Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
My legs struggle for space, crammed into a small chair in the makeshift office space in the corner of Shawn’s bedroom. Pushing my forearm onto the desk, I brush aside a collection of empty cans and mugs before pulling my phone from my pocket.
From security cameras in the restaurant, I watch Ava squirm in her seat. Her legs twitch, thighs rubbing together under the table. When her friend grabs her phone, Ava’s cheeks turn rosy. Her voice comes through my phone, feathery and sweet.
I can feel Shawn’s eyes on me, bearing the weight of his displeasure.
He made his feelings clear about hacking into restaurant cameras and the microphone on Ava’s phone when I asked him to do it tonight.
An invasion of privacy, he called it, kind of sick and perverted.
I don’t give a fuck about that. There’s no privacy where she’s concerned.
She’s mine and I’ll know every single piece of her heart.
I listen as she tells her friend a story of an unconventional romance.
In her words, just a kinky guy she’s getting to know.
It doesn’t escape my notice that she leaves out any details of consequence.
She doesn’t tell her friend how I stalk her, frighten her, kill for her.
She may not be ready to admit it yet, but the idea of getting me arrested pains her.
She may not know why, but she’s not prepared to let me go.
I’ll have to reward her for being such a good, obedient girl.
“You done being creepy, dude?” Shawn’s voice yanks my attention away from the beautiful brunette on my screen.
When I level him with a glare, he shrinks, his chest deflating as his feet inch backward. His eyes lower like he's suddenly fascinated by his dirty high-tops.
“Any news?” I ask, impatience bleeding into my voice. Reluctantly, I shut down the video on my phone.
“Well,” Shawn breathes out the word with a pained tone, “everyone wants you dead. I mean, everyone.” He heaves out a dry, anxious laugh. “There are hits out on you from the Rossi and Volkov families. They're offering a lot of cash for your head.”
My jaw clenches, teeth gnashing together. “Any news that I didn't already know?”
“I found the location of Mikhail Volkov’s office.”
“Good.”
Shawn's mouth opens, then closes. His index finger pops up like he has an important point to make, but he lowers it just as quickly.
I huff out a breath. “Say what you need to say.”
He clears his throat and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Are you going to…uhh…kill him?”
“I'm just going to pay him a visit.”
“Yeah, okay. You're going to ‘pay him a visit’.” He sticks his fingers up, throwing air quotes around the phrase.
If my eyes could roll further back, I'd be staring at my brain. “Shawn, I don't kill every person I talk to.”
“Uh huh.” His tone makes it clear that he thinks that's bullshit.
“Fine, I might have to kill him, but that's not my goal. I'm going to try to negotiate with him.”
Realistically, at least a few of Volkov’s men will die today.
I don't expect them to just let me waltz into their boss's office without a fight.
I'm not an idiot. If I need to kill all of them, I won't be bothered by it.
My moral compass only points in one direction—Ava's.
I'll do whatever I have to do to keep her safe.
* * *
Another fucking nightclub. What the fuck is it with people and nightclubs?
The powerful seem to be enamored with the concept of making money off of them, like they enjoy being immersed in the stench of stale beer and horny tourists.
I wipe my palms against my jeans as if my proximity to the building tainted them.
My eyes lift to the gray building before me, Volkov’s club, Samogon.
At night, it probably looks impressive, a towering edifice of sensuality and sin.
In the light of day and without booze’s rose colored glasses, the bricks are beginning to crumble.
The brackets and poles that hold up neon signs are edged with rust. Like everything else in this city, if you look too closely, you’ll see the cracks forming in its foundations.
I’m one of those cracks, a piece of the depravity that’s corroding the bedrock of this metropolitan nightmare.
I lift my hand to the front door, leaving my other resting on the butt of my knife, and knock.
The security camera above the door lets out a soft, mechanical whir, and pivots in my direction.
I don’t bother to hide my face and instead stare up into it with a grin that begs them to try to fuck with me.
Barely five seconds later, the door bursts open, sending a putrid wave of nightclub stench billowing out into the street.
Catching sight of the man who steps into the doorframe, it’s pretty clear that they most certainly are going to try to fuck with me.
The beefy fucker eyes me, his lips puckering into a sour expression.
His eyes flash with recognition and his mouth turns up into a smirk.
His two-sizes-too-small t-shirt protests as he yanks his arm back, the fabric threatening to split as his muscles bulge.
With no time to block him, I clench my stomach and brace for impact just before his fist collides with my gut.
My ass collides with the pavement so hard I wouldn't be surprised to find it split open beneath me.
Pain spreads through my stomach like acid, forcing bile up my throat.
My tongue feels like lead as I swallow a mouthful of vomit.
Something moves in front of me. My eyes flit upward just in time to watch a beefy body fly through the air, heading directly for me.
Nausea suddenly forgotten, I roll to the side to avoid the collision.
The harsh pavement scrapes against my cheek as I move, leaving my face stinging.
The giant goon crashes to the ground, his knees cracking beneath him.
A sound booms around us, somewhere between a growl and a scream.
He moves to stand, his thick legs forcing him upward awkwardly.
Before his back straightens, my knife is in his neck.
Despite his bulk, the sharpened blade slices through him like butter.
The breath gurgles out of him, great globs of blood along with it.
His fingers grasp his neck in desperation as his body topples forward.
I step over his twitching body, narrowly avoiding dipping the tips of my boots into a puddle of his blood. I’ve never been particularly opposed to getting bloodied. It’s an expected occupational hazard. Over the years, I've become something of an expert in cleaning it.
Now, something inside of me recoils at the thought of getting some asshole’s blood on Ava’s floors.
The only blood my sweet little bird will ever touch is mine.
The thought prompts a flood of images in my mind.
I watch Ava’s delicate hands clean my wounds, the softness of her skin counteracting the sting of the antiseptic.
Her fingertips are gentle as she bandages me.
I let the images dissipate. They whisper away like the fog of my breath in the cold, autumn air.
I step into the club, letting my eyes roam around the empty space.
Like the outside of the building, the inside is equally unimpressive in the daytime.
Daylight pours in from the open doorway.
It falls over the black bar top, highlighting the scratches in its surface.
It crawls over the red floors, revealing old stains that have seeped into the edges between the tiles.
I walk toward the back rooms, keeping my distance from the walls that seem unwilling to let go of the oily fingerprints of patrons past. I’m certain if I looked lower, I’d find smudges from sweaty asses embedded into the plaster.
Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of yellow catches my attention from the end of a small hallway.
The employee’s only sign sits in the center of a metal door.
It begs for my attention, leading me toward my target.
The camera above it whirs, swiveling in my direction just before the door screeches open.
Two men scramble out, their chests puffed up and eyes sparkling with challenge.
Their collective bulk fills the hallway, barring my entry.
They widen their stances, challenging the strength of the seams of their jeans.
As their arms flex under their shirts, the word security printed on the front widens, as if the letters are trying to get away from each other.
At the sight of their posturing, a chuckle erupts from my throat.
“Where's your boss?” I ask.
Unsurprisingly, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb don't tell me where their boss is.
“Ubey yego,” Dumb hisses. I don’t understand the word, but the way the letters smack against his tongue creates a sound that seems equally as harsh as what I assume it means.
Dee jams a tattooed hand into his jeans, pulling out a Marakov pistol.
He lunges with Dumb on his heels, until there's only inches between us.
His heavy breath puffs against my face. The smell of tobacco and peppermint is so strong that my eyes threaten to tear up.
He shakes his head, dislodging a tendril of sandy-brown hair from his eye so that he can glare at me fully.
His lips tip up into a satisfied smirk as the barrel of his gun presses into my forehead.
My toe drums against the floor with an audible tapping. “Are you sure this is how you want to play this?”