long, decorated nails on what was probably a semen-covered tabletop and repeat her request more than once for a refill, using her elbows to push her breasts nearly out of her nurse’s costume, toward him. But he wasn’t at a strip club in the middle of Moscow’s hidden, lecherous underground network because he was looking for cheap ass. From the moment he sat down, his gaze had barely wavered from his target—Mischa Ivanovich, one of the sons of Dom Ivanovicha, the Russian House of Ivanovich, though Mischa continuously proved himself unworthy of the family name. While his brothers were building empires with the money Daddy had given them, he was splurging his trust fund in strip clubs and on women who only wanted him for his net worth. Every woman who surrounded the twenty-something, reckless blond in public knew they would be getting a lifetime of hell if they ever considered a real relationship with him. What mattered was how stupid he was, how loose he was with his money. What those same blonde ballerinas and auburn-haired starlets didn’t see, however, was Mischa now. The way he salivated over brown skin in a way that had gone way past appreciation. It was common knowledge, Russian men and their twisted obsession with black women. And it would have been comical...had Daddy dearest, sick of his prodigal offspring, not put a multi- million-dollar hit out on Mischa’s head. It didn’t surprise Giorgio he could find an underground club for men who wanted to indulge in this particular fetish on multiple levels—watching, waiting, touching, tasting. Humans often repulsed him, shamed him to be part of the same species. It was the same type of humans of ill repute who had created him, trained him to be the monster he was today. “Most men don’t sit so far away from the stage.” She was back. That finger was, again, on the tabletop. It then went from the tabletop to her bottom lip, and he wondered if people understood exactly how deadly bacteria could be. She had probably just deposited a colony of strep onto her lip, and there were strains of strep that could eat away human flesh in seconds. “Maybe you’re waiting for a private dance?” She turned around, bent over, exposed a bare, pink ass. “Free of charge, dark and mysterious? I’ll even throw in a quick suck. You look like you have a healthy, juicy Russian cock.” Sharp metal pressed against Giorgio’s thigh. It had been a while since he’d killed for sport; bounty hunting and the occasional legitimate had done well to fill that void. There was something satisfying about sticking a blade into the bone of a man who thought it was okay to touch little boys. Something satisfying about watching him seize until the light went out of his eyes. And though his years at Cross of Honour School weren’t erased with each kill, at the very least, the compulsions that had been trained into him were controlled. Somewhat. “Fine.” The woman stood, anger forming a crease in her peach-pale forehead. “You want a refill on that vodka you have been babysitting all night?” Giorgio took another glance around the room. There were only three other bounty hunters there—Emile, Tag, Brisset. With the price tag on Mischa’s head, he’d assumed there would be more, but the man traveled with a cavalry. Knowledge of places like these also wasn’t widespread. Had he not spent a good portion of his life in this country, in these tunnels, he might not have been able to find it. At least, not as quickly. Still, at the very least, Mischa should have been in hiding. Either the man was ignorant, or overly confident in the ability of his security detail to protect him. The music changed from fast-paced to sultry, slow. The lights on stage went from white to red with a few harsh pops of purple overhead. Where before it had been numerous women on stage, shaking their asses to the music, it was now just one. The only women who remained dancing were those on individual tabletops, but the men had abandoned them, all but running to the stage. The minute she appeared onstage, Giorgio knew she was different. Only her eyes were visible, the rest of her face covered by some kind of lacy shawl. She was covered from her face to her stiletto-covered feet in red. Her skin was an even bronze. Supple. Her movements were smooth, and her waist as it gyrated was almost...graceful. While he knew these underground strip clubs harbored all sorts of women from around the globe, he was hard pressed to believe any of the women he’d seen dancing, especially at this particular club, had been trained in classical ballet. This woman was. She was too fluid, too alluring. He’d barely spared a glance at the stage the entire night, waiting until Ivanovich was good and drunk before he took pleasure in slicing the man’s bodyguards’ necks, but he could hardly look away from this woman. Which was why he noticed she could hardly look away from Mischa. The sensation that simmered inside him wasn’t jealousy. The women here were working girls, and he would never consider forming an attachment to any of them. Or any woman in general. It was never worth it, in the end. But there was...something. Something specifically about her. And if he wasn’t mistaken—she slid down into a squat, legs spread in a wide V in front of Mischa’s face—she was doing more than giving the rich playboy extra attention. She was studying him. The woman took a few spins around the pole but then left the stage, climbing down onto the platform where men’s hands reached out to try to stick a bill in some part of her outfit. Her breasts were barely contained in her strappy top and her behind was covered, but the fabric was even more sheer than the scarf she wore on her face. Every curve and outline of her plump little ass was on display. Giorgio rose, swallowed the rest of the bitter, low-quality vodka, and secured a pair of leather gloves on his hands. He felt eyes on him as he strode toward where Mischa was sitting. Anyone who spotted him knew why he was there, which meant they had two choices: they could leave and let him have the kill since he always got his kill, or they could try to take him on and give him multiple heads to turn in for profit. The woman bent over in front of Mischa. Mischa pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and closed his eyes, his palms flat against the woman’s behind and inching downward toward her vagina. But she wouldn’t let him touch her. Giorgio had figured out why she was there. She spun around. Giorgio grabbed her arm. Mischa’s eyes opened, and his lustful stupor was replaced with shock when he saw the blade just inches from the large vein in his neck. He looked up at Giorgio and, upon noticing him, his eyes went wide as saucers. But the blade wasn’t coming from Giorgio. It was coming from the pretty dancer who had been trying to seduce him. Pissed, clear brown eyes met Giorgio’s. “The fuck are you doing?” she asked. Mischa, suddenly aware of his imminent death, realization weaving its way through the maze of inebriation, screamed. Loud. If he hadn’t been looking directly at him, Giorgio would have assumed it was one of the girls. Bullets began spraying throughout the club. The DJ booth, though empty, was still lit and playing music. Giorgio released the dancer’s arm. In the same motion, he brandished a machete he’d had strapped to his side, ignoring the commotion of tables and chairs being knocked over and the cries of the attendants as they scrambled for the exit. He lifted the blade, but one of Mischa’s men ran into him at full speed, hitting him in the abdomen. The man was large enough to knock him off his center of gravity and send him flying backward into the commotion. The machete fell from his hand. A punch landed in his face. Giorgio ignored the blows and looked at where he’d left his target. Mischa was headed for the door. Registering the assault to his body, Giorgio turned his attention back to the bodyguard. When the man lifted his fist to bring another blow down into Giorgio’s cheekbone, he blocked the blow with his forearm. He pressed his thumb against his palm, bringing forth a blade from the seam of the glove, and sunk it into the man’s temple. The bodyguard’s eyes rolled before he fell limp. Giorgio shoved him off his body, retracted the blade, grabbed his machete, and continued his pursuit. Before Mischa could push his way through the exit, the dancer appeared