Damon Salvatore is a ruthless, heartless hunter of the worst kind-an assassin. However, when he meets his next target, unexpectedly, he finds himself hesitant to pull the trigger….


"Please god! No-Pl-please, don't! I'll do anything you want, just don't-" the woman's voice broke completely on a sob, and she covered her face with shaking hands.

The man's face, hidden under a black ski mask, was utterly devoid of any emotion as he raised his right hand, casually cocking the hammer of his gun, and checking to make sure he had screwed on the silencer. After all, guns were noisy things.

The woman had fallen to her knees, head bowed. As she heard the ominous click of the gun, however, she raised tear-stained, mud- brown eyes to the cold, cerulean eyes behind the mask. "Please," she whispered.

He pulled the trigger.


Damon Salvatore flicked his bedside light on, and sighed in exasperation. It was no use. He never could sleep the night he'd carried out a hit. Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see was his victims' last moments: the sounds of their desperate pleas, the dull thud their lifeless bodies made as they hit the ground, the way the anticipation would drain from his body, until all he could feel was weariness and an unnamable feeling of discontent. Almost like…guilt.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and chuckled grimly to himself. Assassins didn't feel guilt; they crushed guilt. It wasn't as if he were a rookie, after all. He'd been at this for five years now.

He could still remember his first hit- a girl by the name of Vicky Donovan. She had put up quite a fight, screamed, cried, and pleaded, until he'd had to pull the trigger just the shut the poor girl up. He'd also cried like a baby afterward. That was before he learned not to feel, to turn his humanity off completely. It was easier that way.

He must have dozed off in the midst of his morbid musings, because the sound of his phone ringing scared the crap out of him.

"What?" he growled into his cell.

"How did it go, mate?" the voice on the other end asked smoothly.

"Klaus, it's four in the morning, can't this wait 'til the morning?" Damon groaned, suppressing a yawn. His boss's timing really sucked.

Klaus's voice turned menacing. "I don't pay you six figures to sleep, mate, I want to know how it went tonight, now!"

"Just peachy, thanks, 'Damon replied sarcastically. 'Needless to say, Meredith Fell won't be able to testify against you next Thursday".

"Excellent," Klaus replied, " only one witness to go, and we're in the clear".

Damon was instantly alert. "What do you mean, 'one more'?" I thought this lady tonight was the last one".

Klaus sighed. "Unfortunately, the daughter of your first, er, assignments, the Gilberts, has come forward."

"What daughter? And how is she involved?" Damon's head was spinning. He really needed to crash, and here he was, chatting with his a-hole boss, at four in the freakin' morning!

"Apparently, the girl's parents were smart enough to clue their daughter in to some privy details. I didn't think she'd be a problem, but now she's changed her mind, and seems determined to put a damper on my plans." Klaus paused, and then went on in a different tone, "But you've had a long day, mate. We'll discuss the rest tomorrow. My office, ten sharp, Damon."

"Fine," Damon agreed.

The line went dead, leaving Damon to wonder what he was getting into now.


Klaus Mikaelson was one of the wealthiest and most influential businessmen in Chicago. He was also one of the most notorious mob bosses, who specialized in the smuggling of heroin and other drugs into the US and Mexico. Not that anyone in the white-collar business world he was a part of during the day knew that.

During the day, he was simply Klaus Mikaelson, handsome and successful CEO of Mikaelson Inc. that he ran with the assistance of his three brothers and sister. What did it matter that most of the Mikaelson wealth came from his other, more illicit operations? (That's what Klaus reasoned to himself, anyway).

He had it all. That is, he did, until some of his primary investors discovered some of his nighttime deals, and issued a court case against him, suing him for millions of dollars. Basically, they forced him to take drastic measures. Now, he was almost free; only one more 'accident' and he'd be in the clear.

He stared down at the photo in his hand, the one he planned to give Damon the next day as a reference. Little Elena Gilbert. She really was a beauty, he noted.

Too bad she wouldn't be alive much longer.