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But her?
Not so much.
I exhale sharply, forcing myself to step away from the window. The shadows swallow me again as I move through the office, stepping over the bodies at my feet. Back at the computer I was on before, I finish copying everything off Orlov Financial Solutions’ network to the thumb drive.
Like most times I go down this particular rabbit hole on this particular hunt, I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for.
I hope I’ll know it when I see it.
When I’m done, I glance back at Fedir’s hand-less body. There’s something comforting in the finality of death and the stillness it leaves behind. These men were dead the second they crossed my path. Not just because of who and what I am, but because of who and whattheywere.
Possible accessories to a crime I’ve been trying to solve for far, far too long.
This particular road may turn out to be yet another dead end. I’ll only know when I’ve analyzed the information I’m taking with me tonight.
I could dwell on the “what if” of Fedir and his mennotbeing involved in this crime I’ve spent almost two decades trying to solve. I could even allow myself to get tangled up in the irony of being a monster myself, hunting monsters.
A criminal looking to punish other criminals.
But it’s different with this.
It’s…personal.
In any case, even if Orlov Financial Solutions and the Grigorov Bratvaweren’tinvolved in the horror show of twenty years ago, I doubt the world will mourn a piece of shit like Fedir Gusev and his band of shitheads.
But she... She was a complication I didn’t expect.
I kick my toe absently at the body of one of Fedir’s men. Blood from his sliced neck stains the entire front of his tracksuit.
They had to die. But her?
I can still feel her pulse beneath my fingers, rapid and erratic. I can still see the flash of fear in her eyes when I pinned her against the window. It wasn’t just fear. There was something else.
Something darker that flickered beneath the panic.
It’s been gnawing at me ever since.
I stand, rolling my neck. I should walk away. From this shitshow, obviously. But from her, too.
…But I know I won’t.
The driveback to the apartment I’ve been using while I’m here in New York is quiet. But not quiet enough.
This city bothers me.
It’s too faceless. Too proud of itself for no real discernible reason. It’s filthy, and it’s a never-ending slugfest between the various underworld powers.
The tension bubbling just under the surface makes the very air stink. It’s suffocating. And fuck, it’sloud.
I’ve always preferred the silence, the way it wraps around me like a second skin, drowning out the noise of the world. It’s easier to think that way. Objectively, for a city of ten million assholes, itisfairly quiet right now. But tonight, that quiet feels oppressive, like the weight of that girl’s gaze pressing down on me, demanding answers I don’t have.
The name—Karen Vanderschmit—is obviously fucking bullshit. I saw the flicker in her eyes when she handed the ID over, the brief hesitation before she spoke. She was hiding something.
I’ll find out what it is. I always do.
Tonight’s little foray into the offices of the Grigorov Bratva was a two-for-one, technically speaking. On the surface, I was there on Kenzo’s orders. But my cousin’s attempt to dig into the world of the Bratva as we expand into this goddamn city was only my excuse for being there.
My other reason is my own.
