“Whose throat do I need to slit to get a drink around here?”
A man sitting at the end of the bar lowers the newspaper covering half of his face. As his icy blue gaze drifts over me, he takes two long drags from his half-smoked cigar. I can’t see the piece he has focused on my kneecap, but I can feel it. He’s never without a target, not even when he’s having a drink in an unmarked watering hole miles from the closest city limits.
After accepting the double nip of vodka the bartender just poured for me, I make my way to the man gawking at me with suspicion. He has a right to be cautious. He’s on my turf without my permission, and I have no issues relaying my displeasure about it.
When a blonde I’d guess to be in her late teens rakes her eyes down my body, I give her a flirty wink. She’s spaced out on the less-than-stellar drugs her Master primes her with every evening to keep her flighty personality on the down low, but I need her to remain calm. If a little bit of flirting does that, I’m okay with it.
Zoran, on the other hand, I’m more than happy to ruffle his feathers. “You’re getting soft in your old age, Zoran. Only last year, you would have had half a dozen whores hanging off your neck. Now you only have three.”
He smirks a smug grin before ushering the girls much younger than his granddaughters away from him. They won’t go far, only into the arms of the men flanking him. Unlike most men in my industry, Zoran has no qualms sharing—occasionally.
After stubbing out his cigar on the pricy countertop, Zoran locks his eyes with mine. “What do you want, ghost? Grow tired of sucking on America’s teat and want to experience what real men taste like?” He doesn’t need to grip his crotch to get across his meaning.
“Not entirely.” I smile to hide the tick in my jaw. “An American is the reason for my visit, though. I found out some interesting facts during my time in the US.”
“Such as?” He gestures for me to come closer, like he’s hard of hearing. He’s not; he just wants me within killing distance.
I slip into the chair next to him, not the least bit afraid for my life. As I said to Zariah earlier, you can’t kill a ghost. He’s already dead.
“Settle, Princess,” I mock the goon behind me when my lean across Zoran’s body has his hand hovering over his gun. “I’m merely reaching for a cigar.”
After snagging an untouched cigar from Zoran’s case of many, I cut the tip off with his diamond-encrusted cutter before lighting it with his platinum gas lighter. It takes a few hard sucks for me to get the cigar going, but when it does, the worry in Zoran’s eyes dissipates.
He shouldn’t be so quick to judge. Unlike Nikolai, I’m not a fan of smoking. I merely need to replace one of the weapons his goon on the door confiscated from me upon entry.
Zoran squeals when the orange ambers of my cigar mash into his cheek. He shrieks like a girl, his pained wails enough to launch the men paid to protect him into action. I take down goon number one with the gun my clutch on Zoran’s balls caused him to relinquish control of before removing the life from goon number two’s eyes with a bullet between them. I had planned to take down the third gentleman with a bullet to the heart, but one of Zoran’s whores attempts to flee the carnage, putting her right in the line of fire.
See? This is why my inability to kill women pisses me off. If I were a merciless bastard with a black heart, I could kill two birds with one stone. A through-and-through bullet would save me from hearing her high-pitched squeal for a second longer, but since my mother raised me with more morals than a standard mobster, I jerk my chin to the side, demanding she move before taking my shot.
My delay nearly costs me my life, but Zoran’s goons are only worth the pittance he pays them. The low-ranked foot soldier in his mid-forties fires a bullet that flicks up the dark hair curling around my ear before shattering a bottle of whiskey behind my right shoulder.
My aim is more precise than his.
The glaze of death widening his eyes changes their color from light blue to murky black. While he falls to the ground, I grip the back of Zoran’s head and slam it forward. His forehead colliding with the bar is so forceful, I hear his skull crack. Happy I have him subdued for a minute or two, I swivel in my barstool to take care of his final goon charging my way. If he were smart, he would have fired at me while my back was turned. It’s a pity for him his honor won’t save him his life.
The blonde I winked at earlier screams a blood-curling cry when the man’s exploding brain splatters across her basically non-existent shirt. I nearly apologize before I realize my error. I just saved her sucking Zoran’s shriveled-up dick for the next seven years before he killed her and replaced her with an even younger girl. She should be thanking me.
I watch the women I’ve just freed from imminent death race out of the establishment they were slumming it in before focusing my attention back on Zoran. We’re not the only two patrons in the bar, but with the bartender happy to continue polishing glasses as he was before I gunned down four men in front of him, and the scent of shit wafting up from a group of foreigners in the far left corner, I’ve got no cause for concern.
Blood gushes down Zoran’s head when I yank it back so he sits slumped in his chair. He’s dazed and confused, but does a good job of acting ignorant when I ask, “How was the Puerto Rican coast? Heard it’s quite nice this time of the year.”
“I-I-I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to Puerto Rico.”
I purse my lips in an arrogant way. “Oh. I must have been given the wrong information.”
Zoran’s puffy eyes track my hand when I slide it into the breast pocket of my jacket to retrieve the weapon his goon missed. It’s not his fault. It’s flat and lightweight, and I’m known for favoring guns, so I’d never be accused of carrying a knife.
“What about this? Do you recognize this?” I place a knife on a section of the bar not covered with blood.
Zoran’s throat works hard to swallow before he shakes his head. I’m not shocked by his cowardice; I just wish he’d put up more of a fight. Revenge is ten times sweeter when your victim fights their fate. Zariah had more gusto than Zoran, and she’s only been in this game half his innings.
“Are you sure you don’t recognize it? From what I heard, you’ve been hiding from it on the Puerto Rican coast the past year.” I give him a few seconds to conjure up an excuse. When he fails to find one, I continue with my mission. “Its owner really wanted to handle this himself, but you know how life is. Things get busy. Fingers get lost—especially ones used to bid on a woman owned by another.”
Zoran sighs, optimistic he’ll leave tonight with only a missing digit. He could only hope to be so lucky. He’s minutes from having his life extinguished in a manner Nikolai would approve of, but I’ll pretend otherwise if it keeps his sobs on the down low. I’m jet-lagged, harboring more anger than I’ve ever had, and still recalling the smell that fanned off Zariah’s skin when I squeezed her throat to within an inch of her life. It had the same tangy scent Zoran’s trousers are exuding this very instant, minus the pissy odor. It was feminine, almost erotic. Even while dissecting a man’s finger, recalling her scent evokes a firm response from my cock. If she smells like that when she’s scared, imagine her scent when she comes?
Zoran’s whimper when his finger pops out of his knuckle covers my groan. It’s for the best. I’d hate to get a reputation that I get turned on from killing. I do, but I’d rather it not be spread by anyone but the women I use to expel the excess adrenaline I get from every kill.
I also shouldn’t be having thoughts like this about Zariah. Our families were enemies years before she orchestrated Dominique’s demise, and her death reminded me why I should have never let her near them to begin with. I was stupid and naïve, and my stupidity cost me dearly. If I had trusted my intuition, Dominique would still be warming my sheets, and I wouldn’t be fucking sideline whores as if they’re my main squeeze.
