Chapter 21
DROGO
Friday night.
The handler drove me to the Upper East Side in silence. The city blurred past the windows—lights and people living their normal lives, unaware that a man was about to die because I'd agreed to kill him.
We parked two blocks from the target's brownstone. Quiet street. Trees overhead filtering the streetlights into dappled shadows. Old money everywhere—the kind of neighborhood where people didn't ask questions and doormen made six figures keeping secrets.
The handler killed the engine and turned to me.
"Alone tonight," he said in his flat, accented English. "Mistress canceled—sick. Wife in Hamptons for the weekend. Doorman shift ends at midnight. He will leave. No replacement until morning."
He pulled up a photo on his phone—the brownstone, second floor, window circled in red.
"Bathroom window. Unlocked. We checked this afternoon. Fire escape accessible from side alley. In and out, fifteen minutes maximum."
He handed me a small black bag. Canvas, unmarked, heavier than it looked.
I opened it.
Inside, laid out with surgical precision:
A syringe pre-loaded with clear liquid. Fentanyl cut with heroin—handler had explained earlier. Lethal dose. Heart stops in minutes. Looks like overdose.
A baggie of white powder. A spoon blackened on the bottom. A lighter. Rubber tourniquet.
A suicide note—printed on plain paper, handwriting forged from samples Klaus's people had obtained somehow. "I'm sorry. I can't live with what I've done. God forgive me."
Latex gloves. Black balaclava. Lock picks I wouldn't need if the window was already unlocked.
"Make it look like he couldn't face exposure," the handler said.
"Rich man, guilty conscience, drugs to numb the pain.
Tie off his arm. Find visible vein—inner elbow, easy to stage.
Inject. Scatter the paraphernalia on desk.
Leave note where police will find it. Out same window you entered. Fifteen minutes."
I stared at the bag. At the instruments of murder dressed up as mercy.
"What if someone sees me?"
"They won't. But if they do—" He patted his jacket where I knew a gun sat. "I handle it. You keep moving. Understood?"
"Yeah."
"What about security cameras?"
"Taken care of." He said it like he was discussing the weather.
"Other questions?"
"No."
"Good." He settled back in his seat, eyes forward. "I wait here. You have twenty minutes. After that, I come in. Don't make me come in."
I got out of the car.
The night air was cold—October in New York, that first real bite of winter coming. I pulled my hood up, shoved my hands in my jacket pockets, the black bag slung over my shoulder.
Walked the two blocks like I belonged there. Just another guy heading home. Nothing to see.
The doorman was still at his post when I passed the first time—older guy, reading something on his phone. I kept walking, circled the block.
12:03 AM.
He left. Got into a car parked at the corner and drove away.
Shift change. No replacement coming.
Now.
I walked to the side alley—narrow gap between the brownstones, barely wide enough for one person. Garbage cans. A cat that hissed and ran when I approached.
The fire escape was old iron, bolted to the brick. I tested the first rung. Solid. Climbed.
My ribs screamed where the guards had kicked me days ago—still bruised, still tender. Every pull-up sent lightning through my chest. I gritted my teeth and kept climbing.
Second floor. Bathroom window.
Frosted glass, slightly ajar. Handler was right.
I pushed it open slowly. No alarm. No sound except the distant murmur of a TV from downstairs.
I pulled myself through.
The bathroom was dark—marble tile, expensive fixtures, the kind of room that cost more than most people's cars. I stood still for a moment, letting my eyes adjust, listening.
TV downstairs. Faint. Late-night news or a movie.
I pulled on the gloves. The balaclava stayed in my pocket—only if absolutely necessary. Less suspicious if someone saw me and I looked human.
Moved into the hallway.
Hardwood floors. I stepped carefully—heel to toe, weight distributed, the way Marcus and I used to sneak through our group home after curfew. Muscle memory from another life.
Stairs to my right. Light coming from below.
I descended slowly.
Living room at the bottom. Leather furniture. Expensive art on the walls. TV mounted above a fireplace.
And there he was.
The target.
Sitting in a wingback chair, bathrobe open over pajamas, glass of scotch in one hand, phone in the other. Scrolling. The TV played something he wasn't watching.
Alone.
Vulnerable.
Human.
I moved closer. Silent. He didn't hear me until I was directly behind him.
Then—some instinct, some primal awareness of being hunted—he started to turn.
I grabbed him.
Chloroform rag from the kit—handler's addition for "quiet entry." I pressed it over his nose and mouth, my other arm locking around his chest.
He struggled.
Harder than I expected. Stronger. Panic gave him strength I didn't think he had. His elbow caught my ribs—the already-bruised ribs—and pain exploded white-hot through my chest.
I held on.
He thrashed. Made muffled sounds against the rag. His hands clawed at my arm, nails digging through my jacket.
Thirty seconds. That's what the handler said. Thirty seconds and he'd be out.
Twenty.
His struggles weakened. Body going heavy.
Ten.
I closed my eyes—just for a second—to block out his face.
And there she was.
Alena.
Laughing on the balcony that night, wine glass in hand, eyes sparkling under London lights. Her voice in my ear: "This feels different." The way she'd smiled when I said "better different." The way she'd whispered "okay" like a promise.
The way she'd looked at me after I came inside her—like I was everything.
The way she'd reached for me in her sleep that morning, trusting, warm, mine.
I opened my eyes.
The target went limp.
I held the rag five seconds longer.
Then let him drop back into the chair.
He was breathing. Shallow. Unconscious.
Not dead yet.
I stood there, staring at him. This man. This pedophile piece of shit who hurt children and stole from monsters and thought he was untouchable.
The world would be better without him.
That's what Klaus said. What the handler said. What the file proved with police reports and dropped charges and allegations that disappeared when money changed hands.
But that wasn't why I was here.
I was here because Klaus threatened Alena. Because I had no choice. Because this was the price of keeping her safe.
I dragged him out of the chair. Heavier than he looked. Deadweight. His head lolled as I pulled him across the floor toward the office.
The office was down the hall—dark wood desk, leather chair, computer still glowing. I dropped him into the chair. His head fell forward onto the desk with a thud.
I pulled out the tourniquet. Tied it around his upper arm. Tight. Found the vein—blue line under pale skin, easy to see.
Pulled out the syringe.
Clear liquid inside. Death in a tube.
My hand shook.
I saw my mother's face. Pale. Cold. Dead. The note in her hand: You killed me by being born.
I saw Alena on that kitchen floor—broken glass, wine on the walls, crying alone because I couldn't tell her the truth.
I saw Klaus smiling. Blood on his teeth. Good boy.
I pressed the needle to the vein.
And pushed.
The plunger slid down smoothly. Liquid disappeared into his bloodstream. Irreversible.
I pulled the needle out. Set it on the desk.
Waited.
His breathing changed first—short, wet gasps. Chest muscles locked, rigid, fighting for air that wouldn't come. Skin grayed at the edges, lips tinting blue.
Four minutes.
Then stillness.
I checked his pulse. Wrist first, then neck.
Nothing.
I stood there, looking at the body. At what I'd done.
The room was silent except for the hum of the computer. The TV still playing downstairs. The city breathing outside the windows, oblivious.
I'd just killed a man.
And I felt… nothing.
No guilt. No horror. No soul-deep revulsion at what my hands had done.
Just cold efficiency. Just the quiet satisfaction of a job completed.
That's what terrified me.
Not the act itself—but how easy it was. How natural my hands had been. How quickly the shaking had stopped once the needle was in.
And somewhere in the silence, I could still feel her fingers tracing my name over my heart, hear her whisper "okay" like it was a vow.
The man who'd held her like she was air was gone.
The monster staring at the body was all that remained.
I was good at this.
And that meant Klaus was right.
This was in my blood. Violence. Death. The capacity to look at a human being and see only a problem to be solved.
I moved on autopilot.
Scattered the powder on the desk. Positioned the spoon, the lighter, the baggie. Made it look like he'd been using all night.
Adjusted his arm so the injection site was visible. Staged it like he'd done it himself—one last hit to escape the guilt.
Placed the suicide note where police would find it first thing. "I'm sorry. I can't live with what I've done."
Wiped down everything I'd touched. Syringe. Doorknobs. Desk surface.
Eleven minutes since I'd entered.
I went back the way I came. Up the stairs. Through the bathroom. Out the window. Down the fire escape.
The alley was empty. The street beyond quiet.
I walked the two blocks back to the car. Hood up. Hands in pockets. Just another guy walking home.
Got in.
The handler looked at me. Nodded once.
"Good."
We drove away.
No sirens behind us. No flashing lights. No witnesses running out of houses pointing and screaming.
Just silence.
Just another rich guy who couldn't live with his secrets.
Another body the city would swallow without blinking.
· · ·
The handler drove me back to the safe house. Parked. Handed me the burner phone.
"He'll call soon. Answer."
I went inside. The guards nodded. Let me pass.
I went upstairs. Stripped off my clothes. Got in the shower.
The water ran hot—scalding—but I couldn't feel it. Just stood there, hands pressed against the tile, watching the water circle the drain.
No blood. I hadn't even gotten blood on me.
But I felt covered in it anyway.
The phone rang.
I dried off. Answered.
Klaus's voice, wet and triumphant: "I heard. Clean work. Professional. Your first star is earned, son."
Silence.
"She's safe now. For as long as you cooperate. Here—proof."
A photo loaded.
Alena.
My heart stopped.
She was in her London flat—kitchen counter, leaning forward, face buried in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking. The angle was close enough to see the wine stains on the wall behind her, the broken glass glittering on the floor.
She was crying.
Sobbing.
Alone.
Timestamp: today. Two hours ago.
I closed my eyes.
Fuck.
My hands started trembling. The phone nearly slipped from my grip.
She wasn't safe. She was destroyed.
Because of me. Because I'd disappeared without a word. Because she thought I'd abandoned her after finally having her.
Klaus's voice cut through: "See? Still breathing. Still in one piece. That's all that matters, son. As long as you cooperate, she stays that way."
Breathing wasn't the same as safe.
In one piece wasn't the same as whole.
But I couldn't say that. Couldn't argue. Couldn't let him know how much that photo gutted me.
"I understand," I said, voice flat.
"Good. Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we discuss what comes next."
The call ended.
I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, staring at her face.
At the way her hands covered her eyes like she was trying to block out the world.
At the devastation I'd caused by trying to protect her.
She thought I'd left her. Thought the sex meant nothing. Thought I'd looked at what we'd done and decided silence was easier than facing her.
And I couldn't tell her the truth.
Couldn’t call. Couldn’t text. Couldn’t send her anything—and even if I could, there was nothing I could say that wouldn’t give Klaus more ammunition.
All I could do was become the monster he wanted.
Kill for him. Obey him. Damn myself over and over until she was truly safe.
And hope that when this was over—if I survived it—there'd be something left of me worth saving.
I set the phone down.
Lay back on the bed.
Stared at the ceiling.
And wondered if she'd even recognize me when this was over.
If there'd be anything left of the man she loved.
Or if Klaus had already won—not by forcing me to kill, but by showing me how good I was at it.
How easily I wore my father's skin.
How little separated us now.
I closed my eyes.
But all I saw was her face.
Crying.
Alone.
Safe.
But not okay.
Never okay.
Please, wait for me.