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I smile broadly, and uncertainly he smiles back. I punch him hard in the nose, putting my full weight into that swing. The crunch of his cartilage is loud, and I give him the courtesy of a wince. He falls to the ground, his hands covering his face as he bellows.
Shocked that I didn’t shoot him instead, he tries to crawl away.
I pummel him with my fists until he curls up into a ball.
“Where is he?” I ask calmly. “Let me have Gleb, and then you can work for me.”
The man freezes, and then his gaze rests on my bloody fists, damp with his blood. Something clicks in his head when he realizes that my offer is serious.
“This way.” He gets up unsteadily onto his feet and heads further into the house. I look toward the kitchen with a clear view of the pool through the patio. A few men are sitting around a table, playing cards. One looks up and stares wide-eyed, his hand disappearing beneath the table, but the man with me shakes his head. The other man settles back in his chair as we continue on our way.
“He’s in the bedroom,” he says. “He’s probably high. He’s always high.”
We stop in front of a bedroom door, but the man doesn’t open it.
He looks at me. “I don’t trust you,” he says.
“Why not?” I smirk.
“I just led you to my pakhan, so you can kill him,” he replies. “Why would you let someone like me live?”
“Because I’m not Gleb Novikov.” I shake my head as I open my jacket. “I suggest that you, and anyone else who wants to live, start running. And keep your mouth shut. I hear gossip, and you will be the next man I shoot. And when it’s all over, you can come to me personally for that job.”
The man stares at the Glock in my hand and then races down the carpeted stairs, his shoes making dull thuds until he’s downstairs. I listen for any noise below and hear the patio door open and shut. An SUV engine comes to life.
I’m alone.
I open the bedroom door quickly, ready to shoot, and Gleb is completely unaware. They didn’t even bother to warn him with a text. I shake my head with a twisted smile proudly on my face. The punk is half-dressed, holding a rolled-up bill in his hand over a table.
“What the fuck?” he shouts. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to kill you.”
And I do as I say.
The bullet leaves a clean hole in his chest, and his body jerks in the air. Blood drips down onto the floor like drops of rubies. I fire again and again, until the gun is empty. Gleb’s body jerks in a weird dance with each shot.
I walk around and stare down at his motionless body. His face is contorted in an obscene smirk as if dying is a joke. High bastard. I push him with the toe of my polished shoe just to make sure. His head lolls off to one side. I feel numb, as if emotions cannot pierce my body. Or maybe I won’t let them out.
Gleb caused all of this.
Everything that has happened in the last year—my father, my mother, Igor, Paige, Sonya—everything has been because of this arrogant fool. I want to shoot him again. But instead, I let out a shout that shakes my lungs.
I sit down heavily on the bed, my legs weak from holding it all in.
But where would I be now if it all hadn’t happened? Under my father’s thumb and married to a woman I hate.
Instead, I’m trying to win back the woman I love by doing the one thing she can’t accept.
Will this be the last time I kill? Can it ever be the last time? I crush down my thoughts as I look down the hallway toward the empty stairs. I don’t have time for this now. Someone could be coming to shoot me while I have a think.
Running on automatic, I snap back into killer mode and wrap Gleb’s body in the duvet. No one needs to know how he died, just that he’s dead. I stumble under the weight of his body, cursing myself for not bringing at least one man to help me. I drag the body into the back, aware of the houses peeking above the fences, and wrap his body in a tarp I find by the pool.
Anyone with an ounce of sense isn’t looking out their windows right now as I hoist the corpse into the back of the Rover. I close the trunk and glance around, smoothing down my suit jacket before I jump into the driver’s seat.
***
Since Kenney Grant’s murder, the police have been watching the Bratvas around Twin Rivers, and well-dressed men in SUVs are being stopped for the smallest infraction. No one talks, but it requires being excessively cautious if you break any law. So, I drive the speed limit along the Thruway into Manhattan. The city is the safest place; busy people are too absorbed in their daunting dramas to notice mine. They may spare a glance, but I know a safe place to go.
