“Gone where?”
I narrow my eyes. “She didn’t tell me before escaping out of the fucking window!”
“So why are we still here? If she escaped, shouldn’t we try to find her? We’ll definitely find her in that red dress!”
“No dress,” I grunt.
“What are you talking about?”
“She stripped out of it. Left it in the trash along with a wig.”
“Shiiiit,” Patrick mutters. “But if she left her clothes, we’d have an easy time picking out a naked chick running through Brooklyn, yeah?”
I rub the back of my neck. “God only knows what she’s wearing. And as far as I could tell, she disappeared into thin air.” My shoulders slump. “But one thing I know for sure. She’s Russian mafia, I saw the star.”
He furrows his brow. “I didn’t see anything. Where was it?”
“In my mouth, along with the tit it was inked onto.”
Patrick gives my shoulder a punch. “Damn, I knew you were stealth in your job, bro. When was her tit in your mouth? And how did I miss it?”
I nod toward the bathroom.
“You fuck her, too?”
“No time,” I mutter. “But the bigger issue is that she wasn’t working on her own tonight.”
“You mean for her interview?”
Jesus Christ. Why is he so goddamn slow on the uptake?
“Patty,” I say. “There was no interview. It was bullshit!”
“What are you saying?”
“I think she killed Vigo. And she might not have been acting alone.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“If you are going to say that she might have ties to Conor, then yes, that’s what I’m saying.”
“That’s not good. Conor, in bed with the Russians?”
“Patty, if you ask me another fucking question, I might put you through a goddamn wall. I’m just saying.” I swallow hard. It’s insane for me to feel this way, but my gut clenches when I think about that cocksucker Conor’s hands on…whoever the hell she is.
Let’s call her Red Dress.
Red Death.
Whatever.
I don’t even know her name, but somehow I’m all tangled up in her lethal web.
Conor.
I wanna fucking vomit just thinking about it.
For all I know, she wants me dead.
But, as much as I hate myself for it, I want her.
“Okay, so lemme phrase this as a statement so that you don’t bite my head off about answering another question,” Patrick says with a smirk. “You’re going back to Vegas tomorrow and I’m staying here in the city. I’m gonna keep an ear to the ground and see if Conor does or says anything suspicious, now that I know what I’m looking for. And I’m gonna keep you posted. Hopefully, I’ll have something by the time I see you for Aisling’s christening next weekend.”
I rub my temples. “Just keep the rest of your family out of this. You’re on your own here. If you need backup, you call Roman. Whatever happens, do not tip off Conor. Christ only knows what he’d do to you if he found out. I mean, he tried to kill Heaven while he was high, for fuck’s sake.”
Patrick’s gaze darkens. “I can handle him. I will handle him.”
“Be careful. The last thing you want is for whoever he’s working with to handle you. Because if that happens, you can be sure as shit they’ll be coming for us next.” Blood rushes between my temples, rage bubbling under my skin at the thought of Conor’s betrayal.
If I can’t kill him, then goddammit, I need to fucking kill somebody.
Immediately, if not sooner.
The burner phone in my pocket buzzes against my leg almost on cue. I pull it out with a roll of my eyes.
I can’t handle more of Matteo right now.
My gaze drops to the screen and the corners of my lips lift.
Just what I’ve been waiting for.
Fire and Ice. Las Vegas Blvd. Five million.
Well, feather my ass and jiggle my balls.
I’m about to scratch the hell outta that itch.
Chapter Seven
Anya
“Anya, once you get through the metal gate, run. Run like you’ve never run before. Run until you can’t take another breath, and then, keep going. Don’t look back, don’t scream, and whatever happens, don’t stop. Just get to the boat. It’s the only way you’ll survive.”
I swallow a gulp of oxygen, the frigid air lancing my lungs like the sharpest icicles as my older brother Maks and I trudge through what look like mountains of snow in our path. His words to me before we started on this horrific journey are seared into my mind.
My legs sink deep into the freezing snow, the drifts so high, they reach the top of my knee-high boots. I shudder, pulling my fur-lined parka tight around me.
A lump the size of a grapefruit lodges itself in my throat.
I want to scream.
I want to cry.
The property surrounding our house is gated off by wrought-iron fences and you need the security key to open the locks. There is no escape from the front. Besides the fact that there would be too much snow lining the driveway, whoever just massacred the guests in our family home would most likely have someone waiting for us by the road.
There’s only one other way out for us.
The lake isn’t frozen over yet, so it’s our only chance to survive this ambush.
Tears spring to my eyes, freezing as they slip down my cheeks.
I can’t feel my fingers or my toes, and we’ve barely gotten away from the house. I feel the blood in my veins slow as my body temperature drops more and more with every passing second. I take in air, choking as my lungs work overtime to fuel my body with oxygen as I run. With a thumping heart, I focus on the boat swaying around on the lake.
Just a few more steps…
Almost there…
I can almost feel the wooden planks of the dock rattling beneath my feet.
“Maks,” I rasp, keeping my eyes forward. I squint into the darkness, the moon being our only source of light. “We’re close. So close! Please God…please God, let us make it before—”
My throat tightens, panic bubbling in my chest as I reach the gate and stab in the security code. Then I do the things my brother warned me not to do.
I look.
And then I scream.
“Mama, you look so beautiful,” I say, fingering her long blonde curls. “Your hair glows like a halo.”
“That’s because she’s an angel,” Papa says, surprising us by appearing in the doorway to the kitchen. He grabs Mama by the waist and spins her around as she gasps. A breathless giggle escapes her deep red lips as Papa twirls her around the table. Her light blue dress fans out around her, her cheeks bright pink from the impromptu dance.
Mama gives Papa a playful slap. “If you want this feast to be ready on time, you’d better find yourself another dance partner.”
Papa’s blue eyes twinkle and he holds out a hand to me as Mama fusses over the meal she’s preparing.
“It’s been hours,” I say to her in a teasing voice. “Isn’t it done yet?”
Mama gives me a sharp look, her lips parting to speak the word burned into my memory.
“No!”
A flash of red floods my vision as the tears freeze and crackle on my skin.
It was only supposed to be a friendly business dinner.
“No!”
One swing of the machete took Mama’s life.