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A sad smile formed on her face. “Anyanka was my best friend a long time ago. She died a few years after you were born. Kristoff was only seventeen, just like you are. I lost touch with him when his mother died.”
“Where does he live?”
“San Francisco.”
“And is he like a cop or something?”
Her fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel. “Or something.”
Well, that didn’t sound ominous at all. With a sigh I nestled into the car seat and closed my eyes. “You know you’re only getting away with these half-baked answers ‘cause you’re driving and I’m sleepy.”
She chuckled. “I know. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you more once we’re there.”
Wherever “there” might be.
Maybe it wasn’t so much about the destination, but about the journey, just like in the novels I’ve read. I’d lived a thousand lives through my heroines’ eyes. I’d been all over the world with them, falling in love with my book boy friends, having my heart broken by them. It seemed like it was finally time for my own adventure to begin.
I’m a fighter. I believe in the eye-for-an-eye business. I’m no cheek turner. I got no respect for a man who won’t hit back. You kill my dog, you better hide your cat.
— Muhammad Ali
You kill my dog, it’s no use hiding. I will find you, and I will kill you.
— Kristoff Romanov
2
KRISTOFF
Confucius was wrong. I’d only be digging one grave tonight. The one for the dead motherfucker lying on the floor of my basement. It had taken me a decade to find my mother’s killer. The proverbial fly in my soup who had been poisoning me for years was finally no longer alive.
I put the knife down on the table next to the chainsaw. The last pieces of light inside of me extinguished. It was all darkness, pitch black now. There was a silence inside me, and it was beautiful.
Maybe Sokolov had a point.
Men like us, the Vory, we live in the shadows. We are not quite dark, not quite light.
Blood was dripping from my hand and once again I waited for it to happen. Waited for when I would feel a base emotion again. Joy, rage, happiness...anything. All I felt was content, which was a ridiculous feeling for a monumental moment like this. Perhaps it was because this hitman was just the first domino to fall; merely the beginning of the chain. I didn’t have the clout yet to take on the bastard who’d hired him. The man who ruled the state of San Francisco. A man who was considered to be untouchable. A man who was the worst of the worst; a freaking politician.
I would get to him eventually if it was the last thing I did. Maybe then finally I’d feel something, have peace, find a spark of light in the darkness shrouding my vision. Monsters weren’t born, after all—they were made. And I was one of them.
The door cracked open and Viking sauntered in, bringing with him the scent of smoke and a hint of gasoline.
He glanced at the body. “Good, you’re finished. There’s a situation.”
There always was. “Unless the house is on fire, I don’t care right now.”
An indescribable look appeared on his face, which was weird. Usually I could read him like a map, which led down one of two roads; rage or a thirst for violence. Ever since his girl had left him to marry another man, he had an extremely short fuse. Like me, the man lived for vengeance.
“Not the house,” Viking said.
“Then I don’t care.”
“You will.” After those ominous words he simply left.
Perhaps the Jamaicans, who believed they could cut in on our gun trade, had set one of our cars on fire.
I stepped over the body and followed him outside. As soon as I reached the backyard, the acid smell of burnt flesh hit my nose. It couldn’t be one of our soldiers; Viking wouldn’t have been that calm. A sense of foreboding washed over me before I even saw the motionless form on the ground.
