1
Zara
The alley behind Rosetti’s Diner smells exactly how you’d expect from a greasy joint in a lowdown neighborhood. I scrunch my nose, pulling my jacket tighter around my shoulders against the cold air, cursing under my breath for picking up an extra shift and finding myself taking out trash in the middle of the night in this slum. Twenty-two years old and still scraping together rent money. Fuck my life. If someone was to write cliff notes about me, the whole thing would boil down to: Zara Thompson. Born in Oakland. Parents dead in a car accident when she was sixteen. No siblings. No close relatives. Currently, three months behind on rent and maxed out on two credit cards. Oh, and no boyfriend…
That’s when the sound of a low, gravelly voice freezes me in place, breaking through my thoughts. “You had a whole fucking month, Marcus.”
The deadly tone makes my blood turn to ice. And I press myself hard into the dirty brick wall, carefully setting down my heavy trash bag, heart hammering in my chest as I peer around the dumpster. Shit, shit, shit! Three men are standing in the dim light coming from the street. Two of them restraining a guy who’s on his knees, blood all over his messed-up face, while the third one towers over him.
He’s way over six-foot tall, with huge shoulders that fill out an impeccably cut dark suit, thick, dark blond hair, a strong jaw, and eyes that look like they could cut through glass. He’s fucking beautiful… in the way a loaded gun is: breathtakingly lethal.
“Please,” the guy on his knees begs. “I can get you the money. Just give me more time…”
“Time?” The giant tilts his head to the side, feigning curiosity. “You had months, you dipshit. Fucking months to pay back what you owe the Maksimov family.”
Maksimov.The name hits me like a punch. Everyone in the city, damn the state, knows them. They’re Russian mob. Bratva. The kind of people you cross the street to avoid. Fuck, the entire continent!
“I have a family,” Marcus pleads. “A wife, kids…”
Scary, tall, hot guy scoffs. “Should have thought about that before.”
Then he reaches inside his jacket, making my heart stutter. He pulls out a sleek black gun and presses the muzzle to poor Marcus’s forehead…
“Wait…” comes out the man’s last word, then the gunshot echoes through the alley, resonating like thunder.
I clamp both my hands over my mouth to keep from screaming as the dead body crumples to the ground, blood pooling from it.
“Clean this shit up,” the killer rumbles in a completely unaffected voice. Like he’s ordering coffee, instead of instructing his goons to dispose of the body of a man he just gunned down…
With my hands still over my mouth, I start sliding toward the back door of the diner, my back pressed to the wall. I need to get out of here before they realize there was a witness to the execution. I saw their faces, heard the entire conversation. Names. Fuck, I could pick each one of them out of a police lineup. I’m not safe!
And that’s when my fucking phone buzzes… Fuck, fuck, fuck! The notification sound cuts through the quiet, and I watch the three men freeze. The giant’s head snaps toward my hiding spot, his deadly eyes scanning the darkness.
Fuck!
I hold my breath, pressing my body deeper into the shadows behind the dumpster. Praying that maybe…
“Go check that shit out,” he growls.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!!
I hear heavy footsteps approach, my heart beating like a war drum, and I squeeze my eyes shut, praying I can disappear, even though there’s nowhere to run or hide.Please, God! Please!
A rough hand grabs my arm and yanks me into the dim alley light.
“Looks like we had an audience,” the man who pulled me says as he pushes me in front of the killer.
He’s even more terrifying up close… and fucking gorgeous. With a strong jaw, full lips, and dark eyes that feel like they can see straight into my soul. The blood spatters on his expensive suit, completing his deadly beauty. He looks like a punishing angel. Tall, broad, insanely attractive… and cold-blooded.
“What’s your name?” His deep voice sends a shiver down my spine.
I’m scared shitless. I just watched this man pull the trigger at a man’s head without even flinching. But it’s like I can’t look away from his dark eyes. His striking features. His very presence.
“I…” The word comes out croaky. I clear my throat and try again, declaring precipitately, “I didn’t see anything.”
His gorgeous lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not what I asked, sweetheart.” The tone is low, conversational, and scary as hell.
“Zara,” I whisper. “Zara Thompson.”
