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  Dirty Darlings: IDENTIFY

  Denise Wells

  Copyright © 2021 by Denise Wells

  www.DeniseWells.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For Danielle Norman - who changed everything for me without even realizing it.

  Throw me to the wolves, and I’ll return leading the pack.

  Daria Limonov

  Contents

  A note from Denise

  Also by Denise Wells

  1. Daria - Twenty Years Ago

  2. Quinn – Present Day

  3. Reed – One Week Before

  4. Quinn

  5. Mack

  6. Daria

  7. Reed

  8. Mack

  9. Quinn

  10. Daria

  11. Reed

  12. Quinn

  13. Mack

  14. Reed

  15. Mack

  16. Quinn

  17. Daria

  18. Reed

  19. Mack

  20. Quinn

  21. Daria

  22. Reed

  23. Quinn

  24. Daria

  25. Mack

  26. Daria

  27. Daria - Eighteen Months Ago

  28. Mack - Eighteen Months Ago

  29. Mack - Ten Months Ago

  30. Daria - Ten Months Ago

  31. Reed – Present Day

  32. Mack

  33. Daria

  34. Reed

  35. Quinn

  36. Reed

  37. Daria

  38. Mack

  Thank you for reading!

  About the Author

  Also by Denise Wells

  A note from Denise

  I got to meet one of my literary heroes recently: A. Zavarelli. After I was finished fan-girling and hyperventilating I told her that I’ve always wanted to write dark romance, but everything comes out funny. She responded that she’s always wanted to write rom-com, but her characters keep coming out broken. Such is life, I suppose. But it made me love her all the more.

  Dirty Darlings is a new world for me and my wish is that it pushes me over to that ever-compelling dark side. Or maybe the dark side with some black comedy thrown in for fun. I’m still not sure how emotionally capable I am of living in the dark. But I’m going to try it anyway.

  I love romantic suspense, am an action movie junkie, and can pretty much live off any adrenaline high where the actual high part (read: heights) aren’t involved. That said, my hope is that the Dirty Darlings world brings us all on a crazy, semi-fucked up, suspense filled ride. Let’s see how it goes, shall we?

  That said, IDENTIFY and the entire Dirty Darlings collection to follow, are works of fiction. Meant to entertain and provide an escape into a story. As such, I’ve taken certain liberties with law enforcement, criminal activity, and information gathering. So please keep the fiction aspect in mind when reading.

  Also by Denise Wells

  DIRTY DARLINGS TRILOGY

  Dirty Darlings: Identify

  Dirty Darlings: Pursue - March 9, 2021 Pre-order here

  Dirty Darlings: Capture - April 13, 2021 Pre-order here

  * * *

  THE LADIES OF SAN SOLOMAN

  Keeping Kat - May 11, 2021

  Romancing Remi - June 8, 2021

  Loving Lexie - July 13, 2021

  Seducing Sadie - August 10, 2021

  Trusting Tenley - September 14, 2021

  * * *

  STANDALONES

  Pour Decisions, a romantic comedy novella in the Girl Power Collection

  How to Ruin Your Ex’s Wedding, a romantic comedy

  I Heart Mason Cartwright, a romantic comedy

  Rebel without a Claus, a M/M romance novella

  Breaking Dylan, a dark high school “romance”

  * * *

  ANTHOLOGIES

  STORYBOOK PUB CHRISTMAS WISHES - Mistle Oh-No, a romantic comedy holiday short

  LOCKED AND LOVED: An Isolated Romance Collection - Rocks, but no Rolls, a romantic comedy short story

  STORYBOOK PUB - Breezy Like Sunday Morning, a romantic comedy short

  SUMMER WITH YOU: Summer Shorts - Limited Release

  JUST A LICK - Limited Release

  LOVE LETTERS - Limited Release

  STOCKING STUFFERS - Limited Release

  * * *

  AUTHOR WORLDS

  Overdrive - A KB Worlds Driven novella - coming 2021

  Untitled - A Samantha Cole Suspenseful Seduction World novella - coming 2022

  1

  Daria - Twenty Years Ago

  The cold seeps through every layer of clothing I have on causing my bones to ache and chilling me to the core. A small breeze dances through the air, making the fur around my hood wriggle in my periphery. Fooling me into thinking something, or someone, is there. But it’s an illusion. The only thing moving is the wind. Movement is not tolerated, to move is to die.

  Though lying in a snowbank waiting for dawn to break, no matter how many layers of clothing and protective gear I left home wearing this morning, feels a lot like death as well. I imagine myself lying by a fire, the warmth from the flames blasting the front side of my body, forcing me to face the other way when it gets to be too much, so the other side of me can be blasted as well. If I think on it hard enough, I can almost pretend it’s true. The heat singeing my bare fingers when I hold them too close, as opposed to the icy wind that envelopes them now.

  The rays from the rising sun glint off the white of the snow, making it hard to see much further than a few feet. Forcing me to recalculate move to make sure I one, have not moved, and two, remember my line of sight even if I can’t see it clearly.

  A faint whistle floats through the space around us. If you weren’t waiting for it you might think it a snowbird or a train, maybe the sound of the wind in the bare trees. But it’s none of those things. The whistle is my grandmother giving the sign, which means that it’s almost over now. Soon—in a matter of hours with any luck at all—I can make my brief fire fantasy a reality. Warming my body to the point of discomfort. Until the red on my skin from the cold moves to the opposite end of the spectrum and becomes a tinge of pink from the heat.

  I close my left eye, keeping my right focused straight ahead; my fingers are loose, my body is rigid. I take a deep breath in, filling my chest with air, then let it out slowly as I pull the trigger. The rifle firing echoes around me, joined by the twin sounds as my siblings mimic my movements. It is only after all sounds die away that I hear my grandmother’s footsteps approaching behind me. Her thick-soled boots crunching through the thin layer of ice above last night’s snow fall.

  “Daria!” she barks. I take that as my cue to stand and face her. My entire body protesting when I try to move. Knees begging to buckle under my weight, my spine too stiff to bend to my will, forcing my core to take on the brunt of the task. I steel my expression to ensure she sees no hesitation. No pain. No weakness. To her, we are the soldiers and she the general.

  “You did well. The only one to hit their targets. It is you I will continue to focus on. Your brothers and sisters have no gift. You, my dear, you have the blood of the femme fatale running through your veins. You are like me and my mother before me. This you pass along to your own daughter one day.” She grasps my shoulder with her large gloved hand and squeezes. The gesture is loving and filled with praise and I receive it accordingly because it is the most that I will get from her.

  My family, the Limonovs, are not an affectionate bunch. Strong? Yes.
Rich? Obscenely. Ruthless? To the core. Loyal? Until death. But a tender touch has no place amongst such esteemed traits. Not even toward an eight-year-old, like myself, who is also the youngest of my siblings to have their talents tested.

  My great-grandmother was the famed Lidya Limonov, a Soviet sniper in the Red Army during World War II, credited with 309 kills. To this day, she is regarded as one of the top military snipers of all time and the most successful female sniper in history. She was given countless nicknames throughout her tenure: Dame of Death, Mistress of Mortality, Female of Fatality, Gal of the Grave. But our favorite, the one we still use in our family to refer to her as, is the original Femme Fatale.

  We trudge back to the house, the snow starting to fall lightly, just enough to feel wet on my face. Walking feels good, the exertion warming my body from within. I keep pace with my grandmother as my siblings scamper about, throwing snow balls and the such. No doubt feeling relief over their lack of the gift.

  Jealousy fills me when I think about how unrestrained their lives will be from here on out in comparison to mine. But when my grandmother leans down to my ear and whispers, “I’m glad it was you, my lastachka. You are my favorite—you are the one who most reminds me of her.” She’s speaking about my mother. And knowing that I’m like her makes the years of suffering ahead of me almost worth it.

  From here on out, I am an executioner, first in training and then in practice. To be called upon throughout my life as my family sees fit. And, when the time comes, training my own progeny to carry on the lineage.

  My name is Daria Limonov and this is my story.

  2

  Quinn – Present Day

  The instructions had been clear, even broken down into steps for me to follow. What should have been fool-proof, I messed up somehow. In my defense, I’m not a professional assassin. Tonight, I was supposed to break my contract-killer cherry. Instead, I’d proven to Daria, my best friend and now boss, that I had the attention span of a gnat on speed in a room full of light bulbs. See for yourself.

  * * *

  Step One - Dress the part.

  The invitation to the fancy party called for black tie attire. Wearing a dark green, sheath-style, floor-length, strapless Armani knock-off gown with a slit up to my chin, I looked dressed to kill. Pun intended. My fierce three-inch, closed-toe, suede heels matched perfectly—platform, so I could run if I needed to. I styled my hair half up half down all curled and elegant-like. Minimal eye makeup and dark red lipstick—non-smudge of course—finished my look.

  Step Two - Don’t be late.

  I’d arrived on time to the venue—a crazy huge mansion on the hill, complete with valet parking and a thirty-foot, fully decorated Christmas tree outside. Made it into the party with ease, grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter so I would blend in, then checked and double checked my surroundings. Still with plenty of time to spare. Piece of cake.

  Step Three - Blend in.

  Total cinch. I’m good in a crowd: social and seen or aloof and unnoticed. I’d gone with the latter tonight and had been ahead of the curve if I say so myself. I’d held a glass of champagne just like everyone else—which I didn’t drink so I could keep a clear head just like Daria cautioned—and I’d been quietly mingling. Playing the part of a holiday engagement party goer.

  Nothing to see here, folks. Just another ordinary girl at an everyday party.

  Step Four - Identify your mark.

  According to the instructions, I’d know my mark once the speeches started. He would be the first one up, starting out by thanking everyone for coming. Since the speeches hadn’t started yet, I’d felt safe skipping to the next step for the time being.

  Side note: Looking back, I realize this was probably where things started to get a little dicey for me, I just didn’t know it. I mean, I don’t want to get ahead of myself here, but I should have known to abort mission right then. But I didn’t.

  Instead, I’d moved on.

  Step Five - Get into position.

  To me step five was presumptuous and based entirely on step four. If I hadn’t found my mark yet, no way was I going to know where to be in position. Right?

  So, I’d skipped it.

  Step Six - Double check your weapon.

  Obviously, I’m not a pro. Not like Daria and the rest of her girls. Tonight was the trial run for me. A chance to prove to Daria that I was up to doing some of her dirtier work. So, for me, checking my weapon meant finding a corner somewhere, turning my back to the party, and making sure the gun was still in my clutch.

  It was.

  I’d turned the safety off, made sure the silencer was in place, pulled it out of my bag, kept my hand firm on the grip, and my finger away from the trigger. Then hid my hand, holding the gun behind my clutch and turned back around to face the party.

  Which is when I saw him.

  Reed Roberts.

  The man I’d been in love with most of my adult life. Well, really the past year or so, but it felt like much longer.

  In a tuxedo.

  It was one of those be still my heart moments. I’ll take a man in a tuxedo any day, I tell you, but Reed in a tux is something else altogether. I think I got knocked up just looking at him. He was so close I could have leaned forward and licked him if I’d wanted to. Just me and him, sharing the same airspace, at the same exclusive party.

  Wasn’t that mistletoe he’d been standing under?

  Now I realize that’s how I made mistake number one.

  Because it hadn’t even occured to me to wonder why Reed was at the party. So caught up in the magic of seeing him in formalwear was I, all common sense flew right out the window. Instead of staying on task, I’d maneuvered myself around the perimeter of the party and tried to see who Reed was talking to. I was too short and hopping in place to get a clearer view only resulted in spilling my champagne. I’d made my way over to the giant fireplace to stand tiptoe atop the hearth, steadying myself with the branches of the decorated Christmas tree nearby. One of the many decorated trees inside the house. But it gave me those few extra inches in height I so desperately needed to see that my world was about to start crashing down. Because that guy Reed had been talking to shouldn’t have been there.

  It was David Tremblay.

  My ex.

  The same one responsible for friend-zoning me with Reed to begin with. I mean, sure they’re friends, the best of friends, so it made sense that they’d talk when they saw each other. But I did not have room in my plan for David tonight. Not to mention, he was bound to remind Reed that he (David) and I had once been a couple, brief though it may have been. Which would then remind him (Reed) I was persona non grata in his world. After which he wouldn’t want anything to do with me.

  Pretty much like normal.

  I’ll admit seeing David threw me off my game a bit. Or a lot. I hadn’t been expecting to see anyone I knew at this party. Then, boom, the secret love of my life and my ex. So, yeah, I was shook. You could say that moment was the beginning of the end for me. In retrospect, I don’t think I handled the next few minutes quite as stealthily as I could have.

  I’d scooted around the edge of the crowd, away from the fireplace toward the front facing windows. The room was enormous, and filled with guests, so slowly making my way around the perimeter was the smartest way to move about without drawing attention to myself. I held my back toward the wall, and kept moving, trying to find a spot from where I could see Reed more clearly without the throng of people blocking my view.

  The way I saw it was, if I could see him then he could see me, at which point I would bowl him over by my beauty and he would profess his undying love. Because I’d looked amazing tonight and there was no way he’d be able to resist me.

  Which was why, instead of checking for Step Seven and confirming the prior six steps, I fantasized about getting Reed alone in a room upstairs.

  Mistake number two.

  It was a good fantasy too—his hand slipping in the slit of my dress, rig
ht at the upper thigh, curving around to grab my bare ass cheek, because in fantasies I go commando, then leaning in and kissing that sensitive spot behind my ear while my hands grip at the huge muscles of his—

  “—you all for coming tonight.”

  I’d heard that voice and all I could think was, holy shit, the speeches!

  Not to mention, who was my mark?

  And, fuck, where was my position?

  I’d tried to review the steps in my mind, but I couldn’t remember what step I was on.

  So, you know: Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I regrouped.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

  Reviewed the steps.

  Step Four - Identify the mark.

  Step Five - Get into position.

  Squeezed through a group of people to a small clearing, I stood tiptoe, but saw nothing.

  “Excuse me.” I’d pushed past another group, all of whom had been standing way too close together to be normal, which finally afforded me a clear shot to the front of the room. No pun intended.

  And then everything really went to hell in a handbasket.

  I realized I knew who the speaker (and my mark) was at the same time a deep, sexy voice whispered in my ear, “What in the hell are you doing?”