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I place the phone inside and hook up the power outlet. Jackal sits and whines. He’s making more noise than usual this evening. It must be me. People say dogs are like their owners. Well, I’m usually as cold as they come, able to shut everything else away. Except for the work. Except for blood. Except for focus.
Moving my finger to the power switch, I get ready to press it. Nothing is forcing me to help this woman, Katy—my woman. My hand trembles as I try to will myself to press the button. I could end it all right here, and nothing bad would happen.
What the fuck is wrong with me? She’s a stranger. I shouldn’t feel this deep pulsing inside me or hear this voice roaring at me to save her—not just now, with her current issue, but forever. I would spend the rest of my life saving her as many times as she needed.
The device starts to whir as I gently press my finger against the button. It’s comprised of several interlocking drills and a vice that closes around it, the drills destroying the contents while the vice crushes it to a pulp. Jackal barks and stomps his paw. It’s like he knows what’s going on.
I take my finger off the button. Jackal tilts his head, staring at me with far more meaning than a canine should be able to convey, but that’s the thing with dogs. They’re smarter than people tend to think. Maybe I’m more than a little nuts because I’m sure he gets it now.
He doesn’t want me to do this. He’s as hungry for me to meet Katy as I am. Maybe he knows that Katy’s my only chance at a spot of brightness after a life of darkness. She’s my only chance not to live in the past, the filth of life, and the never-ending violence. She’s my chance at a happily ever after.
I laugh gruffly, taking the phone from the device. Now I just sound like an ass, even to myself. Men like me don’t get to ride off into the sunset. We’re more likely to end up in the dirt.
CHAPTER 3
Katy
“Is that everything you can remember?” I ask Mom, looking down at the text.
She nods shortly, wrapping her arms around her knees. She’s already soaked the couch with sweat but is doing better than her other attempts to quit cold turkey. “Do you know who this person is?” she asks.
“No.”
“And you got the number from Eli?”
“Yes.” Mom nods again, but somehow, it’s like she’s shaking her head. “Do you have any other ideas?”
She sighs. “No, I don’t.”
I look down at the text: the descriptions of three burly Bratva men and the grimy bar Mom supposedly met them in. After sending the text, I stand and pace. I’ve been doing that between every message.
My phone buzzes. I read the message across the cracked screen. You and your mother should pack a bag. Wait for my text. I’ll tell you if you need to leave the city.
But if we leave, I reply, knowing there could be anybody on the other end of this phone. A prankster? Eli sometimes has a dark sense of humor, but this is too far, even for him. Isn’t it? They’re going to hurt us both.
If I can’t handle these men, I’ll help you leave the city, but I don’t think that will be a problem.
I swallow. What do you mean by “handle?”
Are you sure you want to know that?
“What’s he saying?” Mom asks.
“Who said he’s a he?”
Mom rolls her eyes as if the idea of a female hitman is absurd.
I want to know anything you’ll tell me, I reply. This is all so terrifying. I’m trying to keep it together, but anything you can offer, I’ll take.
Three dots appear. I find myself eagerly staring at them. It’s better than thinking about what happens tomorrow. Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest, but not for the Bratva.
I’ll attempt to scare them into submission. If that doesn’t work, I’ll be forced to use violence.
Do we have enough money to pay you to help us run if it doesn’t work? With each word I text out, a stronger, surreal feeling washes over me, as if reality will seep away and reveal something else. This isn’t a conversation I ever thought I’d be having.
Don’t worry about the money, Katy.
I stare at the text, biting my lip. Something about reading my name—knowing a killer’s hand wrote it—sends a tingle through me. I ignore it. I never feel this way, not even if I have steamy dreams. They’re always faceless, as if I’m waiting for the smirk to fill the phantom lips of my man. It’s a stupid fairytale fantasy.
I’m not sure what to reply. It’s not as if I can turn down the offer of help if it’s free, but I have to know.
