Chapter 22
SASHA
“So, you ready to tell me the surprise yet?”
Bogdan’s the only person on the planet I would go along with if he said he had a surprise for me.
The city falls away as we drive south on the Bishop Ford. Glass towers turn to rusted tin buildings, skyscrapers to smokestacks. The lake wind curls in raw through the cracked-open windows, carrying with it the taste of iron and the smell of stale rain. The Chicago skyline fades in the rearview.
Bogdan’s at the wheel. His shoulders are squared, eyes locked in the sort of silent discipline I pay him for. The engine growls low.
“I’m going to tell you the same thing I always do when you ask that. It would ruin the surprise.”
“Fair enough.”
The café incident haunts me as we drive. I find myself replaying the moments of the shooting, as if I had been there. I imagine the aroma of espresso tinged with the acrid scent of gunpowder, the crack and shattering of glass, customers screaming in panic as they ran for cover.
And I think of Gabriella. I imagine her face gripped with fear as she hid, worried not just for her own life, but the life growing inside her.
I imagine a version where I protect her, fire back at the assassins, drive them off like the cowards they are. But I also imagine a version in which I don’t reach her in time, a version in which I’m greeted by the sight of her still form lying among glass and blood.
I push it from my thoughts as best I can, staring out at the city in the far distance.
Bogdan speaks again. “Alright, I can’t keep it to myself any longer. I caught one.”
“Caught one what?”
“From the shooting. Tracked down the car. Two drivers. One’s long gone, fled the country. The other…”
“Alive?”
The corner of his mouth lifts in the rearview mirror. “For now.”
“Good. I’m in the mood for a conversation.”
We turn off the paved road onto gravel. The chain-link fence ahead is open. Past it, the lot is dotted with dirty puddles. The warehouse is at the edge of the Calumet River, an old freight depot covered in rust, most of it tagged with faded graffiti.
Bogdan kills the lights, the engine clicking as it cools. We step out into the chilly air, the sky a gray overcast.
Inside is all concrete and dampness. Bogdan leads me through the halls to a door at the very end.
“He’s inside,” Bogdan says. “And all yours.”
He nods to the door, and I push it open. In the center of the dingy room is a chair with a single bulb dangling overhead. A man is zip-tied to it—his wrist, ankles, and chest lashed to the slats. His lip is split, a purple bruise blooming on his cheek. One eye is nearly swollen shut.
I step closer. The man is barely able to lift his head to look at me.
“Seems like you had a little fun with him before I got here.”
Bogdan shrugs. “Wanted to soften him up a bit. Asshole had a real mouth on him.”
Bogdan flips the light switch near the door. The bulb stutters, then hums, casting a sickly white light over the man.
“He was in the passenger seat,” Bogdan says. “So he’s the one who fired the shots. Like I said, driver’s long gone. Car was found torched. Plates stolen.”
I circle the man once slowly. My hands are clasped behind my back. The man’s boots scrape the concrete as he shifts in some pathetic attempt to escape.
He’s not going anywhere.
“He talk?” I ask.
“Nothing I didn’t already know. Plenty of insults. I think he’s learned his lesson about speaking out of turn, however.”
I crouch in front of him. “You shot at the wrong woman, asshole.”
He licks his lips, then coughs a bit. He’s choosing his next words very, very carefully. “I didn’t know who was inside. It wasn’t personal. Just business.”
“It’s personal now,” I say.
His eyes flash with fear. He’s not stupid—he can sense he’s in over his head.
“Who hired you?” I ask.
He doesn’t say anything, instead looking away. I’ve done enough of these kinds of interrogations to know this means he’s trying to think up a plausible lie.
Bogdan senses the same thing, stepping in without instruction and driving a fist into his ribs—nice and precise. The sound is a dull thud, the chair skidding back a bit. Air rushes out of the man’s lungs, and I give him a few moments to catch his wheezing breath.
He slumps forward, coughs. But he doesn’t speak.
“You took a job without asking who the target was. You that desperate for money? Or just stupid as hell?”
He spits blood off to the side. “You think I’m scared of you?”
I smile. “Yes.”
His eyes flash, and I can tell I’ve called his pathetic little bluff.
I turn my attention to the workbench along the wall, the one lined with tools no one has used for their intended purposes in years. I pick up a wrench and roll it in my hand, testing the weight of it. It’s cold and balanced.
“This’ll do nicely,” I say, stepping over to him.
“Wait, wait!”
I don’t need to get messy to make a point. One good strike to the thigh—muscle, not bone. Then one to the shoulder, right on the edge of the collar. It’s enough to ring the nerve and light his arm on fire without actually breaking anything. He grunts and moans, gritting his teeth.
“Who hired you?”
His head lolls back, then forward. “Just… just some guy! Just some random I know through a friend, someone I’ve gotten jobs from before.” He shakes his head in desperation. “I don’t know names. They just told me where the target would be and when.”
His breathing gets louder. The bulb hums.
“You missed,” I tell him. “And then you got caught.”
The man’s breath rattles, shallow and wet. No doubt the pain from the wrench is still ripping through him. He looks up at me, like maybe he’ll find mercy.
He won’t.
“You came for my woman,” I say. “You tried to kill her.”
His throat bobs. “Please. He’ll kill me if I talk.”
So he knows more than he’s letting on.
“Then I’ll save him the trouble.”
The man trembles, and soon his whole frame is quivering. I grab the man’s chin, force it up with the wrench still in my hand. He reeks of fear.
“Tell me who ordered the hit.”
His eyes dart to mine, then away. Bogdan stands off to the side, hands clasped behind his back. I raise the wrench.
“Peter,” he finally croaks. “Peter Morozov.”
Confirmation.
“You’re sure?”
He nods. “Yeah. Peter Morozov. Came into the meeting himself. Said it was important. Said it’d be the last hit I’d ever have to do.”
Rage courses through me, hot and raw. I’d suspected Peter, of course, but hearing it confirmed is something else.
I straighten, then slowly step over to the workbench and replace the wrench. I reach to the back of my waist and draw my pistol. When I turn, fear flashes in the man’s eyes. He struggles, hands jerking against the ties.
“Please—please—”
I step over to him and stop. “No one comes for what’s mine and lives to talk about it.”
I raise the gun.
“No!”
Bang.
The shot echoes through the expanse of the warehouse like thunder. The echo fades into the rafters and dies.
Bogdan exhales, calm as ever. “You want him buried or burned?”
“Your choice. Just make him disappear.”
“Understood.”
My heartbeat’s steady, but rage still hums under it, the kind that doesn’t leave for a long time. Blood blooms on the floor from the exit wound.
“Peter sent a message,” I say.
Bogdan arches a brow. “You want to escalate?”
“No, I want him to wonder if I will.”
I slip my gun back into my waistband. Calm is restored; the mask refastened.
Outside, the air’s sharp, a gentle drizzle now falling.
Violence doesn’t shake me. It never has. But tonight is different. The line between business and personal has been snapped clean in two. I killed a man tonight, not for fun, not for control, not even for the message. I killed him because he scared her. It was dangerously human. Not like me.
Bogdan emerges from the warehouse garage. I glance over his shoulder to see the body wrapped up tightly in a blue tarp. Looks like any other trash.
“Peter will come at us harder next time,” he says.
I take one more drag and then flick the cigarette into the nearest puddle. It extinguishes with a soft hiss.
“Then I’ll be ready for him.” I turn my attention to the city gleaming on the horizon. “Come on. Time to get back.”
Moments later, we’re driving back in silence. The Chicago skyline slowly rises in the distance.
“We tell her?” he asks.
I know what he means. She’s not ready for it.
“Not yet.”
“Not to speak out of turn here,” he says, “but she’s going to find out eventually. The longer she stays in this world, the more certain it is she learns the truth.”
He’s right.
“Not yet,” I repeat.
Bogdan nods once, and that’s the end of the conversation.
I lean back, my thoughts on the woman I can’t afford to lose and the future she’s carrying.