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PROLOGUE
GIDEON
Death has never bothered me.It’s inevitable. A slice of nature. One of two guarantees in life. We’re born, and we die. They say it’s getting from point A to point B that sucks. Living that proves difficult. Well, for most.
I, for one, live pretty fucking well.
The man wedged under my loafer worms, dislodging an old ball of gum from the cement. “P-please.” Unfortunately for him, he’s about to careen headfirst into point B.
He might be dying, but I feel no pity for this man after what he did.
Whoever left him here did me a favor.He’s practically gift-wrapped.
“Can’t hear you.” I slide a pair of leather gloves up my hands. “Try harder.”
He splutters beneath me, chasing his next breath like it’s running from him. I don’t usually toy with my victims. This is a courtesy I offer as his friend.
As he nears death, it’s my duty to remind him how low he’s fallen. That he, and he alone, is responsible for his current state. If there’s a next life, I’m certain he’ll remember this moment and proceed accordingly.
I sigh, bending forward to readjust my grasp on him. “Don’t speak.”
Through a lone window on the compound’s roof, a ray of moonlight streaks across the abandoned warehouse. It offers a sliver of illumination in the stark black space. Just enough to expose pale skin and glassy eyes as the body beneath me trembles with a wet cough.
The pathetic wheeze echoes off the metal walls, slicing through the silence. A chill races up my neck. This, too, is an unfortunate byproduct of my familiarity with this man. Because I’m expected to calm him. Because I won’t do a good job. And because when I see his soul off to its next destination, I know it will be Hell. Well, that’s not certain. If I were the devil, which has often been speculated, I’d slam the gates shut on him.
“I-I…”
“Everything will be okay.” I pat his ruddy cheek, checking the Rolex on the same hand. This has gone on long enough.
Fresh crimson bubbles out of his mouth, calling me out on my lie. A distinct metallic scent punctuates the revelation. His death is a foregone conclusion. It’s only a matter of time.
His lids flutter shut. “I—” It’s all he can get out before his voice cracks. His eyes pop open, and a shadow of hesitation darts from them to me.
Roman.
His name is Roman, and he isn’t a faceless man.
I know him. I know his obsession with smash burgers and chili cheese fries. I know that he once lost half his savings on a ridiculous World Cup bet. That he followed up that loss with the utter destruction of his virginity by his bookie, of all people. A washed-up, chain-smoking former model. We share a past as colorful as a crayon box.
This singular brief moment of unease is all I gift him. His death will not be the first I witness. Or the last. Consider it a career hazard. The fruits of my life choices.
I am not a good man.
And I will never pretend to be.
The blood loss rips all focus from his gaze, leaving behind two lifeless, glazed-over orbs. Somewhere, within those dull spheres, there’s an internal battle waging. But pain robs him of whatever he wants to say. His throat bobs with a swallow.
I watch blood trickle from his wound. “If there’s something you must say, your window is closing.”
The wax-like pallor and sweat beaded on his brow betray his pain. His mouth opens and shuts several times, seeking strength to release words.
“M-my.” He coughs, spilling blood past his lips.
Sighing, I prop him up. It would be inconvenient if he choked to death before spitting out his deathbed confession. I suppose it’s the least I can do. Allow the man his final words.
Sudden determination, as hot and radiant as the sun, burns through him. “My sister.”
His what?
