Somebody Worth Killing

by Jessica Payne

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Thrillers; Domestic Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Meet Nadia Davis, a doting mom and loving wife who has a big secret: she’s actually an assassin. And she really needs a babysitter who shows up on time.

Nadia Davis is living the dream as a successful working mom with a career she loves, two adorable little girls, and a devoted husband who has no idea that she’s secretly a hired assassin and psychopath who kills certified bad guys. So when Nadia finds out she’s been “mommy tracked” by her assassin’s agency and is no longer getting the bigger, more exciting jobs, she demands an important mark…somebody worth killing.

But it turns out that big kill is the last person she expects—her husband. How is the sweet, kind, teller-of-dad jokes she’s promised her life to an evil villain who needs exterminating? Has their whole life together been a lie? Now Nadia must choose between the two things she loves most in life, the career that keeps her sane or the family she thought she knew.

Release date: June 16, 2026

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter One

If it weren't for the fire ants crawling up my leg, I would be thoroughly enjoying the evening. It's another steamy Texas night, the wind scented with oncoming rain, and I'm tucked in the crook of a sprawling oak tree in the backyard of a multimillionaire's estate. He doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to kill him.

A growl comes from my throat as the stream of fire ants climbs my leg and begins to bite. I lower the rifle long enough to pick them off, one by one-easier said than done, their little hooks dug into my skin-and smash them, feeling no more remorse than I will for the man I'm about to off. I wipe sweat-and melting makeup-from my brow, fix my ponytail, and adjust my aim one more time. I knew I should have worn waterproof mascara.

Through the scope, my target sips what looks like bourbon from a highball glass, laughing as he talks on the phone and peers inside his refrigerator. It irks me to do this from afar, to not get to see the terror and panic in his eyes the moment before his life ends. It may be justice, but it's not enough. It never is for people like him. Still, I catch myself smiling in anticipation, imagining the next several minutes unfolding.

God, I love my job.

My finger plays over the trigger. I inhale, exhale, and-

My ass vibrates.

"Damn it." I drop my trigger hand, grab at my shuddering phone shoved in the pocket of my workout tights. It's hardly work attire, but I'll finish this job and look like one more yoga mom out for a stroll, not the trained killer that I am.

"What?" I snap at my sister, annoyed at the interruption. I peek through the scope, but my target has wandered off, out of the kitchen. I swivel the gun, tracking him into his dining room, where he proudly looks out at his lawn, one I'll bet he's never lifted a finger to tend. I try not to fidget with impatience. The last thing I need is to fall out of this damn tree.

"I know you're working, but listen, Eliza just threw up again. That's the third time. I'm worried." My sister's voice yanks me from the moment, like I'm surfacing from a fever dream. Follow-up questions about my daughter's symptoms come to mind, but I swallow them back. I'm working. I can't do this right now.

"I'm at a-a wedding rehearsal. With a bridezilla," I say. My mark steps away from the window, out of view. "Fuck."

"I thought you were at an actual wedding, and that's why you couldn't stay home with your sick kid? Wait, are you allowed to say 'fuck' at a wedding?"

I pause, trying to remember what I'd told Piper over the phone as I'd pleaded with her to come watch my daughters. "No, it's a wedding rehearsal. Who gets married on a Tuesday night?"

"I don't know, I've never been married. Can you come home, or what?"

"Did you try calling Brian?" I barely keep the frustration out of my voice-my big sister is a lifesaver, but I can't get a job done without her calling, peppering me with questions. She doesn't have kids-never wanted them-and makes for a wonderful aunt. But she's also terrified of screwing up. Little does she know, moms do screw up, constantly, and I'm a prime example of that.

"Um, well, I mean, you're the mom."

And he's the dad!

The tree trunk digs into my scalp as I lean my head against it and squeeze my eyes shut. "She's fine," I say. This is one of those situations when a parent would give the kid a Popsicle and send them to bed, but Piper will worry herself sick, because to her, children are basically foreign beings that are utterly fragile and often disgusting. She's not wrong about that second part.

"I think she's dehydrated." Piper's voice is high, fast. In the background, my five-year-old's baby voice-not her normal voice-calls for her mommy. That would be me; they both always want me. I just have to wait until they're older, then Piper will be the fun aunt, the one who lets them try a sip of her wine. Or, you know, pours them their own glass.

"She's-" My hand clenches around the rifle stock. Piper is helping me, doing me a favor. I have to be nice; that's how people treat those who do them favors. "Okay, I'll run by the store and grab some Pedialyte." And wine. "I'll be there soon, okay?" We disconnect.

Back to Mr. Rich Guy.

My phone tucked in my pocket, I look through the scope again, but he's gone. An empty stainless steel kitchen. A dining room table that could seat sixteen. A bedroom with a perfectly tucked quilt. And no mark.

I take a breath, tell myself to relax. He has to still be there. If my sister calling for the umpteenth time is the thing that makes me fail this job, I swear to god, I'll-

The groan of an automatic door snatches my attention. Swiveling my viewfinder lower, to the driveway that snakes around the home, I focus on the garage hidden in the back. He's there, in his khaki pants and fancy shoes, a diamond-encrusted watch that reflects the light just so. I grin, flushed with relief and anxious to continue.

Perhaps I make a noise. Or maybe he senses my presence-death lurking at the edge of his ten-million-dollar property, waiting for him. He looks up, squints against the outdoor lights, right into the tree where I've made myself at home. His eyes widen as he catches sight of me, my rifle. I smile, give him a little wave, then return my hand to the gun and pull the trigger.

Chapter Two

I hate going straight back to my house after a kill. The part of me who sees other humans as prey-who tracks their movements and knows instinctively how to kill them-doesn't belong in my family's home. I keep her neatly tucked away.

For that reason, I'm glad for an excuse to stay out a little longer. Parking in the lot of the organic supermarket near our house, I let my hair down and meet my own gaze in the rearview mirror. I paste on a smile, transforming from Nadia the Killer to Nadia the Mom, the version of me the employees here will recognize, greet with a wave, frown at with worry and say, Oh, Eliza's sick? Here, bring her this lollipop from us, and hand over an all-natural, organic something or other.

It's late spring, but as I make my way inside, the hanging baskets of rosemary smell of Christmas, and I close my eyes, drinking in the air. Visions of my daughters around a tree speckled with ornaments, their giggles, their smiles. It's a comforting scent to help my transition back to "normal."

When I open my eyes, I head for the frozen section, stopping briefly to grab the wine I promised myself. The kitchen inventory in my head-all moms have one-tells me we're out of Popsicles, and that's what sick kids want. I get the healthy kind, with veggies snuck in. Eliza knows, but she'll still eat them; Evie, my three-year-old, has yet to figure it out.

"Oh, Nadia! Out late on a school night?"

The voice makes me stop short-I'm not yet ready for human interaction. But I turn with a smile, ready for my fellow private school mom.

"Hi, Megan."

Ignoring her isn't an option-our kids know each other. I'll probably see her in the drop-off line tomorrow. This is one interaction I can't screw up. And besides, while I'm not sure I really have friends-not in the traditional sense-if I did, Megan would be one of them. "Eliza's not feeling well. Figured she needed Popsicles."

I'm met with an understanding nod, confirming this is the right thing for a concerned mother to say. "And Mommy needs wine?" She grins and peeks at the three bottles I tossed in my basket alongside the Pedialyte.

I hesitate, thinking of what the mommy-influencers on Instagram would say. "You know it."

A half laugh. "Well, I hope she feels better. I'll see you at the PTA breakfast later this week." Megan air-kisses in my direction and strides off.

That's another reason I like her-she doesn't feel the need for extended small talk. A polite hello gets the job done.

Also, I'd forgotten about the PTA breakfast. I promised to bring pastries, and I add it to my already overloaded mental to-do list.

Five minutes later, I'm searching the darkness of my driveway for shapes, movement. People like me can have enemies. I have to be cautious to maintain a veneer of normalcy. As a disguise, yes, but also for them. My family loves me. I want to keep it that way.

Bear, our tricolored Australian shepherd, starts yapping before I so much as make it to the door. She sees me through the window and wiggles excitedly.

"Shut up!" Piper's voice comes from behind the door as I unlock it. "You'll wake the kids."

I smile to myself-if anyone's going to wake them, it's her-and let myself in.

"Thanks for watching the girls. They're asleep?"

Piper sighs with her whole body-one of her many big sister talents-and looks up the curving stairwell that empties out into the foyer we now stand in. She beckons for me to move away from the hall leading upstairs, worried our voices will carry, that the kids will wake back up. It's a fair concern. My girls love to crawl out of bed, sneak downstairs, and beg to stay up late. And as their mom, sometimes I can't resist saying yes, letting them snuggle with me on the couch until they fall asleep again, and I'm left carrying them back upstairs

We retreat to the kitchen, and she spins to pin me with a look that makes most people wilt. "What took you so long?"

I don't answer her question. With Piper, who is as unafraid of confrontation as I am, distraction works best. I hold up a bottle of rosé. "Wine?"

This gives her pause. "I love wine."

"I know."

We go to the back patio, where an hour or two ago, we could have watched a golden sun sink beneath the edge of the city. Now, it's dark, but I've strung fairy lights and I turn them on, light a candle. The glow gives the space a warm vibe, makes it feel safe, something I want very much for my family. A sigh of relief eases out of my throat as I sit back and rest easy, knowing there's one less bad person in the world.

At least until Piper glances my way, an eyebrow raised as she sips her wine. Like she knows something.

Or maybe that's me being paranoid that someday she'll put the pieces together, figure it out. And life as I know it will be over. Our brother, Graham, is the complete opposite-utterly clueless-but sometimes I think Piper wonders about me. What I really do when I leave the house to go off to my job.

"Work went well?" she asks, and I tell myself there's nothing odd about her tone.

I nod, swirl my glass. Murmur something about the bride being happy, which of course is what people want to hear when you supposedly work weddings. It's a lie fashioned after a short stint I had in college as an event planner's assistant. I realized it was a field with few rules, a career most people knew nothing about-and therefore, one that was easy to spin lies around. It's also relatively boring, so I rarely have to lie. Everyone's been to a wedding reception, a bridal shower, a wedding. They already know what's involved, so they don't ask questions.

Piper makes a noise in her throat. "I don't know how you do it."

I look over, see she has a cigarette in her hand. She won't light it, not here, but she'll let it sit, poised between her fingers, let it rest there the way she did when we were teenagers sneaking one when we thought Mom wasn't looking.

My teeth clench, and I observe her face through the dimness, searching for her meaning. But she's staring out into the night, watching a squirrel scamper across the fence line.

She means being a parent. Not killing people. That's what's on my mind, not hers.

"You just-" I shrug. "One day at a time."

I don't tell her that sometimes I wonder if I'd have done things differently if I'd realized what it would really be like to have kids. If I'd known how demanding they would be, how much of myself I'd give up for them-if I'd have kept Eliza when I first read pregnant on that little pink-and-white plastic test.

It's a horrible thought, and I'm instantly ashamed. Knowing Eliza now, I could never make another choice. She and Evie are my world. My emotions may be blunted and I may not feel love often or easily, but despite the common belief that those on the spectrum between sociopathy and psychopathy feel nothing, I do feel things. Sometimes. For some people.

"But you never get a day off. Like, ever."

"It's different when it's your own kids. They feel like . . ." I think for a second. "An extension of yourself. Does that make sense?"

She scrunches her nose. "Not really. They're still other people, ones that need you for, like, everything." She glances sideways at me. "I mean, I love my nieces. We had fun until Eliza threw up. I just can't quite wrap my head around doing it every day."

"Well, you're a wonderful aunt. You don't have to be a mom."

"Yeah, I know." She pushes to her feet, swallows down the last drops of rosé. "Anyway, I'm meeting a friend."

"Someone I know?"

"Probably not." She leans in, gives me a hug, and she's off. Disappearing into the world of singledom. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little jealous.

I let myself imagine being able to do a job, then linger, enjoy it. Though maybe it's better I can't do that-the killers who do are the ones who don't last long. Who slip. Who let their monster out a little too much, a little too often, and get caught. But still, it sounds nice to have an evening where I don't have to worry about anyone but myself. At least until I climb the stairs and see the door to my girls' room cracked open. The rise and fall of their little chests makes my heart swell. They rest snug beneath their matching blue comforters-blue, Eliza insisted, mostly because she knew people expected her to prefer pink. I go to her bed first, press gentle fingers to her forehead-no fever. Then I go to Evie, still in her smaller toddler bed. She sleeps with her lips pursed, perpetually annoyed about something. It makes me smile.