Chapter 3
OCTAVIAN
Rain hammers the cobblestones, turning the alley into a river of filth like it's trying to wash Bucharest clean.
But this is where my target decided to spend his final night, not that he knows death is coming.
He's up ahead talking to a group of girls. They leave and he flicks his cigarette into a puddle and starts moving.
He stumbles as he walks, liquor doing its job.
I step out of the shadow and begin following him. He glances back, eyes wide as he sees me, granted I'm hard to miss.
But his look tells me he knows what's coming and he's going to run.
He stumbles, his shoe catching on the uneven ground. I move quickly, dashing between empty tables and chairs left out from the closed restaurants.
He tries to look back and slips again, his knees hitting the ground.
I close the distance and with two hands grab him by the jacket and throw him to my left, down an alleyway. He crashes into the side of a car and stumbles to his feet.
Before he can scream, my hand covers his mouth, muffling his voice. He jerks and moves so I pin him to the wall, looking down at him.
His hands scramble at my arm, but it's already too late.
My blade slides between his ribs in one smooth motion. I twist and press my hand harder against his face, keeping his voice trapped in his throat.
Warm blood spreads across my knuckles, easy to tell the difference between it and the rain.
I pull the knife out and stab him again with such force his feet come off the ground slightly.
I twist again and this time his body goes limp. I wait a few seconds and then lower him to the ground without a sound, pull the knife free and wipe it on his jacket. Rain washes the rest away, streaming down the alley in dark lines.
I straighten, cracking my neck as I scan my surroundings. No one's around to see me, which means I don't have to kill anyone else. Not that I'm hiding this body — it'll be found not long after I'm gone, most likely. I just won't be here.
Suddenly, my cell vibrates in the inside pocket of my jacket. It's my encrypted line.
I slide my knife back into the sheath beneath my coat and reach for the phone.
I pull it out and the screen glows with the name of someone I've worked with a few times before.
ENZO BONVENTI
I swipe to answer it, blood smearing across my screen.
"I'm listening."
"Got something for you," he says, his voice smooth, unbothered by whatever he's about to share. "You available?"
"Always available for the right price."
"Good," he says. "Then you're available."
"Chicago?" I ask.
"Boston."
I step over the body, already moving out of the alley. "Target?"
"Protection detail."
I don't sigh. But I want to.
Babysitting. Wonderful.
I pause at the corner, checking the street. A couple passes, but they're too focused on each other to notice me.
"What am I protecting?"
"Irish mafia princess. Main goal is to keep her breathing."
A woman.
I don't ask questions. Questions complicate things, create attachments.
"She's young. Mid-20s. Active in the city," Enzo continues.
I don't respond, and there's a silence between us for a moment as I keep walking, boots splashing through puddles.
"I'm going to bring her brother on this call now," Enzo says. "He's acting Don of the Irish family there. Name's Callum Killaney."
I hear a slight click and a new voice cuts in.
"Voinea."
"Killaney."
"I won't waste your time," Callum says. "My sister's going to fight this. She's not going to want you there."
"Then she'll lose," I say, and stop walking for a second. "Doesn't matter what she wants. If I'm paid to do a job, I do it."
More silence.
I can feel him evaluating me through the phone.
Callum finally speaks. "She's in danger. I want someone who won't flinch when she lashes out. Someone she can't manipulate."
That almost makes me laugh. Manipulate me?
"She'll stay alive," I say as I turn down another street, heading toward my car. "Nothing would stop that from happening."
"Good." Callum's tone doesn't soften. "Because if she dies, so do you."
"Understood."
The line goes quiet again, but neither of them hangs up. They're waiting to see if I'll ask more. If I'll need details, reassurance, context.
But I don't.
This is the job. I take the contract, I complete the contract. Everything else is noise.
Rich girls who think they don't need protection are nothing new. They lash out because they've never had to face real consequences. They push because no one's ever pushed back hard enough to make them stop.
I'll just do what I always do. Memorize her until I know her every exit, every threat, every weakness.
It's not the blade that cuts you. It's the thing you didn't see coming that does, just like that poor bastard bleeding out in the alley back there.
"I'll take it," I say and get into my car.
"Okay, Enzo's sending you the file now then," Callum says. "You're on the next flight to Boston. See you soon."
The call ends and my phone pings. Encrypted file incoming.
I open it.
The photo loads slowly and when it appears, the image hits harder than I expect.
She's in a black dress, standing on a stage at some event, a backdrop behind her. Her red hair flows like fire. Green eyes, narrowed. Her head tilted back, full lips parted into a smile as she laughs.
So this is Keira Killaney. The Irish mafia princess.
No. Not princess.
Problem.
While she may be beautiful, that doesn't mean shit.
Beautiful women die just the same, sometimes faster.
I scroll through the attached notes, scanning them. The notes say she runs a foundation, charity work, philanthropy. All standard roles the women in mafia families play.
I don't like family jobs. Too many variables.
My phone pings again.
1st class boarding pass.
Boarding time 6:30 a.m.
I take a corner hard. I don't have time to make it home, so I'll head to the safehouse in Corbeanca, shower, change, grab a bag, and head to the airport nearby.
I pull into the driveway and head inside. An hour later I'm in a taxi texting one of my contacts to come get my car, clean it, and leave it at my house.
When we arrive, I check my Rolex. 5:55 a.m.
Not bad.
I make it through security with only a handful of stares and half-smiles from female flight attendants.
I board the plane and take my seat.
As the plane taxis toward the runway, I pull out my phone one last time, scrolling back to the photo of Keira Killaney.
Red hair. Green eyes.
She won't want me there.
That'll make two of us.
The job is the job. Emotions are for amateurs.
Boston's just another map dot. And she's just another contract.
But something in that photo, something in the tilt of her chin, the sharpness in her gaze, pricks at the edge of my instincts. The part of me that's kept me alive this long tells me she's not going to be easy.
I turn off my phone and lean back, shutting my eyes as the engines roar to life. The plane lifts, and Bucharest falls away beneath me, swallowed by clouds and rain.
When I open my eyes again, I'll be in Boston.
And Keira Killaney will learn what it means to face someone who doesn't flinch.