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Knox gaveme the phone number of a hitman in his future wife’s family. He’s married to Anastasia’s great-cousin and has killed more people than he could count or remember.
“He’s British, Irish, or maybe Russian. No fucking clue. His name is Kyle Hunter and he’s the only one who understands my sarcastic humor at their dinner table. Anyway, he’s your man. But don’t tell me what the fuck you need him for. I’m out of this mess.”
Kyle agreed to meet me here and even said he’ll have Christopher waiting for me.
He only needed his full name and that’s it.
When I was on the plane, he sent me a text with a location.
That’s where I am right now. In an abandoned warehouse in an old industrialized area.
I walk straight in and sure enough, the fucker whose life is on a fast hourglass mode is sitting on the chair, head lolled to the side.
A black figure comes from the shadows, and I’m slightly taken aback.
He’s tall, wears black like a Gothic model, and has the looks that go with it. Doesn’t strike me as a mobster at all.
“Kyle, I presume?”
“Daniel.” He tips his head. “I delivered your package. Do you need a bullet in his head? Or heart? Junk, maybe?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll be outside in case you need anything.” He shoulders past me. “Oh, and you can make him scream, the area has been carefully chosen so no one can hear.”
“Got it.”
“Next time, try to pick someone in the States. England is a hassle for hiding your tracks.”
The door screeches open, then closed, as he steps out.
Blood roars in my ears, then nearly spills all over the floor like fucking lava.
I stalk up to Christopher, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt. I abandoned my jacket in the car and my phone, too. I need zero distractions when I deal with this piece of shit.
My fist finds his face first. I was never a violent person, not when I was young and definitely not when I grew up.
Yes, I was a troublemaker, but not in a violent way, more in a mischievous way.
I’m the fun-loving Daniel.
The heart-of-the-party Daniel.
The charming Daniel.
But now, I’m channeling the vengeful spirit of a fucking warrior.
Christopher jerks from his slumber. At first, he blinks as if he doesn’t know on what planet or decade he exists.
Then his attention falls on me and he squints before recognition settles on his sickeningly good looks.
It’s people like him that get away with it. Sons of men in power, sons of men who taught them that women are only good at spreading their legs.
“Daniel?” he croaks.
“The one and only, motherfucker.” I punch him again, sending his face flying backward.
