Sister Death (Acid Vanilla Series Book 4) Matthew Hattersley (the false prince .TXT) 📖

many pies behind the scenes.” He put his fist in his other palm and cracked the knuckles. “This about The Dullahan’s lad?”

Acid sniffed. “Nephew. So you’ve heard?”

“I keep my eye on things. Pays to know what your clients are up to. You know me Acid, I stay impartial. Anything else is bad for business.” He leaned closer, his gravelly voice even rougher as he lowered it to a harsh whisper. “But I take it you also know who’s here, who took the job?”

She nodded. “Do you know where she is?”

“No. And that’s the truth. I sold her a few items going through in the other direction a month or so ago. She’s been in Spain a while, from the sounds of it.”

“I like to think she’s been hiding from me.” The way she said it, it sounded like a joke, but she really hoped it was true.

“You here to kill her?”

She looked out across the ocean. “I’m here for the boy. But if she gets in my way that would be a nice bonus.”

“I had wondered whether you might have let the old vendetta go, after everything…”

“No. Not a chance.” She huffed bitterly to herself. “Those bastards betrayed me, killed my mother. They deserve to die, all of them, only…” She trailed off.

“You don’t want to get yourself killed in the process?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe. Let’s just say I’m working through a few things.”

“Well, I’d hate to lose a customer.”

“Don’t write me off yet,” she told him. “I always finish what I’ve started.”

He nodded and ran his tongue across his top teeth. “I’m surprised Magpie Stiletto took the job, to be honest. Kind of domestic for her. But I guess she was bored since Caesar disappeared.”

“Have you heard anything of him?”

He laughed. Back to his jovial self again. “Come on, love. You know better than to ask me that. Bad for business, like I say. Speaking of which…” He waved his hand over the box of guns. “What can I do for you?”

She held his gaze a moment longer, before turning her attention back to the guns. “What do you suggest?”

“I’ve got a nice Russian piece, an MP-446 Viking.” He reached into the box and pulled it out, handed it to her. “It’s a variant of the Rook, used by the Russian police. Not as powerful as its counterpart, but lighter. 9mm. Eighteen in the mag. Clean and unused, like always.”

Acid held the gun at arm’s length, feeling the weight in her grip. “Do you have any Glocks?”

“Only a 21, I’m afraid. As I say, they’ve been flying off the shelves lately.”

“No. I don’t want a forty-five.” She shoved the Viking down the back of her shorts and let her t-shirt fall over the top. “I’ll take the nine and four mags’ worth of ammo. That should do me.”

“An excellent choice,” Sonny beamed, reaching into the box and stuffing four magazines into a small zip-up bag. “For you, my dear, I’ll do the lot for two thousand euros.”

He handed her the ammo and she slipped it in her bag, before pulling out a roll of notes – a loan from The Dullahan – and handing it over. “Here you go, that’s two thousand exactly.”

“Wonderful. I won’t bother counting it. I trust ya.”

“I’m glad.”

“I also know where to find ya,” he rasped, over a phlegmy laugh. He held up the roll of euros. “Great doing business with you again and sorry I couldn’t be more help. You ask me though, Acid, both Delgado and Stiletto should be approached with caution. Before you say it, I know you can handle yourself, but still, don’t get cocky. You hear me?”

“I won’t,” she told him. “And thank you.”

There was an awkward moment where she almost gave him a hug but pulled herself back at the last moment.

Jesus.

“I’ll see you around then,” she mumbled, already returning back towards the centre. As she reached the main road, she heard Sonny shouting something after her. She didn’t turn around, but it sounded like he was saying good luck and be careful. Be very careful indeed.

Fifteen

Leaving the Dove of Peace behind her, Acid drifted down a side street that led to the main part of the city before crossing the bridge back into the old town. A particularly authentic-looking taberna had caught her eye on the way to meet Sonny and she was now drawn there. Just the one drink. To level her nerves a little.

An air of excitement hung over the streets as she passed by chattering groups of locals. Everyone seemed to be gearing up for some kind of festival. Stalls were being set up, a stage too, with colourful flags stretching from building to building, whilst off in the distance a hidden sound system blasted out bass-heavy electronica. This could go either way, she thought, as a man with a large papier-mâché devil head approached her. Crowds were often useful, especially in her old line of work where the goal was often to slip away unseen, but they also meant finding The Dullahan’s nephew would be trickier.

Luckily, she found the taberna easily enough (a compact but tasteful establishment called Paco Bueno), and the second she stepped foot inside, her stomach was grumbling. The enforced juice cleanse of the last few days might have done her good but now it was real sustenance she needed. Something hot and salted and garlicky. And a beer, or two, why not? When in Rome and all that… The stout man behind the counter greeted her with a large smile as she entered.

“Hola, quieres algo de comer?”

Acid slid her sunglasses onto her head. “Sí, por favor,” she replied. Her Spanish was ropey after years of disuse, but she liked to try. “Qué es bueno?”

“Ah, you are English?” the man boomed. “I sorry, you look Spanish, no?”

She allowed him a sweet smile. As sweet as she ever got, at least. “My mother was Italian. I guess that’s it.”

“Ah, bueno. What can I get you, Miss Italy?”

She was already scouring