Chapter 3
BASTIAN
“Okay, that’s the last event on the schedule,” I said.
The man sitting on the other side of my desk crossed one leg over the other, studying the tablet in his hand. “Got it. It’s good to be busy.”
“There’s a lot on this month, Chance, including the opening of the Isis and Osiris show. Be ready. If you have any questions, let me know.”
The former actor nodded. His blond hair was perfectly styled and his teeth blinding white. He had an even tan, despite it being winter, which I knew was down to weekly appointments at his spa.
The assassin known as the Reaper had died, and no one had ever known the abandoned runaway named Cameron. In my new life, I hadn’t wanted my face plastered everywhere as the owner of the Avernus. Chance played that role for me, and I paid him very well in return.
I ran the business, and he attended the press conferences, the parties, the charity events, and the interviews. He hobnobbed with VIPs and high rollers.
That left me free to take care of business and do whatever the hell I wanted.
Chance tapped the tablet screen. “First up is the charity gala.”
“Yes. You’ll need a speech.”
His gaze flicked my way. “You give away a lot of your fucking money, Bastian.”
“Because I have a lot of it. And there are people who need it.”
I’d started the Avernus with several bags of uncut diamonds I’d recovered on my very last kill for the CIA. They hadn’t been mine. I hadn’t earned them, but neither had the ruthless dictator I’d taken them from. I’d used them to build the casino, and from that investment, I could give back.
Chance grunted and rose. “Okay, I think that’s everything. I’ll catch you later.”
I sank back in my leather chair, my gaze shifting to the view out the floor-to-ceiling windows. From here, I could see all of Las Vegas and the mountains in the distance.
I’d been born in Chicago, then abandoned at a fire station as a newborn. After several foster homes, I’d run away to take my chances on the streets.
Chicago had been fucking cold. I still hated the snow.
I liked Las Vegas better. I knew exactly what it felt like to be alone and shivering, freezing cold, and worried if you’d survive the night.
As my gaze swept over the city below me, I wondered where Lark was. She had to be somewhere close.
Leaning forward, I opened the top drawer of my desk. I pulled out a small roll of black fabric and then opened it.
Inside lay a knife.
It was a beautiful blade, a piece of art. I picked it up. Lark had been forced to leave it when she’d last attacked me. I stroked the carbon steel. The knife was perfectly designed for an assassin with a no-glare finish and tough, sculpted hilt.
My office door opened, and Nash stepped inside. Smoothly, I slipped the knife away. He wasn’t alone. He was followed by three other men.
“Did you forget how to knock?” I asked silkily.
Nash sat on the black-leather couch near the wall. “You keep ignoring me and this Lark situation. I brought in reinforcements.”
I glanced at the others. The three men were all so different, but they had one thing in common. They were all former assassins.
They now all lived in villas on the golf course behind the casino and we’d become a messed-up family of sorts.
The one closest to me was Cole Black. Broad, muscular, with a powerful body, you could tell in an instant that he was a brawler.
He did very well for himself in the underground fight rings.
He’d been a mercenary for a while, then a freelance hitman people had known as Darkwolf.
Landon Bradshaw stood beside him. He had smooth, dark skin, short hair the color of ink, and a dark goatee. Once he’d been the assassin known as the Blade. He’d been black ops like Nash. Now he was a doctor, and vowed only to use his skills to heal, not kill.
The final man moved silently across my office. Toward the windows. Alessio Rossi was lean, bronze-skinned, and covered in tattoos. The ex-mafia enforcer didn’t say much, but he was always hypervigilant. He missed nothing.
“So, this is an intervention?” I asked.
“She will kill you,” Nash said.
I sighed, sensing my friend’s frustration. “She blames me for killing Ed. I haven’t had the chance to explain to her why.”
I’d had no choice but to kill him.
Lark blamed me, but didn’t know the full story. I should have found a way to tell her, but hell, a part of me didn’t want to ruin how she saw the only father she’d ever had.
“So you want to talk with her?” Landon asked in his smooth voice.
I resisted the urge to run a hand through my hair. “I owe her an explanation.”
“It’s been months since you took out Ed.” Cole sat on a chair in front of my desk. “Why haven’t you done it already?”
“Because he knows it will hurt her,” Alessio said quietly. “She will learn that her father figure was a murderer. That he killed for fun.”
And there it was.
I’d discovered Ed’s sick secret. He’d been a fucking serial killer. He wasn’t the honorable agent, the sanctioned assassin, the man who killed for his country. He was just another twisted, sick fuck who’d killed loving families. Who killed kids.
I hadn’t told my friends all the details of Ed’s depravity. I’d just given them a brief overview of my reasons for killing him.
Now, I slid a hand through my hair, trying to ignore the twist in my gut. “Lark hasn’t exactly been receptive to talking. And yes, she’ll be devastated.”
Lark was a woman who’d already had enough devastation in her life.
“She’s already grieving his death,” Landon said. “She needs to know the truth.”
I nodded. I couldn’t avoid it any longer. “I’ll talk to her.”
Nash rose, his hands on his hips. “How are you going to do that without her putting a bullet in you, or stabbing you—again?” He shot a pointed look at my shoulder.
I resisted rubbing the wound on my shoulder. Lark had left a knife embedded in it. It was probably not the time to tell Nash that I’d kept the custom blade, cleaned it, and sometimes took it out to look at when I was alone.
“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” I smiled. “Besides, your lovely Georgie would miss me.” I couldn’t resist needling him.
Nash scowled.
“Has anyone heard from Rafe?” Cole asked.
Rafe Archer was the last member of our unconventional, retired-assassins group.
“He messaged,” I told them. “He’s still in Europe. He’ll be back soon.”
“He’s on a job?” Landon asked.
“No idea.” Rafe had been an assassin for MI6. A real-life James Bond. He was also very British and had a thing about privacy. Half the time, he never told us where he was going.
“He’s probably buying some painting or statue,” Nash said.
Rafe was an art connoisseur. His villa looked like a freaking gallery.
I looked at my watch. It was mid-afternoon. I tapped my fingers on the desk. My friends were right. I needed to find Lark.
My best bet was to let her find me.
Yes. If I lured her out, she’d come.
I’d be the bait.