Through the Crosshairs

Rain drums against the leaves above him, each droplet catching the sharp glow of the streetlamps beyond. Marcus settles deeper into the shadows, rifle scope trained on the window of the Sicilian terrace house that's become her prison. Twenty-seven days he's been watching Elena Vaccari, and now that the kill order's finally arrived, he still hasn't taken the shot.

Through the crosshairs, she moves like liquid poetry. Tonight she's wearing that cream silk dressing gown again, the one that clings to her curves when she forgets to tie it properly. She waters her small collection of plants on the windowsill, fingers rustling against the leaves. The way she bites her lower lip when she's concentrating sends an unwelcome jolt of heat through his chest.

He told himself it was reconnaissance, learning her routines, her vulnerabilities. But when Elena stepped from the shower just now, steam curling around her like a lover's embrace, his determination crumbled.

She stood before the misted mirror, towel slung low on her hips, water droplets glistening on the valley between her immaculate breasts. Marcus's knuckles whitened on the rifle's scope as her fingertips brushed a nipple, pink and pebbled under her touch, rolling it slowly between thumb and forefinger. A soft sigh escaped her lips, visible even through the grimy windowpane. 

 

When her hand slid lower, parting the dark thatch of curls between her thighs, Marcus's own breath hitched. The rifle trembled in his grip as she braced one foot on the toilet seat, opening herself wider. Her middle finger circled her clit with the absentminded precision of someone revisiting a favorite melody. He could see the exact moment arousal overtook her, the way her head fell back, throat working as she pressed two fingers inside herself, palm grinding against her swollen pussy. Marcus's cock strained against his jeans, torn between the urge to put a bullet between her shoulder blades and the need to replace her fingers with his tongue.

Professional detachment. That's what this requires. But when she pads barefoot across the hardwood floor, her dark hair tumbling over one shoulder, Marcus finds his finger frozen on the trigger.

She's supposed to testify against Santino Spada in three weeks. The mob boss has paid handsomely for her silence, the permanent kind. Marcus has never failed to complete a contract. Never even hesitated.

Until now.

Elena pauses at the window, gazing out into the storm. For a moment, it's as if she's looking directly at him. Her hand comes up to touch the glass, and Marcus imagines he can feel the warmth of her palm against his cheek. The thought disturbs him more than it should.

Just take the bloody shot, he tells himself. But the scope remains trained on her face, memorising the elegant line of her neck, the fullness of her mouth.

Everything goes wrong on a Tuesday.

And then, she's suddenly gone.

Elena breaks protocol, slipping out of the safe house whilst her protection detail is changing shifts. Marcus catches a glimpse of her as she disappears in between the lower buildings. He doesn't hesitate for a second. 

He tracks her through the dusty streets of Paternò, his pulse quickening when she ducks into a narrow alley, the same alley where two of Spada's men are waiting.

Training takes over. Marcus emerges from the shadows just as the larger man grabs Elena's arm. His silenced pistol whispers twice, and both threats crumple to the wet pavement.

Elena spins towards him, dark eyes wide with shock and something that might be recognition. 

"You," she breathes.

"We need to move. Now." His voice comes out rougher than intended.

She doesn't argue, which surprises him. They run together through the maze of the backstreets, his hand occasionally brushing the small of her back to guide her. Each touch sends electricity up his arm.

They take shelter in an abandoned warehouse. Elena presses against the brick wall, chest rising and falling rapidly. Rain has made her silk gown cling to her skin in ways that make Marcus look away sharply.

"Who are you?" she gasps, stepping closer despite the danger he represents.

"Someone who shouldn't be helping you." The words taste like confession.

Her eyes search his face. "But you are helping me."

When she reaches out to touch the cut on his cheek, a souvenir from another job, Marcus catches her wrist. Her pulse flutters beneath his thumb like a trapped bird. Neither of them pulls away.

"You don't know what I am," he warns, voice low.

"I know you could have let them take me." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "But you didn't."

The space between them crackles with unspoken tension. Marcus releases her wrist, but she doesn't step back. If anything, she moves closer, until he can smell her perfume... something floral and dangerous. When he realises that she's still wearing nothing but her dressing gown, Marcus knows their conversation is about to become far more complicated than he'd planned.

"How long have you been watching me?" she continues.

"Twenty-seven days." The admission falls from his lips like a stone.

Elena's fingers tighten on the knot of her gown. "You're him. The one Santino hired."

"Yes."

She should run. Should scream. Instead, she steps closer, close enough that she can see the droplets of sweat clinging to his neck.

"But you haven't killed me."

"No." The word is barely audible.

"Why?" She sighs into his ear.

Marcus looks at this woman he was meant to destroy, this fierce creature who's risking everything for justice. "Because somewhere between watching you water your plants and seeing you cry over the evening news, I fell in love with you."

The silence stretches taut as a wire. Then Elena's hand comes up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over the stubble there.

"I did feel watched," she whispers. "But not threatened. Protected."

When their lips meet, it's like a dam bursting. All the tension, the fear, the desperate longing crashes over them. Marcus pulls her against him, hands tangling in her damp hair, and she responds with equal hunger.

They move together with the desperation of people who know tomorrow isn't promised. Elena's gown immediately pools at their feet as Marcus traces every curve he's admired from afar, from the elegant line of her spine, the soft swell of her hips, the delicate hollow at the base of her throat, those incredible breasts that swayed so elegantly when she stepped out of the shower.

"I dreamed about this," she confesses against his mouth, fingers working at his shirt buttons with trembling urgency. "About you touching me like this."

His control snaps. Marcus lifts her onto an old and dusty desk, mouth finding the pulse point at her neck that's haunted his dreams. She arches beneath him, soft gasps filling the space between them.

Every touch carries the weight of their impossible situation. The knowledge that danger lurks just beyond these walls makes each caress more precious. When Marcus's hands map the territory of her body, it's with possessive delicacy, as if she might disappear if he's not careful enough.

Elena's fingers trace the scars on his chest, evidence of a violent life she's choosing to accept.

The desk groans beneath them as Marcus pins her arms above her head, his calloused thumb stroking the frantic pulse at her inner wrist.

"You shouldn't want this," he growls against her throat, teeth scraping skin already flushed with urgency. "Shouldn't want me."

Elena arches, her bare thigh sliding against the rough denim still trapping his arousal.

"Then make me regret it," she dares, breath hitching as his free hand cups her breast, not gently, but with the desperate claim of a man starved.

The wind lashes the tattered curtains at the window when he tears open his belt buckle, the metallic clang sharp against her whimper. He shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself, his cock springing thick and angry-red against his stomach, veins standing proud along the shaft. Elena doesn't wait for invitation. Her hand darts out, fingers wrapping tightly around the base, thumb smearing the pearl of pre-cum over the swollen head.

"Fuck, you're greedy," he rasps, watching her push up on her elbows to take him into her mouth. Her tongue swirls around the crown, hot and wicked, before she sinks down until her nose brushes the coarse hair at his groin. Marcus fists her damp hair, not guiding, just feeling the obscene stretch of her lips around him, the vibration of her moan as he hits the back of her throat. 

 

When he drags her off by her hair, a silver strand of saliva connects her swollen lips to his glistening cock.

 

"On your back," he orders, voice gravel. "Legs spread. Want to see every fucking inch of you when I take what's mine." 

 

She obeys, knees falling wide to expose her glistening cunt, so deliciously pink and hungry, her clit throbbing visibly. Marcus spits into his palm, slicks himself roughly before notching his cock head at her entrance. One brutal thrust buries him to the hilt. Elena screams, nails raking down his back as he sets a punishing rhythm, hips slapping against her ass with each deep drive. The desk slams the wall behind them in time with their gasps, her cunt pulsing around him like a frantic heartbeat.

 

Her legs lock around his hips, heels digging into the scars mapping his lower back as she takes all of him... the violence in his thrusts, the tenderness in the way his mouth finds hers between curses.

 

"Gonna remember this," he snarls against her neck, biting the tendon there as she's feeling the storm building inside of her. "Remember how you fucking milk me when I fill you up."

 

Her climax hits like a bullet between the ribs, stealing her breath as he follows her over the edge, forehead pressed to hers in something too raw to be mere fucking. His release comes hot and thick, pumping into her as she trembles beneath him, both of them dripping with sweat and sin, the gun still cold against the wall.

Afterwards, they lie entwined, Elena's head on Marcus's chest as he traces lazy patterns on her bare shoulder.

The sound of sirens wails in the distance, a reminder that their sanctuary is temporary.