Chapter Thirty-Nine
Adriana
A heavy bang rips me out of my nightmare.
Grateful, frightened, naked, with thoughts of my dead sister and my perilous future racing through my head, I slip out of bed and run to the nearest closet, opening it and finding a robe, which I quickly throw on while Reaper stirs awake in bed.
He stands and pulls on his underwear while I hurry to answer the door.
Charlie Eng and six heavily armed and mean-looking Triad goons stand on the other side.
He blinks once at seeing me in a robe, but otherwise displays no outward signs of emotion.
“What is it?” I say.
“It’s time,” he says. “You have work to do.”
I cross my arms and wait. There’s been more than enough of his cryptic bullshit for today. When he does nothing, I speak up in Mandarin. “I won’t move until I have details.”
Eng’s eyes narrow; I cross my arms tighter and set my scowl in a line sharp enough to cut glass, anticipating either a fight with him or a task that means certain death — maybe a heist of Fort Knox or assassinating the president.
After a moment, he sighs. “Fine. You and the others are to take my mother to karaoke.”
Nearly a minute passes before I blink and breathe.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Why?”
“Because I had promised my mother I would take her to karaoke. It is something she enjoys very much. However, unfortunately, because of a recent setback involving Volkov’s men interfering with our business, I must put out some fires and restore some business relationships,” Eng says, with a tone that says he is not at all sorry he’s being pulled away to work.
“Why not send some of your own men?”
“Because my men will either be with me or busy elsewhere. This situation is very tenuous. You and your companions must escort and entertain my mother.” A knowing smile flashes momentarily across the faces of several of Eng’s men.
“If you want my organization’s help in taking down Volkov, this is the price.
Now, get ready. You leave in twenty minutes. ”
Eng leaves without another word, and after a quick post-sex shower, dress, and coffee, I stand bleary-eyed and blinking in the hallway outside our room, waiting with a pistol in my hand.
Reaper stands beside me, also armed, and moments later, Tank, Diesel, and Mayhem all come out of their rooms, their faces a mixture of perturbation, boredom, and mania, respectively.
“I haven’t been to karaoke in ages,” Mayhem says. He’s bouncing. Smiling. Looking at all four of us with unabashed excitement. “Tank, you in for a duet? We could do ‘Under Pressure.’ You know it?”
“I know it. And I refuse to dishonor the memories of David Bowie or Freddie Mercury with you.”
“Your loss. What about you, Diesel? Reaper? Anyone in?”
I feel a grin tugging at my lips as I watch Mayhem's enthusiasm. Despite everything we've been through, there's something infectious about his excitement. I nudge Reaper with my elbow, unable to resist the urge to tease him.
"Come on, Reaper," I say, batting my eyes at him. "When's the last time you sang karaoke? I bet you've got a decent voice hiding under all that brooding."
Reaper gives me a look that could melt steel. "Not happening, Adriana."
"Oh, come on," I press, enjoying the way his jaw tightens. "Just one song. For me?"
"Absolutely not."
Diesel shakes his head before I can turn my attention to him. "Don't even think about it. I save my vocal talents for the shower and Samantha's ears only."
"You're all dead inside," Mayhem declares, but he's still grinning. "More spotlight for me and Mrs. Eng, I guess."
Before anyone can respond, heavy footsteps echo down the hallway. One of Eng's men approaches — a stocky guy in a black suit who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Time to go," he says curtly. "The car's waiting downstairs."
We follow him down to the lobby and out onto the street, where a sleek black limousine idles at the curb.
The driver holds the door open, and I slide in first. The interior is all leather and soft lighting, but what catches my attention immediately is the woman sitting across from us.
She's small and elegant, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun and bright, intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
Her age is impossible to determine; she could be sixty or eighty, with that timeless quality some people possess.
There's an energy radiating from her that reminds me of a hummingbird — quick, vibrant, delicate.
"You must be Charlie's friends!" she says in accented English, clapping her hands together.
"I am Mrs. Eng. Thank you so much for taking me out tonight.
We had this date scheduled for weeks, my Charlie and I, but now, he tells me he has some emergency.
He works too much, you know? Always business, business, business. "
Mayhem settles in beside her, his face lighting up. "Mrs. Eng, I'm Mayhem. I have to tell you, I am so excited about this. What's your go-to karaoke song?"
Her entire face transforms with delight. "Oh! You like karaoke too? Charlie always says it's silly, but music—music is life, yes? I love Teresa Teng, but also Madonna, Whitney Houston... What about you?"
"I'm all over the place," Mayhem says, grinning. "Classic rock, pop, some country when I'm feeling brave enough to do Dolly’s ‘Jolene’ justice. But I don’t want to sing alone tonight. Have you ever done 'Bohemian Rhapsody'?"
Mrs. Eng gasps and grabs his arm. "That is my dream song! But it is so hard, so long..."
"We could do it together," Mayhem suggests. "Tag team the different parts. I’d love to tag-team with you tonight. None of these other guys… they don’t appreciate the art of karaoke."
“I will tag-team you, Mayhem,” Mrs. Eng says with a nod. “We will tag-team everybody.”
I can't help laughing at Mrs. Eng's earnest declaration. There's something endearing about her enthusiasm, and the way Mayhem's face lights up like Christmas morning makes the whole surreal situation almost normal. Almost.
The limo glides through Sacramento's streets as the two of them chatter about vocal ranges and song choices and forgotten artists who definitely deserve a karaoke revival.
Tank stares out the window with resigned acceptance, while Diesel checks his phone and Reaper sits beside me, his thigh pressed against mine in the cramped space.
The contact sends an unwelcome flutter through my chest.
Twenty minutes later, we pull up outside a dive called Lucky Dragon Karaoke. The neon sign flickers erratically, casting pink and green shadows across the cracked sidewalk. The building looks like it's been here since the seventies and hasn't seen a renovation since.
As we climb out of the limo, I glimpse movement in my peripheral vision.
A guy in a baseball cap leans against a lamppost across the street, his attention focused squarely on our group.
Something about his posture sets my nerves on edge—too still, too watchful.
I turn to get a better look and maybe alert Reaper, but when I glance back, the spot is empty.
"Reaper," I start, but Mrs. Eng has already linked arms with me and Mayhem, practically bouncing as she drags us toward the entrance.
"Come, come! We don't want to miss the good songs!"
The interior hits us like a wall of cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and spilled beer.
Red velvet booths line the walls, most occupied by groups of friends or couples sharing pitchers of questionable-looking cocktails.
A small stage dominates one corner, where a middle-aged woman in sequins murders "My Heart Will Go On" while her friends cheer her on.
Mrs. Eng makes a beeline for the song request booth, Mayhem trailing behind her like an eager puppy. The rest of us claim a large corner booth with a clear view of both the stage and the exits — old habits.
"First round's on me," Tank announces, flagging down a server who looks like she's been working here since the Carter administration.
I settle in next to Reaper, hyperaware of every point where our bodies touch. His arm rests along the back of the booth behind me, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. When he leans over to order a whiskey, his breath tickles my ear.
"You okay?" he asks quietly. "You seem jumpy."
I shake my head. "Just tired. Long day."
It's not entirely a lie, but I can't shake the feeling that we're being watched. I scan the room again, cataloging faces and exit routes, but nothing seems out of place.
The sequined woman finally puts "My Heart Will Go On” out of its misery, and the DJ calls out, "Next up, we have Mayhem singing 'I Want It That Way' by the Backstreet Boys!"
Mayhem bounds onto the stage with more enthusiasm than I've ever seen from someone heading into a firefight.
He grabs the microphone like it's a lifeline, and when the opening notes start, he doesn't just sing—he performs. His voice is surprisingly good, hitting the harmonies with unexpected precision while he works the small crowd like he's playing Madison Square Garden.
"Tell me why!" he belts out, pointing dramatically at Mrs. Eng, who claps and sways in her seat. "Ain't nothing but a heartache!"
Tank shakes his head, but I catch him tapping his fingers against his beer bottle. Even Diesel cracks a smile when Mayhem hits the high notes without his voice cracking. I laugh as Mayhem attempts some sort of choreographed dance move that looks more like he's having a seizure.
When he finishes to genuine applause, Mrs. Eng practically floats onto the stage.
The opening chords of "Dancing Queen" fill the smoky air, and suddenly this tiny, elegant woman transforms into a force of nature.
She owns every note, every gesture, her voice strong and clear as she belts out the chorus. The entire bar sings along.
"You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen!"
I watch her command the stage and feel something loosen in my chest. When was the last time I just..
. enjoyed something? When did I last sit in a dive bar and laugh at my friends being ridiculous?
The weight of Vanessa's death, of Volkov's threats, of everything hanging over us — it all feels distant right now.
Reaper's hand finds mine under the table, his fingers intertwining with mine. The touch sends warmth shooting up my arm, and I don't pull away. For once, I don't analyze it or worry about what it means. I just let myself feel the connection.
"Having fun?" he asks, leaning close so I can hear him over Mrs. Eng's triumphant finale.
"Yeah," I admit, surprised by how true it is. "I am."
Maybe we can have more moments like this. Maybe after we deal with Volkov, we can figure out what this thing between us really is. Maybe I can let myself want something good for once. Maybe we can make it last.
Mrs. Eng takes her bow to thunderous applause, then rushes back to our table, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
"That was wonderful!" she exclaims, settling back into the booth. "Now, Mayhem, are you ready for our big number?"
"Born ready, Mrs. E."
The DJ's voice crackles over the speakers. "All right, folks, we've got something special coming up. Mayhem and Mrs. Eng are going to tackle 'Bohemian Rhapsody.' This should be interesting!"
I stand up, the beer finally catching up with me. "I'll be right back," I tell the table, squeezing by Reaper, who pinches my ass as I do so. I grin at him, then turn from the table and head toward the dark hallway that leads to the bathrooms that I hope are cleaner than the rest of this place.
The hallway is dimmer than I expected, lit only by a single flickering bulb that casts dancing shadows on the grimy walls.
Behind me, I can hear the opening piano notes of "Bohemian Rhapsody" starting up, followed by Mayhem's voice launching into the first verse.
The sound feels distant now, muffled by the narrow corridor.
I’ll need to hurry. I don’t want to miss the entire performance.
I'm halfway to the bathroom door when a hand clamps over my mouth from behind, another arm snaking around my waist and yanking me backward against a solid chest. My training kicks in immediately—I try to stomp down on my attacker's instep, but he anticipates the move and shifts his weight and slams me hard into the wall.
A voice fills my ears. Hot, dirty, and heavily accented — Russian.
"You didn't think you could hide from us forever, did you?”