Chapter 15
Anton
The floor’s cold under my bare feet. My shirt’s still damp from sweat. I haven’t slept. Not really. Just sat here while the coffee burned down and the thoughts wouldn’t stop.
I killed a man last night.
Not because I wanted to. Because I had to.
The burner I found in his jacket was wiped clean. No contacts, no history, no SIM. Just a blank shell meant for one call and one job.
A job that ended with a bullet through his skull.
No ID. No tattoos. No wallet. No paper trail.
So the question won’t leave me alone.
Who the fuck wants Mary Sullivan dead?
That should’ve been the end of it.
Standard protocol: move fast, cut ties, clean the trace.
Instead, I’m here with a cooling gun and cold coffee, still staring at the apartment across the lot.
Still watching over her building.
That’s not how I work.
I don’t linger. I don’t hesitate. I don’t look twice unless I plan to pull the trigger.
But she’s in my head now. And I can’t decide if that makes her more dangerous—or me.
Lev and Dima are gone now.
My phone’s on the table. Still open to Boris’s file. I haven’t touched it since it lit up at 1:14 AM.
Subject: Viktor Kozlov. Met with: David Thornton. Location: Brightside National. Employee ID flagged: M. Sullivan
Her.
I press the heel of my hand against my eye socket until black spots bloom behind my lid.
I should’ve shut it down already. Scrubbed it. Cut loose and moved on.
But I’m still here.
Watching.
Staring through the cracked blind like it owes me something.
She steps into view, towel barely covering her thighs, skin still damp from the shower. Her hair sticks to her neck in loose, dripping strands that darken her collarbone. Her feet shuffle across the floor like she’s half-asleep, half-late.
And just like that, I’m gone again.
Blayt.
Not because she’s naked.
Because she doesn’t know.
She doesn’t know she’s standing in the crosshairs. That one bad transfer, one wrong name on a ledger, already put her on the board.
She moves like her life is still hers. Like nobody dangerous knows her face. Like she’s got time.
She tugs at her bra strap, annoyed, muttering something. Her pants don’t fit right; she yanks them up anyway, fights with the zipper. No grace, no rhythm. Just the kind of messy chaos that should irritate me.
Instead, my cock presses hard against the waistband of my sweats.Fuck.
She bends toward the drawer, towel slipping for a second before she catches it. Bare skin flashing. Oblivious of what she’s offering.
I swallow dry. Force myself to breathe slowly.
She grabs a blouse. White, crisp, it clings damply against her skin as she shrugs into it. Fingers fumble the buttons, stopping halfway up, right at the line of her bra. I should look away. Instead, I watch the slow progress, every inch covered feeling worse than the glimpse of bare skin.
Christ, I’m a fucking creep.
I’ve gutted men for letting their guard down this far. Put bullets in their throats for less.
But with her?
I want to see it all.
The curve of her spine when she stretches. The dip of her waist where the fabric doesn’t hide enough. The way her thighs brush when she walks.
And the curtain… she doesn’t tie it closed all the way. Just leaves a sliver, a gap. Like she wants someone to see.
Like she wants me to.
She disappears behind the wall again. I shift closer, my palm against the cold glass. Not blinking.
Then she’s back.
Phone in hand, blouse half-buttoned, damp hair clinging to her shoulders. She scrolls, casual at first, then faster, something on the screen locking her in.
And then, I see it.
She freezes.
Stiffens.
Her thumbs move once, typing something quick. She bites at her finger without realizing it, eyes glued to the screen. That lazy morning softness drains from her posture; shoulders tight, chin dipped, every line of her body sharp with tension.
She doesn’t move for several seconds. Just… still.
Then the phone drops to her side.
And I know. Whatever the message says, it isn’t good. I can see it in her body before she even moves.
My jaw locks hard. I feel something crack.
I reach for the Glock. It’s already chambered.
There’s a knock.
Three short. One long.
My grip tightens.
That’s not a civilian knock. Not some neighbor asking for sugar. Not someone selling religion.
And I’m not expecting company.
I move without sound, bare feet silent across tile. Stay to the edge of the room. Eyes locked on the doorframe.
I don’t speak. Don’t answer.
Nothing on the peephole. Whoever’s out there is standing to the side. Trained. Or cautious. Either one means problems.
I flick the safety off. Step left of the door. Back flat to the wall.
Another knock.
Three short. One long.
I stay silent.
Footsteps shuffle. Then nothing. The kind of stillness that demands attention.
I don’t speak.
The silence stretches. Long enough to make most men nervous. Long enough for me to picture the worst.
Then, from the other side of the door—
“Pizza delivery,” a voice says. Dry. Too casual. “But I ate the pepperoni. Hope that’s not a deal-breaker.”
I lower the gun an inch. Annoyed.
Boris.
Of course.
I unlock the deadbolt but don’t open the door yet. Let it hang half-cracked until I see him shift into view. Hood up, bag slung across his chest.
“Cute place,” he mutters, pushing inside once I let him. “Very murder-adjacent.”
He brushes past me like I’m not still armed.
“Next time you knock like that without texting first,” I warn, “I’ll put a hole through your hoodie.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Probably won’t be the last.”
He drops his bag on the counter and pulls out a laptop, two burner phones, and three energy drinks that probably violate the Geneva Conventions.
“Nice morning for voyeurism,” he adds, nodding toward the window. “You been standing there all night?”
I don’t answer.
He smirks like he already knows.
Boris doesn’t wait for permission. He drops onto the couch like it’s a throne, cracking one of those neon-yellow energy drinks open with a hiss that makes my teeth itch.
“Jesus, boss, this couch,” he mutters, squirming against the sagging cushion as he sets his laptop on his knees. “My ass is filing a complaint.”
I don’t look up. “It’s not a spa. Sit or leave.”
He leans back on the couch like he owns the place.
Wiry build, borderline gaunt, like caffeine’s keeping him alive more than food.
His hoodie’s too big, sleeves pushed to his elbows, exposing pale skin and faded ink on one forearm.
Messy dark blond hair falls over his eyes, overdue for a cut, like the rest of him hasn’t seen daylight in days. Probably hasn’t.
His cargo pants are stuffed with God knows what—cords, tools, maybe explosives—and his sneakers look like they’ve walked through a fire and come out worse for it.
He taps the keypad, eyes flicking across the screen, quick and sharp above the shadows stamped under them.
“You want coffee?” I ask dryly.
“I always want coffee.” He waves a hand. “But not yours. You make that prison sludge. I want real beans. Froth. A goddamn swan on top.”
I don’t move.
Instead, I lean against the counter and nod toward his gear. “Dave Thornton. You get a location?”
Boris snorts, already typing. “You ask like I waited for instructions.”
He flips the laptop around. A paused feed of traffic cam footage. An auto-tagged sedan circling near Flamingo and 4th.
“Left his girlfriend’s place ten minutes ago,” Boris says, zooming in on the traffic cam still. “Third visit this week. She runs a spa; he is still sleeping with his secretary, too. Janice. If you’re curious.”
“I’m not.”
He tilts his head. “Huh. Weird. I thought that was your thing lately. Watching people you’re not curious about.”
I don’t take the bait. But my jaw tightens just enough for him to catch it.
“Ohhh,” he drags it out, smug. “So, this is real. Lev wasn’t just high on floor mold.”
“She has nothing to do with this,” I say, clipped.
Boris quirks a brow.
“So you follow this woman to her grandma’s house, kill a man in her driveway, and now you’re tracking her phone like it’s casual. But sure. ‘Nothing.’”
I don’t respond, but my jaw shifts. Barely. He catches it.
He exhales, stretches one long leg over the other, and taps his keyboard like it personally offends him.
“Alright, let’s review. Since you clearly skimmed the file I already sent.”
He clears his throat, performs a fake-narrator voice like he’s auditioning for a documentary no one asked for.
“Full name: Mary Catherine Sullivan. Age: 29. Turns thirty in—oh, look at that—six days. State college grad with a Communications degree no one’s ever hired her for.
Thirty-four thousand in student loans. Currently works at Brightside National as a personal banking associate, which is code for ‘does everything, gets paid for none of it.’”
He flips the screen toward me. “Lives alone in a unit barely bigger than my laptop bag. Pays most of her sick grandmother’s bills. Hasn’t left Vegas in four years. Not because she loves it. Because she’s stuck.”
He scrolls, tone flattening.
“Mother died in an accident when she was three. Father bailed, remarried, started over. Gave her the emotional support of a houseplant. Stepsister: Melissa Sullivan, influencer, face like a Barbie doll, and the business acumen to back it up. Beauty line, big reach. Grandma Morgan, seventy-three, ex-diner cook, Ménière’s disease.
Still living alone. Mary won’t leave her. ”
He lifts his head, grin sliding back into place.
“Yeah. Her phone’s on tab. You’re welcome.”
“How long?”
“Since we pulled Dave’s flagged transaction list. Her name came up more than once. I connected the dots. You’re welcome again.”
“She hasn’t called the cops?”
“No. Only outgoing calls were to Grandma. Two pizza orders. And one Google search for—wait for it—‘Ménière’s disease emergency care protocol.’”
He shifts forward, eyes sharper now. “But someone sent a hitter after her?”
I nod.
Boris whistles low. “You sure it’s not a coincidence?”
“No.”
“Then why protect her?”
Because I want to.
“I’m not protecting her.”
Suka, I’m just keeping her alive long enough to stop being a liability. Which—coincidentally—means watching her like she’s mine.
He huffs. “You are so bad at lying, boss.”
I push off the counter, ignore the smirk on his face, and walk to the window. Her blinds are still crooked from this morning. The silhouette of her pacing across her room moves like she’s still arguing with someone in her head.
“I’m just saying, boss… she’s not a threat. She’s not even a problem. She’s just… stuck. You, meanwhile, dragged that into our world.”
I turn back to the window. Her silhouette is visible through the curtain. Pacing.
“Someone already decided she matters. That makes her leverage. If she dies, it sends a message I don’t control.”
Boris clicks his tongue and sets the laptop down on the counter. “So we’re babysitting civilians now. Got it.”
He reaches into his bag and tosses something onto the counter. It skids across the laminate—small, sleek, black.
I pick it up.
Custom-milled key fob. Heavy. Carbon black. Laser-etched crest.
My crest.
“What is this?”
“Penthouse key,” he says, like it’s obvious. “The one in Viretta Heights. Top floor, east tower. Lev and I bought it under your name two years ago.”
I blink.
“The one you never visit. The one with a private elevator, reinforced windows, and a rooftop greenhouse Lev insists he designed for your mental health.”
“Why the hell would I—?”
“You’re the boss. We invest so you don’t have to think about it.” He waves a hand. “It’s fully stocked. Weapons, tech, condoms, vodka. Lev said to tell you ‘you’re welcome’ in whatever tone offends you most.”
I toss the fob onto the counter.
“Look, I know you don’t care about luxury,” Boris says, sobering. “But people are watching you now. Not just us. Igor’s getting… twitchy.”
“He’s always been twitchy.”
“Not like this. He’s holding meetings. Real ones. With the Koreans. Italians. Even the fucking Albanians. Word is, they all sat down last week at that old steakhouse off Eastern.”
I glance over.
Boris shrugs. “Nobody’s saying it out loud, but they’re nervous. Not about him. About you.”
Silence.
Then—
Boris taps again on his laptop. His voice shifts.
“Dave just texted her.”
I turn. Walk over.
“Message is short. Just a time and a location. But it’s her.”
My pulse tightens.
“She’s going.”
I grab my coat.
Boris grins around his drink. “So, what’s the plan?”
I holster my weapon. Pocket the fob.
“Time to follow the rabbit,” I say.
“Hell, yeah,” he mutters, already reaching for his gear. “Let’s go save your civilian, boss. Maybe we’ll even make it home without another body in the trunk.”
I don’t answer.
But my hand’s already on the door.