Chapter 3
Indigo
I made it back to my apartment just over an hour later, trailing bloody footprints across floors I’d paid way too much for.
I went straight to the bathroom, turned the shower on scalding, and stripped out of the dead man’s silk pajama bottoms and oversized shirt. The moment the water hit the cuts on my knuckles, knees, and feet, I hissed—but I leaned into it.
Pain meant I was still alive.
I grabbed the soap and scrubbed until my skin turned raw. I washed until the water ran clear.
Then I kept washing.
The smell still wouldn’t leave.
Lilies and copper.
It clung to the inside of my nose, coated my lungs like a second skin. I dug my nails into my arms, trying to scrape the memory off.
Not the killing. That didn’t bother me. The fat Russian fucker deserved the second smile I’d carved across his throat.
It was the doll dress. The glass cabinets lined with dead girls’ things. The casual way he’d said you’ll meet them downstairs.
Women got used up too easily in this world. If I wasn’t who I was—if I hadn’t learned how to be dangerous—I would’ve ended up just like them.
The water went cold.
I didn’t move.
I stood there shaking, trying to remember how to breathe like I had yesterday.
When I finally stepped out, I stood dripping in front of the mirror.
I had changed so much about myself in the last three years.
And I’d been content. But now that was blown to hell.
My real phone kept buzzing on the nightstand, reminding me that my burner was probably still back at the dead man’s house.
I sighed.
I had fucked up.
I left the bathroom to answer it.
The caller ID flashed Diamond, the only girl at the club I actually trusted. She had retired after marrying Dutch’s brother, Malik.
“Hello?”
"Oh my God. I'm so glad you answered," Diamond said, her voice frantic. "I called you so many times last night trying to warn you. Dutch was going to let that fat creepy Russian fuck that's always messing with the girls have you. Malik told me. Thank God you're safe."
I opened my mouth to respond, but the call waiting clicked in.
Cooly.
I knew a call from him meant money or trouble. I met him a few months after I left Florida at the club. He was in the back, solo, watching me like he couldn’t get enough. The ring on his finger caught the strobe lights, and even from ten feet away—
After my set, he sent a bottle to my table. Dom Pérignon.
He walked over and took a seat, real bold-like.
"You lost?" I asked.
"Nah." He looked up at me like he was studying a painting. "I think I just found something."
Cooly was fine. Dark-skinned. Locs. Golds in his mouth.
He hid his muscles under tailored jackets.
I don’t know what he did, but he did something to be rich as fuck.
Money was on him heavy. One day he was in a Bentley, and the next day a Maserati.
The watch on his wrist was worth a house. I was attracted.
He wanted me too. Made it clear from that first night. He was patient. Respectful. He'd show up to my sets. Sit in the back. Watch. Then leave after a few words. He talked me out of my phone number.
Sometimes he'd text: You good?
Or You ate today?
Sometimes it would be I'm thinking about you.
I never told him to stop. Never encouraged him either.
He helped me get new identification. He had connections everywhere—fake IDs, passports, money transfers, you name it. When I needed something, he made it happen.
Without asking for anything in return.
Except for my attention. We had fun together. He reminded me of Miami somehow. I kind of got used to being on his arm in public when we’d go to dinner, parties, or just chill.
He got his feelings hurt when I didn't fall for him around year two. I saw it in his eyes every time I said no. Every time I changed the subject. Every time I walked past him without touching him.
But he never pushed. Never got nasty about it. He just stopped coming around, and the texts became scarce.
I felt bad for him sometimes.
Not bad enough to give him what he wanted. But bad enough to feel guilty about it.
"Diamond, I gotta go. I'll call you back." I switched lines.
"What you get into, Ma?" His voice came through low, smooth. He had this crazy New York accent that his deep voice made sound filthy. I just knew he was the type to talk you through it.
"Nothing."
"Nah. You ain't nothing. I heard what happened. The whole city talking about it. You went crazy in a Russian's penthouse. Sliced his throat and ran out after killing a couple of his men. They’re looking for Indigo Gao, not Midnight,” he continued.
“Every hitter from here to Jersey is racking their slides right now, licking their chops at the thought of a seven-figure payday. What the fuck did you get into?”
What the fuck?
Barely two hours had passed.
How the fuck did they already know my real name?
I had been hiding in plain sight for three years.
Malachai couldn’t find me.
So how the fuck could they?
“Maybe they got the wrong person.”
"You’re Indigo Gao, right?" It wasn’t a question. I actually think he’d known the entire time, but I answered anyway.
"Yeah."
He was quiet for a long time. I could hear him moving around. The creak of a chair. The clink of glass.
"You should've called me soon as you got out. Soon as you hit the street. You should've called me, Midnight."
"And tell you what? That I just killed a man?"
"Tell me you need me." His voice dropped. "I would've come. You know I would've come."
"I know."
"Then why didn't you call?"
"Because it ain't your problem to solve. I ain't trying to get you killed."
He laughed. "Ask me why I think that’s funny.”
“Because your husband ain't the only killer out here.”
"How long you known about me?"
“Since that first night. I met you once. In Miami. At your father's house. You ignored me then.”
I tried to remember ever seeing him, but I couldn’t.
“It was nice to meet you, Cooly. I consider you a friend because you helped me out so much but I ain't trying to involve you in my mess. I gotta go.” I hung up.
I looked at the gold ring on the dresser, the double-headed eagle staring back at me.
Mocking me.
What was this?
Irony…
Or fate?
“Bad fucking luck,” I muttered.
I grabbed the nearest thing my hand found—a glass lamp from the nightstand—and hurled it at the wall.
The crash felt satisfying for exactly one second.
Then I grabbed something else.
The sound of shattering glass filled the room like applause.
“FUCK!”
The scream ripped out of me.
I swept my arm across the dresser. Lotion bottles flew. A jewelry box cracked open, earrings scattering across the floor like tiny screams.
The ring—that stupid, heavy Bratva ring—clattered to the floor.
I kicked it, watching it skid under the bed.
“Three years!” I shouted, pacing naked across the room. “Three fucking years I been invisible!”
Now everything was fucked.
I had wanted more time.
Three years wasn’t enough to forget the baby I lost.
My brother was going to get his wish. Zaire had begged me to come back.
He said Malachai had lost the little bit of mind he had left.
Said Malachai had been sitting outside his house.
A house nobody was supposed to know about.
When I first ran from Malachai, my brother had played pussy when I called him. Too scared of Malachai to help me. Told me to fuck off and never call again.
But now he was begging me to come back.
Apparently, Malachai was furious at Zaire and my father for not helping me when I ran.
The man was a walking contradiction.
I had been struggling with the question of when I would return.
I knew eventually Malachai would find me.
Running forever wasn’t going to work.
And truth be told…
I didn’t even want to run forever.
I had just planned to give myself a few more years.
I was still hurt.
I knew Sasha was dead.
Maya, who I still kept in contact with, told me that bitch had gone missing after Malachai found out she was responsible for our child being dead.
I wanted to be the one to kill her.
I looked around my one-bedroom penthouse.
I’d only been living there for almost two years.
Before that, I spent a year in DC living off pawn money. My wedding ring and Maybach had been sold before I left Florida.
I ended up in New York dancing because the train ticket was cheap, and Diamond said I could make real money the night I met her in a diner.
Seven thousand dollars in one Friday night.
I got hooked.
I felt a small twist of sadness.
I had a few friends now.
It had been nice being a ghost.
But shit had come full circle.
There was only one man who could handle the Russian Mob.
One man who dealt in the kind of darkness that made the Bratva look like choir boys.
My crazy-ass husband.
I picked up my phone. Stared at the blank screen.
My thumb hovered over the keypad. I watched it shake like it belonged to someone else.
I typed the first three digits of his number, the area code 727.
Deleted them. Maybe I’d just surprise him.
I left my apartment at six-fifteen.
A duffle bag from the back of my closet filled with a change of clothes. The money that was under a loose floorboard in the bedroom.. My Jordans.
I stopped in the bathroom. I cut my long blond hair into a bob. Applied heavy makeup.
Grabbed my toothbrush. Toothpaste. Then I was out. But before I left New York, I had a score to settle.