Chapter 2 Kirill
KIRILL
The girl sprints away. She’s young, maybe in her twenties. Jeans, pink top. Long brown hair that whips over her shoulder.
Too sweet-looking to be caught up with my chaos.
Blyat.
This isn’t how this was supposed to happen. I tug the mask back into place, and for half a second, I consider sticking to my original plan. Drug my victim, drag him to my basement in the house at the centre of my Blackfen territory, torture him.
But the girl saw my face, and they’re running in opposite directions. I draw my gun, complete with silencer, and I stare after her. I should shoot her non-fatally, make it clear that she’d do better to keep her mouth shut.
She saw me. If she goes to the police—or another mafia—all the work I’ve done for years could come crashing down.
Plus, I’ll get more information from the shit-stain who I was meeting if I torture him.
Shooting her is the logical choice.
My arm whips out, and the decision is made by my body.
My victim falls. And I sprint after my girl.