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Surely, word will have spread that I’m in the city by now, especially with the trail of corpses in my wake. There will be consequences, that much is for sure. But if I can find more clues as to where Alisa is …
Or better yet, if I can find her here.
It’s nothing more than a fool’s hope, but I cling to it regardless.
I freeze on the landing of the second floor. In front of me is a reddish door with the faded number 28painted on the surface. The pervasive stench of mold permeates everything. Beneath the strong odor, I can smell my own eager sweat.
With one hand on the gun’s trigger in my jacket, I reach into my pocket, pull out a handkerchief, and grab the doorknob to avoid leaving any fingerprints.
Just then, I hear a startled shriek. My grip tightens on my gun.
What the fuck?
It’s not Alisa. But it soundsfamiliar.
Tucking the handkerchief back in my pocket, I kick the door open and immediately spot the open bedroom door. A man in leather jacket is face down on the bed, and that’s when I spot something else:
Cropped tan joggers. A pale fist punching uselessly at the man from underneath.
Something glints and I see the knife in his hand rise up in the air.
Without hesitation, I aim my gun at his hand and pull the trigger.
13
EMILY
My eyes squeezeshut as the knife descends, but somehow, the pain never comes. Instead, a banging sound—so loud that it leaves my ears ringing in pain—overwhelms the tiny space. My would-be murderer screams. The grip around my neck loosens and something falls off to the side.
The knife!
Adrenaline and the animal instinct to survive take over.
I pick up the knife in my left hand and, screaming, stab into the man’s face.
He shrieks and rears back up away from me, just in time for his head to explode in a shower of pink mist.
He collapses to the floor.
Dead.
Panting as my heart races at a million beats a second, I prop myself up and stare at disbelief at the person in front of me.
Familiar mahogany hair, thick on top and turning into a fade that tapers towards his long, tan neck. Ice-blue eyes. A tiny mole below his right eye that’s no longer shifting up.
He’s dressed as sharply as he was when I last saw him. White sleeves peek out from under his suit, and a heavy gold watch clings to his wrist.
Konstantin.
He quickly closes the distance between us, wrench the knife out of my left hand, and pull me up on my feet until his ice-blue eyes are the only thing I can see. The warmth of his touch leaves my knees feeling weak.
All I can do is look up at him, asking myself silently if I’m not already dead.
But he is no longer the charming man who danced with me in a hidden bar with the scent of lemons in the air.
He looks like a different man now.
A dangerous man.
