Table Of ContentHIS SNOW WHITE
VIVI PAIGE
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CONTENTS
Blurb
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
About the Author
BLURB
She came to kill me, but did much, much worse…
She made me fall in love with her.
Selina Yeltsin: black hair, pale complexion and curves for days… she’s like Snow White.
If Snow White were a hired killer.
Her dad was one of the biggest of the Olaf family bosses.
Until Selina’s stepmother had him assassinated.
Then Selina went to work for her as a hired gun.
She’s polished off sixty-nine targets. Her seventieth buys her freedom.
Guess who it is?
Me.
Aiden Mayne.
It’s fitting, actually.
Because offing people is my calling in life, as well.
I’m sent to handle the problems that float back to the surface no matter how many times you flush.
I’ve never stayed in one place long enough to settle down with a woman.
Why would I? When I could have had anyone I want?
Could have. Past tense.
Because the moment I meet Selina, it hits me.
We belong together.
This is my woman. The one I’ll never leave.
I’ll fight and kill for her.
Even as she tries to kill me.
ONE
The heat surging from the tightly packed soil created a shimmering mirage in the air as I stepped out
into the bright sunlight. A surging cheer echoed across the Plaza de toros de la Real Maestranza de
Caballería de Sevilla, one of Spain’s oldest and most sagaciously regarded bullfighting rings.
I appealed to the crowd with a wave, my Traja de luces resplendent with gold and maroon. The
people’s faces appeared indistinct beyond the veil of heat rising from the earth and the gold bedecked
stones of the ancient structure. I could feel the history there, throbbing through my feet as surely as the
roar of the crowd throbbed through my breast.
Having so many eyes upon me might seem the very antithesis of my chosen profession, and with good
reason. I’m a Cleaner, also more commonly referred to by people who have no real knowledge of the
underworld by the rather unflattering nom de guerre “hitman.” Simply put, I kill people for money.
But things are never simple. Are they? For example, you’d think Antonio Gallagos would have
learned by the examples of those who died before him that the Mayne Brothers LLC does not look
kindly upon those who traffic children. Not kindly at all. But he went and did it anyway. Didn’t he?
And then he hired a veritable army of bodyguards to protect him at his Madrid villa and hasn’t
ventured outside of it in weeks. My reputation is starting to suffer. Normally I conclude my business
in short order. Not to sound conceited, but I am really quite good at what I do.
My uncle Lucian saw potential in me from an early age. He sowed the seeds of my future, sending me
to train with every type of martial arts master you could imagine. Brazilian Ju Jitsu? Got my purple
belt at twelve. Muay Thai? I was middleweight champion at sixteen. Krav Magra? Highly overrated
and derivative. I stopped studying and spent my time pursuing lovely Israeli girls instead.
I have a reputation for more than just being good at my job…
But I digress. You’re not interested in hearing my back story. Are you? No, you want action, blood,
passion, and intrigue. Steamy, incredibly profound romance? You’re in luck. My story has all of that
and so much more.
I took my position in the center of the arena, sweat rolling off my skin in rivulets. One thing a lot of
people don’t realize about Spain is how blasted hot it is most of the year. And needless to say, the dirt
packed arena of the Sevilla offers nary one strip of shade at this time of day. It must be murder in the
stands. At least I was getting a breeze to cool the sweat on my skin.
They released the bull so I could begin the first phase, the tercio de varas. It was a magnificent beast,
all surly rippling muscle beneath a shiny black fur replete with a glaze of sweat. Its horns gleamed,
sharp and deadly as it stampeded out a dozen yards onto the packed earth.
Like most of its ilk, this bull has spent most of its life living free on a ranch with next to no human
contact. Then it was captured, shoved into a narrow stable on a truck, and driven here in high heat.
Needless to say, it was a little bit perturbed.
I snapped my capote about to get its attention. Time to find out if my three-day crash course on
bullfighting was going to pay off.
The bull lowered its horns and charged at me, kicking up gouts of dry dirt beneath its ferocious
hooves. I rose onto the balls of my feet, waiting until the last moment to twist just out of reach of its
deadly horns.
The crowd roared with approval, so apparently I moved with at least enough grace to be convincing.
This stage was all about testing the bull, seeing its patterns and which horn it favors. My bovine
opponent seemed to prefer goring me with his right horn, but I didn’t think he’d be picky about
impaling me with the left one, either.
The bull twisted about, bucking its rear end and pivoting on its front legs. It snorted loudly enough I
could hear it over the crowd. I snapped the capote about, and it dug in for another charge.
I swept to the side, allowing its deadly horns to pass by within an eyelash of my brocaded vestments
of light—lowly silver because even I’m not arrogant enough to wear the elite gold. The crowd had
surged to their feet, waiting with bated breath for the next pass.
I didn’t have much time. Soon the picador would appear, a lancer mounted on an armored, blinkered
horse. His role was to impale the bull’s muscular shoulders with a spear in order to weaken it for the
eventual, ritualistic kill.
I had no intention of letting things go that far. While I have no compunctions about killing people—
obviously given my profession—I don’t have the stomach to kill animals. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not
one of those nimbys who want to abolish bullfighting. I realize it has great cultural significance, even
religious overtones, for the people who practice it.
That doesn’t mean I want to participate, however. I’d come to kill Gallagos, not the bull.
I’d been working my way slowly toward the north end of the stands, where Gallagos sat beneath a red
canopy draped over doric columns painted bright yellow. The Seville is a beautiful structure. I’ll give
it that. You’d never know just how blood soaked the ground really is.
I could see him now, beyond the bull’s heaving sides, watching with a slight grin on his mustachioed
face. I wondered if he grinned like that while he sold children, peddling them like goods on the
market? Usually when Lucian asked me to eliminate someone, it wasn’t personal. It was just business.
I didn’t allow myself to enjoy the actual killing because I’m not a sadist or a butcher.
But this time, just this one time, I’d decided Gallagos’ crimes warranted a certain pleasure in his
demise. The sound of the gate drawing up to allow the picador’s ingress stirred me out of my semi
reverie.
The bull charged in, and I swept to the side again, thrilling the crowd. Then I bent low and charged,
my feet kicking up dirt just as the bull’s hooves had before. Gallagos’ face crossed with a confused
frown just as I leaped up and leveraged myself over the wall.
One of his bodyguards, apparently not so slow on the uptake as Gallagos, moved to intercept me, but I
threw my capote into his face. While he grappled with the surprisingly heavy cloth, I charged in at
Gallagos unobstructed.
“No jodas con los Maynes,” I said. Don’t fuck with the Maynes.
Then I buried the espana’s shimmering length smoothly into his breast. Gallagos’ mouth opened to
allow a frothy fountain of blood to escape. I could have withdrawn my blade cleanly, and he would
have died without much further pain.
But that’s not what I wanted. Gallagos deserved an agonizing death. So, I took the copper-wrapped
hilt in both hands and twisted it viciously. Gallagos tried to scream, choking on his own blood and
vomit.
I left the sword imbedded in his chest and ran in an entirely different direction than anyone would
have thought; I jumped over the wall and back into the arena. Any good assassin knows to plan their
escape route ahead of time. And I’m not just any good Assassin. I’m the best.
The picador struggled to control his mount. The armored beast had picked up on its rider’s anxiety.
That worked in my favor as I dashed up and seized his wrist. With a mighty yank, I pulled him off of
the horse to collapse into a groaning pile on the hard-packed dirt.
The crowd was screaming now, in a state of panic. This was not the type of bloodshed they were
expecting. But perhaps it was the type they deserved for harboring one such as Gallagos in their
midst.
I ripped the blinder off the horse and kicked my heels into his flanks. The horse took off like a bolt of
lightning, and I guided him toward the yawning exit. As I rode hard, the portcullis began lowering.
I knew I’d never make it through in time. I’d be unmounted, or perhaps even decapitated or impaled.
Digging my heels in harder, slapping the reins on the horse’s flanks to encourage greater speed, I
tilted myself in the saddle and rode under the portcullis like a true Comanche warrior on the ancient
plains of America.
The horse and I plunged into the dark tunnel, which smelled of dirt and livestock, past surprised
members of my entourage who no doubt would be quite displeased they wouldn’t get to duel the bull
by my side, and out through the rear exit of the arena.
Surprised pedestrians scrambled to get out of my way as I galloped down the avenue. The streets
were old here, narrow and twisty, and it was quite easy to get lost. But one of the most important
attributes an assassin could have is a good memory.
