Accidentally Yours (Merffy Kizzmet) novel Chapter 229

Chapter 229

…

Cologne–expensive, deliberate. She didn’t have to see the face.

Hi, Gino. Boogie bitch.

Hands guided her to the lip. A voice at her ear tried menace and landed on middle management. “Hands. Quiet.”

85

She nodded like a saint, angled like a problem, and inventoried what mattered. Six, maybe eight on the grab, close–work bodies. The rest lay deeper, staged, bored, dangerous. Good. Tests should have teeth.

On the nearest chest rig: a fat black industrial marker, Velcroed horizontal, tip taped shut. Warehouse gear. Inventory lifeline. Her mouth went bright with a ridiculous, private joy.

There’s my pen.

The shove came; hip, shoulder, knee. In that half–stumble she stole it: two fingers under elastic, twist, mine. She tore the tape with her teeth, spat glue, and palmed the marker low like a knife no one respects until it ruins their night.

The grip on her arm tightened. “Don’t-”

She turned the warning into a wristlock. The man hit the van wall with a sound like overdue rent. The cap popped free, ticked into the van’s ribs, and was gone from the world of concerns.

The tip kissed skin.

A single, clean black line straight across his throat.

One.

He gagged, mostly insult. Another reached. She shaved his grab by an inch, hammered his elbow on steel, buried a knee in his thigh to kill the step. The marker slid the verdict across his windpipe black, obvious, unforgivable.

Two.

A headlock from behind, training–wheels move. She ducked under, stole his lapel, bounced his face off the door frame. A line across his throat made him sit inside his body in a stunned, quiet way.

Three.

No gloating. No monologue, Just work: fast, exact, unromantic and maybe a little internal singing.

I’m gonna swing

From the chandelier, from the chandelier

I’m gonna live

Like tomorrow doesn’t exist, like it doesn’t exist

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11:36 Mon, Oct 20 M…

Chapter 229

I’m gonna fly

Like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry

I’m gonna swing

From the chandelier, from the chandelier

85

A knife flashed. She took the wrist, slammed it to steel; the blade skittered away. People love knives when they don’t understand leverage. Her pen squeaked soft and nasty down the next throat.

Four.

They hustled her onto the dock and into light. The warehouse spread in pockets: low amber cones pooling under high sodium lamps; one corridor lined with ring lights white halos with black void between; plastic sheets clacked faintly in the air’s current; smoke hugged the floor like a rumor waiting to be believed.

Boots scuffed. Radios breathed. Doors waited to lie.

Two moved in with measured hands. She broke one on a hip pivot, folded the other with a misstep she lent him, inked both before their eyes caught up.

Five.

Six.

A silhouette at the lip of amber. Gino. Suit under a soft jacket. No words.

She closed like a period.

His punch had weight and confidence; hers had leverage and malice. Inside his arc heel of her hand to the hinge of his jaw, a switch foot hooked his heel, center gone. He hit chest–first; her knee doubled him and something in his ribs complained. She dragged the marker once, twice, three times across his throat, hard enough the skin rasped. When he tried to rise, she set him back down with a palm across the serratus and left a bruise that would sing tomorrow.

Seven.

Leave him there. Lessons don’t need commentary.

The ring–light corridor beckoned. Circles of harsh white; rectangles of dark. Men waited under the second ring and the fifth, patient silhouettes. She stepped into the black between halos and let their eyes overexpose.

Under the second ring a body lunged–telegraphing everything. She ghosted past, trapped elbow, turned height into lever, wrote his throat without breaking stride.

Eight.

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