The Outlaw’s Savage Revenge (Twisted Saviors #3)

1

Cade

“You shouldn’t have returned home, princess.”

The whispered words slip from my lips like a ghost, barely audible against the low hum of the hotel’s ventilation. I lean back in the chair, my gaze falling to the black file on the desk before me, its pages neatly clipped together. I’ve memorized every line, every fact, every inch of it.

But I flip it open again.

A black-and-white photograph of a woman sits pinned to the corner of the stack. Her wide, dark eyes are full of fire. Long, dark hair tumbles around her oval face, framing her striking features. There’s something about her—a mocking defiance in the tilt of her chin—that always makes me linger.

Luna Romano. Twenty-five. Recently called back from Paris after her mother’s death. Alfred Romano’s only child.

And a complication that could blow everything to hell.

She looks much better suited to Parisian luxury. There, she was safe and oblivious, playing at attending business school while developing her adult dating app.

But no, she had to uproot her life in France and return home. Unfortunately, she’s arrived in time to watch her father die, and possibly get caught in the crossfire herself.

With a twist of my wrist, I flick the file aside and let it spin across the desk. It stops next to the small, rolled-up piece of bleached leather.

My kill list.

I reach for the slim gold bars at the ends and snap them open, the old material cracking like dry bones. The list I made two decades ago, scrawled in blood-red ink, stares back at me—a promise of vengeance fulfilled.

I trace the dozens of crossed-out names, all the way to those waiting their turn at the bottom until I reach the name I’ve postponed—until now.

Alfred Romano.

Romano has just bumped himself higher up the list again with his latest sick move: brokering a marriage between his fifteen-year-old niece and a Russian mob boss.

The girl is fucking fifteen. And Romano wants to sell her to a middle-aged bastard who probably hasn’t seen a conscience since he left the womb.

My finger trails across the scroll, settling on the groom-to-be. Another one who should’ve been dead a long time ago.

“Never hesitate to take a shot, Caden.”

Uninvited, my stepfather’s voice slithers through my mind, whiskey-soaked and bitter—a ghost, like the rest, that refuse s to stay buried.

The memory of my response curls the edges of my lips.

“What's the hurry, jackass? Both hunter and prey end up dead sooner or later.”

I can still taste the blood from the punch he landed after that reply. But it was worth it.

Pushing the thought back into its dark place, I pick up the tungsten beads around my neck and let them slide through my fingers until I reach the crucifix at the end. I press it to my lips, the ritual familiar and grounding.

Already, I’m anticipating tonight’s kill. It should be quick and clean. And then it’ll be Romano’s turn.

“Pretty? You still there?”

My partner crackles through my earbuds, jarring me from my thoughts. I’d almost forgotten I was on a call with him.

Derek ‘Scar’ Sullivan is my voice of reason, the force of gravity that keeps me from unraveling.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Agent Hawkins called today. He named your next hit.”

My muscles go rigid. Shit, it’s too fucking soon. I need more time between these assignments.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing away the brewing headache. My job as an undercover FBI agent doesn’t mix with my . . . private work, such as tonight’s hit.

I force a lazy drawl. “Did he now?”

“He must think you shit gold,” Scar muses, but I hear the edge of suspicion. “Three hits in one month? Hell, Pretty, I’m starting to wonder if they've got you working for someone else.”

Ice crawls up my spine at how close Scar is to the truth. “Fuck if I know.”

Scar doesn’t press, but he doesn’t need to. The silence stretc hing between us is telling.

He sighs. “Look, you’ve been getting a lot of jobs lately. That’s all I’m saying. It’s as if he knows you have a stunt double.”

“Hawkins wouldn’t figure that shit out if I drew him a map,” I reassure Scar. “Anyway, what’d you do?”

“What else could I do? I mimicked your usual insolent bullshit and took the job. I’m not exactly in a position to make waves since I’m supposed to be dead.”

True. Three years ago, the Agency sent me to kill Scar for going rogue. For reasons I still can’t explain—I let him live. Now, after reconstructive surgery, erased fingerprints, and altered dental records, Scar has become a ghost living in my shadow.

Only problem is, he doesn’t know just how deep those shadows run.

“Who’s the target?” My voice stays carefully neutral.

“Some Russian Pakhan.”

A cold premonition ripples through me. “Is it by any chance Hugo Antonov?”

“How the hell did you guess?”

Fuuuck.

Of course, it’s him. The same name that’s on my kill list. The man I’ve planned to strangle with my own hands at some point in the near future. The universe sure has a sick and inconvenient sense of timing.

“Anyway,” Scar continues, “I figure I’ll take this for the team. I could leave for Moscow after tonight’s hit. Clean and bloodless—as per usual, right?”

I shut my eyes, fingers instinctively finding the crucifix around my neck, again pressing the cold metal to my lips. “No, Scar. I’ll do the honors.”

The line goes quiet. I can picture him now, leaning back, running a hand through his hair—which he dyes to match my dark blond—in frustration. “Your hands are full, Pretty. Got an extra pair. That’s what I’m here for, remember?”

I open the leather scroll again and stare at Hugo Antonov’s name until my vision blurs with the need to squeeze the life out of him. I can’t let it go. Not if I want to sleep at night.

“Antonov is mine, Scar.”

“Fine, asshole,” he spits, but his voice quickly shifts back to easy-going. “I’m tagging along, though. You’ll need me to wipe your snot, considering how sloppy you’re getting.”

This trust between us—Scar’s ability to impersonate me—is a luxury no one in my line of work ever gets. But I’m just not ready to let him into the depths of my darkness.

A quick glance at my watch tells me it’s already noon, which makes it only nine in the morning in San Diego, where Scar is. “Bring the Gulfstream. We’re heading to Moscow at dawn.”

“And Alfred Romano?” Scar asks. “I thought Hawkins wanted him done by tomorrow?”

Actually, Alfred Romano is a personal hit, but Scar doesn’t know that.

Before I can stop myself, I grab the file on my desk and flick the cover open for what must be the hundredth time today.

“Pretty?”

“Huh? Yep. Romano can wait. Let’s sort out the Pervy Pakhan first. We’ll deal with Dipshit Daddy when we return from Moscow.”

“Don’t you mean Dipshit Uncle?” Scar reminds me. “Romano is trading his niece for arms, not his daughter .”

And that’s the real puzzle, isn’t it? The reason I tell myself I have to find out more about Luna .

Why the fuck is Romano selling off his underage niece when he’s got a grown daughter? One the Pakhan should be giving up all the arms in his vault to get in her pants.

Luna’s face looks back at me, her pouty lips parted as if ready to whisper the answer. All I see is a woman too polished. Too worldly. Too innocent. Too . . . fucking much for this filth.

“Hmm,” I mutter distractedly.

“For fuck’s sake, Pretty!” Scar snaps.

“What?”

“You keep zoning off. Something’s . . . off with you?”

It’s almost eerie how attuned Scar is to my moods. I suppose this is to be expected, considering he lives my life.

“I’ve got it, Scar, see you tonight.”

I end the call before he can probe deeper, my mind already circling back to the question consuming me.

Why the child bride?

Alfred Romano isn’t a man who’d let his daughter turn down an arranged marriage, especially when the family desperately needs protection from the Don they rebelled against.

Or maybe it’s just Antonov’s taste. Maybe the sick fuck prefers them young.

It doesn’t matter. In a week, Romano will be dead.

My thumb brushes over the photograph again.

“You really should’ve stayed with your mother’s family in Paris, petite souris . Let the alley cats tear each other apart.”