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The rapid thud of Leo’s heart against my palm is the only reason I swallow the gasp.
There are two men in the hallway. Twodeadmen. I can’t see either of their expressions. They’re both facedown, bodies so still, it’s obvious they’re not breathing. The gray carpet around them is darker than the rest of the hallway, coated with more blood than anyone can lose and survive.
I heard the gunshots earlier. But there’s a large part of me that hoped it was a mistake or a misunderstanding.
One of the bodies is only a few feet away from my front door. These men were coming for me, and Grigoriy and Viktor stopped them.Killedthem. And I have no idea why.
“Keep moving.” Grigoriy’s tone is urgent, but not unkind.
Until he spoke, I didn’t realize my steps had stuttered and slowed. Pulled to a pause by a morbid fascination.
It’s been a long time since I saw a dead person. I’m yanked into memories of that night without warning, trapped in a different time and place.
A rough sound—unmistakably a swear even if it’s said in another language—is spoken behind me. “Take the boy.”
Leo is pulled away from me, and that is enough to jerk me from the past back into the present. “No!”
“The boy will be fine,” Grigoriy says as Viktor takes over on guiding Leo down the hall. He keeps his eyes covered until they’re past the second body, and it’s the main reason I don’t struggle more.
“If anything happens to him, I’ll kill you.”
I’ve never threatened anyone in my life. I try to take the high road. When someone cuts me off in traffic, I assume they’re late for work or just having a shitty day. But when I speak the warning, the words don’t sound ridiculous.
At least, I don’t think they do. I sound deadly serious.
Grigoriy laughs. But then he says something I’m not expecting. “You’d have to get in line.”
And before I can ask what the hell he’s talking about, he’s hustling me down the hallway, and I have to focus on not tripping over my feet and ending up in a puddle of blood.
CHAPTEREIGHT
NICK
My pacing might wear a hole in the tarmac. Snow falls in uneven patterns, melting as soon as it hits the black asphalt.
All of my men, most of them standing in a loose circle around the plane, are uneasy. I see it in the quick, darting glances my way. The occasional twitch. Uncertainty thickens the crisp winter air with a different type of chill, exacerbated with silence.
Today was supposed to follow the same format as yesterday. Meetings with lawyers in high-rises. Meetings with suppliers in back rooms. Dinner at a fancy restaurant. Instead, it’s been a trip to Philly, a short, frigid meeting with acapo, and now, we’re leaving two days earlier than planned.
No one questions the changes.
They know better than to ask questions.
I should know better than to show any emotion.
But there’s a clawing, tearing sensation in my chest that writhes like a living thing. It makes it impossible to stand still and stoic. My jaw clenches and unclenches in some attempt to alleviate tension that doesn’t work.
I always travel with a dozen men. There are plenty of times that’s felt excessive. This is the first time it hasn’t felt like nearly enough.
If anything happened to them…
It’s panicky—this feeling. Thrashing around in my chest in a heavy coil of dread. No matter how quickly I move, I can’t shake it.
I’ve always felt the responsibility of my position. The weight of having to make decisions that are often life or death. That can save or end lives. That ripple far beyond affecting just me.
I’ve been in dangerous situations. I’ve stared death down and haven’t flinched. I might not have an appetite for this way of life, but I’m good at it. My DNA is embedded with the tools to not only survive this life, but to thrive in it.
This is different. Lyla and her son aren’t just innocent lives. They mean something to me. They matter—in a way no one ever has. The only immediate family I have left is my mother. If something happened to her because of this life, I’d mourn. I’d torture those responsible.
