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Two Billion Baby

Summary:

"Derek Hale," Stiles instantly realizes who he was, looking back up at Chris with a disbelief look on his face. "He wants me to murder Derek Hale? Why?"

 

Stiles is an international assassin. The mafia manages to get their hands on him, threatening his family unless he does a job for them. The job? Kill successful businessman Derek Hale.

Chapter Text

He can hear the music blaring as he approached the club. There was a long line to The Pavillion, but he needn't stand in line. You see, he was on the VIP roster thanks to his friend, the owner. He had every right to bypass the other pedestrians between the rope stanchions, who protested and cursed him as he did, but he just smirked as he passed them.

He doesn’t say anything to the bouncers when he comes up to the entrance to the club, but he does pull out a black, sleek card from an inner pocket from the suit jacket he was wearing. The bouncers nodded in understanding, unhooking the red velvet rope from the stanchion blocking the entry to The Pavillion and allowed him to step through.

“Je vous remercie,” Stiles Stilinski says to the men with a grin, putting the card back in his pocket. “Bonne nuit, messieurs.”

The Pavillion was a massive club in France. It could fit over four thousand people, and from the looks of it when Stiles stepped inside, it was nearly inhabited by that estimate. There are multicolored flashing lights on the dance floor, people dancing up against each other to a Lady Gaga remix, and the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke fill his nose when he inhales.

He makes his way towards the VIP section, dancing sweaty bodies press and rub up against him. He doesn’t mind, though, it's the fastest way across the room. He feels their eyes on him as he passes. He always felt a little out of place at places like these, but he needed to meet up with his friend.

When he get's to the VIP section, he is stopped by a short, thin woman with brown hair.

"Monsieur, êtes-vous sur la liste?” she asks, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She was asking him if he was on the list.

“Ah, yes,” Stiles says, “Sam Williams.”

“Sam Williams,” the woman repeats, eyes flicking down at the roster in her hand. She goes flips through it and finds his name almost instantly. “Ah, vous voilà. You are Mr. Diaz’s guest, droite? Suivez-moi, I will take you to lui.”

“Merci m'dame,” Stiles giving her a sweet smile before following her up the stairs and into the VIP lounge.

There was a few occupying the VIP lounge, but it was slightly hazy due to cigar and cigarette smoke in the air. It made his nose twitch. The woman brought him to a large booth and Stiles could see his friend laughing with a couple of other men sitting in the cubicle. The man happened to glance up at the time they approached, and a wide grin spreads across his face when he spots Stiles.

“Sam, you made it. I was worried that you weren’t going to show up,” Josh Diaz says excitedly, “Come sit with me.”

Stiles thanks the lady again before he slides into the booth directly onto Josh’s lap, entwining his arms around his neck, smiling softy, “I told you I’d be here.”

“Gentleman, this is Sam, my new boyfriend,” Josh informs the men sitting the opposite of them, wrapping an arm securely around his waist. “Sam, these are some of the Russian investors I’ve told you about.”

The looks the men gave him could only be defined as hungry. It crept Stiles out a bit, but he leaned into Josh more, fluttering his eyelashes at them.

“Nice to meet you all,” he smiles, flirtation in his voice, “I hope you’ve been treating my man well.”

“Your little boyfriend here is quite the cutie,” one of the men spoke with a thick Russian accent, leering a Stiles, “Where did you find him?”

“We met at my art gallery in Bordeaux a couple of weeks ago,” Josh replies. “He was visiting from America, but I’ve convinced him to stay for a while Anyway, Sam, would you like anything to eat or drink? We’re going to be here a while.”

“I’m not hungry yet, but I would love a Long Island Iced Tea,” Stiles simpers at his boyfriend, playing with a strand of his hair, twirling it around his finger.

“Oh? A Long Island Iced Tea? You’re starting off strong off tonight,” Josh returns the grin, his free hand sliding up and down his thigh.

“Mhmm,” Stiles brushes his lips against his boyfriend’s, feeling daring, “I wanna get smashed tonight.”

There’s a predatory glint in Josh’s eyes as he whispers into Stiles’ ear, “You’ll definitely get smashed tonight.”

Stiles couldn’t help but laugh. We'll see about that.

x

Stiles sat contently perched on Josh’s lap, sipping on his second Long Island Iced Tea while they talked sales. He was a little tipsy, and he tuned most of their chatter out, watching as the people below dance their night away. If he wasn’t so awkward, he’d be down there with them.

It was his last night France for a while, after all. He should enjoy it a little bit.

Stiles slide off Josh's lap when the men concluded their meeting, and Stiles supposed it went well because the man was thanking them, grinning ear-to-ear, and shaking their hands. He really wasn’t into this businessmen lifestyle. He just liked the money that they spoilt him with.

The next thing Stiles knew, after bidding their farewells, Josh was escorting him out the club and into his limo, whispering the nasty things to him when they got his house in his ear. They ended up making out sloppily in the backseat on the drive home, their hands exploring, caressing, and stroking until the vehicle came to a stop.

"C'mon," Josh whispers against his lips, "I want you on my bed as soon as possible. Naked, withering, and screaming my name."

"Okay," Stiles replies, a little bit breathless and dazed.

Josh grins at him before he gets out, hauling Stiles along with him into the house. Stiles stumbles along, a slow, mischevious smile pulling at his his lips.

x

It's a quarter after three when Stiles steps out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped securely around his waist while he towels his hair with another. On Josh's nightstand, he hears his phone buzzing.

"Wonder who that could be at this time of night?"

He shuffles over and grabs his phone. It was a text from one Cordova.

Have you fucking done it yet? I’m going to take a million off our deal if you haven’t finished the job before sunrise. I've waited long enough, Genim.

Stiles huffs, exasperated, “Wow, this guy is really pushy, isn’t he? Josh, was Cordova always such an overbearing client?”

There is a muffled whimper in response, and Stiles glances out the corner of his eye where Josh was sitting in a chair, bound and gagged. There was blood running down his temple when Stiles smashed the butt of his gun down on his head when got into the bedroom. He was also shaking as big, fat tears rolled down his face.

It was rather pathetic, really.

Stiles pursed his lips, laying his phone down and slowly sauntered towards him, "Is that why you decided to dupe him, huh? I mean, I don't blame you, really. When he contracted me to kill you, he was rather aggressive. I hate that in men. But I guess he does have good reason to kill you...."

Josh jerked in his chair, trying to say something to him, but the gag prevents him from doing so. Stiles sighs, taking pity on him and unties the gag. The dude deserved a few last words before Stiles killed him.

"Please!" Josh croaked, looking at Stiles with pleading eyes. "Don't-Don't kill me, please! Whatever Cordova is paying you, I can double it!"

"You're willing to pay me four million dollars?" Stiles scoffs. "As much as I would love four million, babe, I'm still under oath with Mr. Cordova. Besides, I've heard how you started your little business. Were you really a sex trafficker? Is that what you did to your other boyfriends that went missing over the years? To Mr. Dordova's son? Did you sell them? Were you going to sell me to those 'investors' at the club, too? You're disgusting. I'm actually going to take pleasure putting a bullet between your eyes."

"Sam, please-- -!"

Stiles places a finger over his lips to quiet him, giving him a malicious smile, "I'm not your little precious Sam. He was merely an alias that I made up. They call me Genim. I am an assassin."

When Josh starts wailing and blubbering about not wanting to die, Stiles sighs and forces the gag back in his mouth. He walks back over to the nightstand where he also laid his gun, an AMT Hardballer with it's fitted silencer. This was gem he found in Lyon and he wished he could keep it. But like his phone, he would have to dispose of it before he heads to the airport.

"As much fun I've had with you these past couples of days, I'm afraid that our little fling must come to an end," Stiles says as he turned towards the man, aiming the gun at his head and pulls the trigger. "Goodbye, Mr. Diaz."

Blood and brain matter splatters the wall behind him and he slumps forward. It’s over, he’s dead. Stiles grabs his phone, takes a photo for visual evidence, and sends it Cordova with:

Target assassinated and the information you were wanting is in an envelope on your desk. Two million better be in my account by the time I get ready to fly out of here or this will be you next.

Let’s just say, by the time Stiles gets his underwear on, his phone pinged with an update from his bank saying that a deposit of two million had been just deposited into his savings account. Stiles grins smugly.

x

After an eleven-hour flight back to California, Stiles could literally get on his knees and kiss the ground when he got off the plane. He was so happy to be back home after five long, insufferable weeks of being in France. Don't get him wrong, France is amazing and beautiful, but having to work instead of enjoying it, completely sucked ass.

Maybe during the summer he could take Scott, his dad, and Melissa for a little vacation there. But right now, he just wanted to get home, crawl into his bed, and sleep for about two weeks straight. He decided he wasn't going take any more jobs for a while. Stiles had plenty of money in various bank accounts, so he didn't really need to, anyway.

There was a white Hyundai Equus waiting for him when he exited the LAX. He automatically assumed it was Scott’s doing since he knew that he was coming home today because Stiles distinctly remembers not calling anyone. Besides, Scott usually did this for him when he comes back from a job overseas.

He was such a good best friend. He was definitely going to spoil him with video games and soda when he gets home.

The Uber driver holding a sign with his name written on it was about his about height, blonde, very built for his age, and had piercing blue eyes. If he was into DILFs, he’d climb that like a tree.

"I suppose you would be Stiles Stilinski?" the man inquires, eying him when Stiles approaches him.

"The one and only," he replies, giving the man a wink before turning serious. “I hope you don’t mind if I pass out in the back on the way home. I’m simply worn out. There was so much turbulence on that plane. I was too fucking terrified to sleep.”

The man chuckles, giving him a small smile, “No, I don’t mind at all. Do you want me to take your luggage for you?”

“Oh, yeah, here.”

He hands over his bags to the man, who take them to the back of the car and begins loading them up in the trunk. Stiles pulls his real phone from his back pocket and shoots Scott a quick thank you text before getting into the back. Stiles buckled his seat belt before leaning his head against the headrest with a tired sigh. The man closes the trunk before he hops in the vehicle, starting up the engine.

“Feel free to nap, Mr. Stilinski. It’s going to be a long ride,” the man tells him, adjusting the rearview mirror before pulling out onto the road. “I will wake you once we reach our destination.”

“Okay, thank you,” Stiles replies, glancing at the man. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Chris. Chris Argent.”

Argent. For some odd reason, that name sounded familiar to him. Before Stiles could ponder further, his phone pinged when a message from Scott came through.

Scotty, sent at 5:43: Thanks for what?

Stiles blinks at the message. Did he seriously forget?

Me, sent at 5:43: For sending the Uber, dumbass.

Scotty, sent at 5:44: What? Stiles, I didn’t send you an Uber. I’m coming to pick you up.

If Scott was coming to pick him up, then why did an Uber....

It was like someone poured ice water over his body as it slowly donned on him where he heard Argent before.

Argent.

As in the Mafia Argents.

They were the largest and most wanted criminal syndicate in Califonia, but most of them infiltrate Beacon County. The Argents are the most successful groups running around these days, raking in an estimated over nine billion per year on everything from sexual exploitation, firearms trafficking, human trafficking, drug trafficking, counterfeiting, usury and extortion according to his father's case file against them. And the Argents has been at it a long time since Gerard Argent’s father, Benjamin Argent, started way back in the 1930′s.

So when Benjamin died in 1961, Gerard took the reins, and the crimes got worse over the years as the group started to grow and expanded throughout Califonia. However, in 2015, the ratings started declining and no one understood why, but Stiles has a gut feeling he's about to find out.

“You look a little pale there, Stiles,” Chris Argent spoke up, sneering at him through the rearview mirror. “You okay?”

He must have noticed the sudden change in Stiles' demeanour.

“I'm peachy,” Stiles says, flicking his eyes up to met his in the mirror. “What...What do you want?"

"You were hard to find, Mr. Stilinski," Chris laughs, "You see, we need some help cleaning up."

"What do you mean?" Stiles doesn't like the sound of this.

"You are Genim, right?" Chris asked, “I mean, when I first laid my eyes on you, I thought ‘how could a kid like this be the world’s best assassin?’. I hope you haven’t lied to me.”

Stiles didn't know how to react. He knew. Well, of course, he knew. Why would he be picking up a fucking twenty-two-year-old college student out of the blue? But fuck, for years he tried so hard to keep his real identity a secret. Years. How the fuck did they find out?! He would always use different identities when he was on a job.

So how?

“How did you find me?” Stiles bit out, glaring at him.

He watched as Chris smirked in the mirror at him, “Like I said, it was hard. That’s all I’m going to say.”

Stiles was trembling in his seat, fingers digging into his thighs, “I’m not working for you people. I fucking refuse."

"You can't refuse. I mean, it would be such a damn shame that the sheriff, your step-mom, and your step-brother died from a house explosion due to a gas leak, now wouldn’t it?"

Stiles’ heart was beating rapidly in his chest, his breathing laboring. Fuck, fuck, fuck. They knew about his family, too. They were going to kill his family if he didn't agree to help them.

“...Fuck you,” Stiles growls.

“We really don’t want to hurt them, Stiles,” the Argent continues, not taking his eyes off the road, “So, if you cooperate, they will be left alone. Now, are you in?”

“You’re not leaving me many options, now are you?”

Chris chuckles, “Not exactly. You see, Gerard is needing your help. He needs you to take someone out. It has to be quick and clean. If you do this, he said he’ll pay you handsomely and you’ll never have to hear from us again.”

“Why isn’t Gerard talking to me himself? I’ve never had a client send his or lackey to negotiate,” he snipes, folding his arms over his chest.

"Gerard isn't...feeling his best these days," the mobster hesitated.

Stiles makes a humming noise in his throat, giving Chris a suspicious look, "Right, okay....So, who is this person he's wanting me to take out?"

Chris reaches over toward the passenger seat, picking up a manilla file and handing it to Stiles. The assassin takes the file and opens it, relieving a picture that looks like it was pulled from a security or traffic camera and it seemed to be focused on a handsome man getting out a car.

"Derek Hale," Stiles instantly realizes who he was, looking back up at Chris with a disbelief look on his face. "He wants me to murder Derek Hale? Why?"

Derek Hale was a self-made billionaire and celebrity. His family died in a house fire when he was sixteen, and he and his sister used the life insurance they got when they turned eighteen to build Hale Enterprises, New York's second largest and successful company.

"Personal reasons," Chris replies coldly, staring straight ahead.

"Oh," Stiles grumbles, looking back down at the picture.

"Gerard said he would pay you ten percent now of what you'll be getting when you finish the job. It should pay for your travel fees, hotel room costs, and so forth. You don’t have to go to New York today since you just got back from Paris, but the sooner the better. There is a contract in the back of the file. I will be picking you up Thursday, so make sure you have it read and signed before I pick you up. I will fill you in the rest then."

"How much is he laying on the table, by the way?" Stiles asks, flipping through the file some more. Holy shit, they had everything on this guy. Where he lived, his favorite bars, restaurants, his favorite color, etc.

"Two billion."