Chapter 3 KỊLL TO BURN
The asshole from the Albanian café blanches when I approach him.
“E-Elias Kent. What are you doing here?” he sputters on the sidewalk outside the building as his friends scatter.
Sniveling idiots.
Not answering him, I twirl the lighter around my fingers, feeling its heavy, familiar weight, and step inside.
“Where’s your father?” I ask. He’s my target, the man I’ve been searching for.
All activity grinds to a halt.
Old men arguing in Albanian over backgammon stare at us. Dice clatter. Chairs scrape against cracked tiles as folks toss bills onto their tables and promptly exit.
“B-Back room. Why are you—we don’t owe you any favors.”
I snort. “You aren’t worthy to lick my shoes clean.”
“Ate!” he shouts, his feet tripping over themselves as he scurries to the back.
Yes, go run to your daddy.
My pristine Italian leather oxfords barely make a sound as I cross the room to her table and survey the scraps she left behind. This is just curiosity—keeping tabs on the enemy. Not part of my twenty-eight minutes.
The white ceramic cup is mostly empty. Deep-red lipstick marks the rim, beckoning me like a beacon in a storm.
I lift the cup, placing my lips over the red imprint, and take a sip. In a past life, this would’ve been a kiss between two lovers.
Useless dreams. There’s no time for sentimentality.
I focus on the taste instead.
Earthy. Bitter. Strong. A good cup of Balkan coffee with lingering chocolate aroma.
Of course. She loves chocolate.
Next, I flip the folio on the table. A hundred-dollar bill and her familiar handwriting stare back at me.
Life is full of surprises. Today’s storm may be tomorrow’s rainbow. Hang in there. If you ever need help, call this number.
I stare at the string of digits, wondering how the intelligent head of public relations can be so na?ve sometimes—leaving strangers her phone number.
My zemer’s weakness is her kind heart.
“What’s the meaning of this? Why scare off our customers, Mr. Kent?” Vasil ?ela waddles out, beady-eyed, cigarette perched at the corner of his mouth, with his asshole son in tow. My temper brightens, a sadistic pleasure curling through me.
Not answering him, I pick up Lana’s receipt and carefully slide it into my suit pocket. Her kind notes—her little scraps of sunshine.
My scraps of sunshine.
“That’s ours. Why are you taking—”
Brow arched, I hurl a seething glare his way, and he shuts up.
Then I take the gold-wrapped square she left for the waitress. A small piece of chocolate.
Curious, I unwrap and plop the morsel into my mouth. The nauseating sweetness registers first, always reminding me of that dark day.
But I force myself to savor it because she loves it. The unexpected spice fans the flames of anger inside me. Paprika, cardamom, and dark chocolate. Interesting.
“Where were you on February twenty-eighth? Twenty years ago,” I murmur.
Slowly, I face the father and son duo.
Sweat beads on the older man’s forehead, the blood leaching out of his face. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My veins turn to ice at his denial.
Leaning in, I watch him shrink before me. “Wrong answer. Allow me to remind you. A hardworking couple. Their three children. The youngest only three months old.”
Click. The flame blossoms from my lighter. I shut it. Click. Again.
“Took out the mom first because you wanted to inflict pain. Then, the baby because she was…” the words hiss through my gritted teeth, “too loud. Ring any bells?”
“What?” he whispers, his eyes wide with fear. A pungent stench reaches my nostrils, and I look down, finding his pants drenched.
Revulsion churns inside me. Pathetic coward.
“B-But how? You’re Elias Kent. You aren’t Albanian. H-How—”
“You thought there were no survivors. But that’s the thing with evil deeds…someone always lives to tell the tale.”
A tapping sound draws my attention to the window. A man darts away in a blur of black, leaving behind a scrap of paper with a drawing of a chess piece—a black knight—fluttering against the wind. Gasoline sloshes in under the door.
I smile. Ren works fast. The men in The Syndicate are the only ones I trust now.
“Who sent you that day?” There were two masked men. One tall and muscular, the other thick and short like the older ?ela quivering in front of me.
The son grabs his sleeve. “Dad, what is he talk—”
“I-It was an extirpation, m-my Rite.”
My hand curls into a tight fist. The Association and its unhinged rituals and depraved violence.
“Who gave the order?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Then where’s the kill ledger? You at least know that, right?” I snarl. The Association keeps records of their kills; that much I do know.
The old man shakes. “Pl-Please. I don’t know anything. But the Berishas have the ledgers. The Six all have copies. That’s all I know.”
The ruling Albanian family. They’re part of The Six, the council ruling The Association. There are rumors of unrest within the family. They’re the weakest link.
My silk tie cinches my neck, making it hard for me to breathe. Because I know what I need to do next—I’ve avoided this last step for as long as I could.
I need to infiltrate The Association; join the very people I despise.
But I’ll get answers.
I’ll find the murderer who ordered my family’s execution, the man who shattered Sofia’s life and mine.
I’ll find the answer to my question: Why? Why target my small, lower-class family?
With my expression nonchalant, I pull out a metal flask and unscrew the cap.
“Congratulations.” I offer it to the man who trembles like I’m offering him poison. “The finest whiskey. Go on. Drink it. A reward for the right answer.”
Vasil ?ela swallows, his hands shaking as he takes the canister from me. He takes a tentative sip, his eyes widening when he realizes I wasn’t lying.
But when he lowers it down, I lash out, my grip firm as I douse his face and shirt with the rest of the alcohol.
He chokes and wheezes, “W-Why does this matter to you?”
Someone whimpers in the background. It’s the damn waitress loitering by the back door.
“Go. Get out of here.” She’s not smart, but she’s innocent.
She shrieks and flees, the back door banging behind her.
“Looks like you just lost one of your women.” One of the thousands they traffic for the Albanian mob. Anger burns through me.
My soul is black and heart nonexistent, but there’s a special hell reserved for men who prey on women.
I face the petrified older man again. “I never answered you before. Elias Kent isn’t my real name.”
Rule one: Look them in the eye. The Antihero Syndicate has rules to govern the monsters living within us.
I fist his collar and lift him off the ground until he’s at eye level.
Rule two: Tell them their sins.
“It was my family.”
His eyes blow wide. Sneakers squeak, a terrified gasp, and his son flees, finally registering they won’t make it out alive.
I draw my gun and fire a round into the younger ?ela’s back. A wretched scream tears out of his throat.
Rule three: No innocent women or children. The third and final rule.
Everything else is fair game.
The sniveling son groans on the floor, red spreading on his shirt. I remember the server girl shrinking in his presence—classic battered woman syndrome—and how he disrespected Lana.
Not innocent. If I weren’t pressed for time, I’d chop off his hand and choke him with it to teach him a lesson on consent.
The older ?ela claws at my wrist, kicking, thrashing as I restrict his airway. He reeks of whiskey and sweat, the most unpleasant combination. It’ll be a fucker to get out of my clothes later.
I drop him, and he scrambles toward his son, the two trying to escape. Pathetic.
Leaning down, I grab a cigarette from the old man’s pocket and thumb the lighter.
A small flame leaps, writhing a seductive and destructive dance in the air.
“No! Please,” the old man babbles. “W-We’ll do anything. Tell you anything. You can have all my money—”
I punch him across the face. Blood and spittle fly from his mouth.
Money? I have enough wealth to rival any billionaire. Can money turn back time? Can money bring back everything I’ve lost?
“Mirupafshim, asshole.”
Goodbye.
The cigarette flares, its tip glowing orange. I’m riveted by how something so tiny can cause so much destruction.
Like her, if I let myself think it. But I don’t.
Caustic smoke reaches my nostrils as I hold the cigarette over him.
“See you in hell.”
I smile and drop it, watching the flames catch on his whiskey-soaked clothes, engulfing him in seconds.
Screams of terror fill the room as I calmly walk out the front door.
But then I fucking hear it.
“Meow.”
My feet freeze, and I look down, finding the calico cat staring at me, its back arched up, fangs showing.
Vicious little creature. Images of Lana smiling at the cat play behind my eyelids.
“I wish I could keep you.”
The spot beneath my rib cage throbs, and without thinking, I scoop up the cat.
“Your lucky day,” I murmur, and walk out the door, ignoring the cries behind me.
The cat claws my neck and draws blood. Smart, this little one.
Ren, dressed in his usual all-leather attire, hasn’t taken off his motorcycle helmet.
He cocks his head and snaps up his visor, incredulity in his dark eyes when he spots the cat.
Up close, he looks paler than usual. There’s a fleeting pinch in his forehead—gone in a split second—I’d miss it if I didn’t know him so well.
“Do I even want to know?” He points to the cat and signs with his free hand. The assassin of The Syndicate smirks.
“Shut up.”
“I don’t speak,” he taunts back and shakes his head, amusement in his eyes. Then he strikes a match and lights the Molotov cocktail in his grip.
“Ready? The pawn took care of the cameras. He says you can’t do shit without him.”
I roll my eyes at his mention of Aleksei Morozov, the hacker genius of The Syndicate. If it weren’t for his usefulness, I’d kick him out of the group so I wouldn’t have to hear him gloat.
“I already zapped them.” Impatient, I show Ren the debugger in my pocket.
Ren grins, the flaming bottle in his hand, and faces the building. “For the vow.”
I answer, “No mercy.”
My jaw tics and I chain the front door shut. Knowing Ren, he’s already locked the back.
“Let it burn.”
The bottle smashes against the wall. Flames engulf the building, and I walk away.
The cat’s heart hammers against my ribs.
Mine doesn’t.