Chapter 2
ALIK
Ihave four minutes—five, max—to get the job done and get the hell out of here. It should be more, but I lost time killing two fuckwits in the stairwell. Serves them right for running away from the fight. Loyalty means nothing to the cowards in this family.
I move fast, silently down the hall. The less noise, the less likely I’ll have to waste more time disposing of Pagano lowlifes. The less energy I’ll waste too. With my adrenaline up I can barely feel my broken ribs, but I’m going to need all my strength to drag my target out of here.
A concussion, multiple lacerations to the scalp, two black eyes, several broken ribs, and some more scars to add to my already impressive tally—that’s what I get for being a bad man who, one time, chose to do the right thing.
That was a few weeks ago and it was a moment of weakness I have no intention of repeating.
If my father could see me now, he’d laugh and give me another beating to add to the one I had to accept for refusing to complete a job.
The Arkhangel—our bratva’s most elite assassin—is universally feared, especially by those who know exactly what goes bump in the night.
The fact that I intentionally let a target live is a threat not just to my reputation, but to my organization, my family.
A failing our pakhan, my father, will never let me forget.
Guess it’s a good thing the evil fucker isn’t here.
I’m in Chicago for reasons that have nothing to do with my role as my bratva’s infamous assassin.
I should never have agreed to the hit to begin with.
I was getting twitchy, frustrated by how slowly things are progressing here.
I needed a way to stay focused, to keep my mind sharp.
The joke was on me, though, because the target turned out to be a woman, and I don’t execute women or children.
There are some rules that even villains have to live by.
After that massive fucking mess, I told my father the Arkhangel is going to ground until I say otherwise. I have to stay focused on the real job at hand. Or, in this case, the person.
Rocco Pagano.
Bodies of his foot soldiers are scattered across the house and grounds, some lying lifeless in the hallway as I make my way to my target.
Thick clouds curl out from the smoke grenades the Cerreti soldiers detonated.
I’ll give Aldo and Rem credit; they do not fuck around when it comes to taking out their enemies.
The Paganos have been causing trouble for the Cerretis for months, and Chicago’s ruling mafiosi are ending the war tonight.
Rem Cosenza—the ruthlessly talented ’Ndrangheta fixer and newly-promoted underboss to his father-in-law and capo, Aldo Cerreti—gave me the heads up that their attack on the Paganos was going down tonight.
A gift of information in exchange for the one I gave him a month ago.
An Italian and a Russian allied over their hatred of the same man.
The same man whose organization I infiltrated for reasons I’ll never share with Cosenza. The same man I want nailed to a fucking cross as I torture every last piece of information I can from him.
Rocco Pagano stole something precious from me and he’s going to pay for it with his tears, his blood, and, eventually, his life.
I pick up speed as I thread through the basement passageways. Two more turns and the air gets stale, rancid. This is where Pagano does his real damage. Inflicts unimaginable pain. Breaks the women before he sells them.
I wormed my way into his organization months ago, progressing from lowly foot soldier to one of Rocco’s guards, earning trust through violent means.
Pagano might be Italian, but his loyalty isn’t to country or blood; it’s to ruthlessness.
He doesn’t care that I’m Russian as long as I handle the jobs his weaker soldiers can’t stomach.
Beatings, maimings. Murders. All that bloodletting has granted me access to Rocco Pagano’s inner circle.
It’s taken months to get to where I am, longer than planned because I almost fucked it all up.
He had a shipment of girls coming in from Italy and instead of standing guard as ordered, I caused a diversion and helped the women escape.
Some things a man just can’t stand by and watch, even a man as twisted and amoral as me.
Rocco never pinned the loss of “inventory” on me, but it sure as hell didn’t fast track me to his inner circle. I had to spend months proving myself over and over again, and bury so many more bodies in the process. But I’m here now. So close to capturing Rocco Pagano that I’m giddy with excitement.
Rem Cosenza might be ending his war against his enemies tonight, but I’m the one leaving with Rocco, still breathing and begging for his life.
Rapid gunfire punctures the air several yards behind me. The fight is getting closer. I’m running out of time. I duck around another corner and spot Rocco at the end of the hallway, gun at his side, his back to me. Slow moving prey.
Forty steps between us.
Thirty.
I’ll have him in a chokehold in seconds, unconscious in less than a minute. I’m that much closer to stringing him up and finding out what really happened to Rina. The closest I’ve been to answers since she disappeared.
Once I grab him, we’ll both be gone and I’ll never have to step foot in this foul place again.
I’ve barely finished the thought before a face fills my head. Not Rina’s, but the face of a woman I never meant to find but can’t seem to forget.
She’s somewhere down here. At least she was as of a few weeks ago. Blyad! I don’t even know if she’s still alive.
I stopped believing in any god years ago, but as I stalk through Pagano’s underground prison, I find myself whispering a prayer. Please let her be alive.
Not that prayers do any good. Coldblooded ruthlessness is the only way to survive this life. There’s no room for softhearted emotion. I learned that the hard way.
A lesson that keeps me moving toward my target.
Twenty steps, ten.
Then I hear it. Fist meeting bone. The awful snap of a head flying back. Halfway between me and Rocco is one of his torture cells, the door open.
I don’t have to look to know who is inside.
The moans tell me she’s still alive. The sound of bone slamming against flesh tells me not for long.
I don’t have time to care.
Don’t have time to focus on anyone other than Rocco.
Focus, Alik. I have one reason for being here and she is not it.
Yet I can’t stop from detouring to the dank cell. It will only take a second, I tell myself. Less than that, I decide, when I see what they’ve done to her.
Rocco has strung her up like a piece of meat, still naked, bruises blooming across her stomach. I already have my knife drawn, a gloved hand yanking back the head of one of Pagano’s particularly fucked-up cousins, his neck fleshy and weak as I cut quick and deep.
He’s mid-punch when he drops to the ground, blood pooling around his lifeless body. The svoloch' can’t hurt her anymore.
I’m doing that thing again, praying, when I realize it might be too little, too late.
The woman looks half-dead.
I purged every soft feeling from my bloodstream years ago. I don’t have the capacity to empathize. I don’t have time to fucking care, not when Rocco Pagano is within my reach.
Fuck all good it does me. What if it was Rina? Some deep, long-smothered part of my brain whispers. What would you want someone to do if it was Rina?
That’s all it takes before I’m jimmying the woman’s handcuffs open with the tip of my blade.
She’s unconscious, sagging into me before both wrists are free.
Her face is streaked with dirt and dried sweat.
Her torso already discolored and tender.
Her skin whisper-thin against the protrusion of bones.
An unholy rage builds in my chest. What the fuck did they do to her?
Thanks to my own beating, it’s been weeks since I’ve been able to sneak in and check on her.
I started doing it for entirely selfish reasons, thinking she might have intel on other girls Rocco has held captive in the past. The woman is one of theirs, after all.
A Pagano by blood. I figured if I could get her to trust me, she’d open up about her uncle’s fucked-up business.
I didn’t know she’d be too weak and dehydrated to talk.
Rocco has been trying to break her. She’s fought back with nothing but sheer willpower. Her determination to survive is formidable, especially given what the future holds for her. This Pagano woman is a stronger fighter than all the men in her family, and I respect her for that.
It’s that reason, I tell myself, that I feel more homicidal than usual as I wrap her battered body in my coat, trying to avoid touching the injuries on her stomach. Her head lolls wildly, her blindfold falling off, her neck useless as I hoist her against my chest.
Blya! I have a choice to make. Get the girl out of here or get my hands on Rocco.
My brain is a fucking quagmire, but my feet are damn decisive. The Pagano woman is a deadweight against my chest, her body temperature dangerously low as I maneuver us through the compound’s eerily empty basement.
I’ll get her out, get her into my car, and come back for my target. The night isn’t a failure yet.
Rem’s attack must be close to over. The lingering gunfire is sporadic, confined to the upper floors.
I make it to a rear staircase without encountering anything but a few nameless bodies and some bloody shoe prints.
By the time I get us up the steps and out a back door, the woman I’m carrying is incredibly cold.
A foreign fear creeps over me as I adjust her weight and fumble for one of her wrists, searching repeatedly for a pulse as I hustle toward the property’s perimeter.
I know from my time with the Paganos exactly where to park a car so no one notices it; how to breach the weakest part of the exterior fence to escape the property.
My Audi is exactly where I left it. It unlocks automatically as I approach the passenger-side door.
I move quickly and carefully, sliding the unconscious woman into the seat, keeping the coat wrapped around her.
In the dim winter moonlight, her skin looks pale.
Ashy. Her lips more blue than pink. I absently brush hair from her forehead as I search for a pulse one more time.
The longer it takes the worse my language gets, my mother no doubt turning in her grave as I let the curses fly. “Suka, pizdets, pizdets—”
I stop short, my entire focus on the patch of skin beneath my fingers. Thank fuck. I’m not imagining it. She has a pulse. It’s weak but detectable. Determined, just like she is. I buckle her into the seat and close the car door.
Now it’s her uncle’s turn.
I start to run back to the compound when an explosion rocks the air. Flames dance across the night sky. Dumbstruck, I watch the Pagano mansion burn. If Rocco is still inside, my best hope for getting intel about Rina’s location is burning with him.
Guilt and rage whip through me faster than the flames chew up oxygen. Somewhere in the far distance, sirens start to wail. I spare the building one final glance, firing off a rapid text to Rem as I slide into the driver’s seat.
What did I say about not praying? ‘Cause I’m praying like hell that his plans for Rocco didn’t include death by fire.