Shadow

by Nadine Nightingale

  He tilted his head from left to right, no longer snarling at me.

  I heaved a sigh of relief, happy he understood I wasn’t anything like the man outside the door.

  White noise flooded the room. It came from a set of speakers in the right-hand corner. “What’s it going to be, myshka? Defiance or survival?”

  “Let me out,” I yelled. “I won’t hurt the dog. I’m nothing like you.”

  Eerie laughter echoed off the walls. “Well, we’ll see about that.” He paused. Then shouted, “Ataka!”

  Without any warning or hesitation, the dog flew toward me. He went for my neck, just like the other dogs did when they killed one of their own over a piece of meat.

  The following seconds were a blur. His front paws landed on my shoulders. I fell backward, hitting the floor. The husky snatched for my throat. And then…Then there was blood. It leaked into my mouth, tasting like death and evil.

  The door swung open. Heavy footsteps predominated the silence.

  “I knew it,” the man said, pushing the dog’s body off me. “You’re a survivor, myshka.”

  Tears dwelled in my eyes as I looked beside me at the dead animal. The blade stuck in its head, his sky-blue eyes wide open.

  I wasn’t a survivor. I was a killer.

  Every first was a lesson, Nikolai had taught me. Survival of the fittest, seduction, even defying his orders. Every first came with a price tag. The ability to kill, loss of innocence, and eventually her death. Every first led me to this very moment, in this very house, with good old Alexei screaming for help in the bedroom.

  I gather my tools—razor blades, knives, salt, and lemon juice—and stroll back to my target.

  Alexei struggles against the solid iron shackles.

  You won’t get out of here, mudak.

  “Where’s my daughter?” he yells, eyes crazed with fear. “Tell me where my daughter is, you psycho.”

  Little Antonia’s cries have long been silenced. She’s in a better world now, one that isn’t ruled by Russian mobsters.

  I sit my shit down on the nightstand. An old couple—the former owners—smile back at me. The pic was taken here on their porch swing. They look happy and still very much in love. You can tell by the way he holds her hand, as if he never wants to let go. Must be nice to grow old with someone who loves your wrinkles. In another life, I would have aspired to live my life the way they did. In peace, love, and solitude. But I was born into a different world, ruled by death, poverty, and hate. Love just wasn’t in the cards for me. And I’m okay with that. Some are born to be monsters, they have murder in their DNA. I’ve proven to be one of them.

  “Please,” Alexei’s voice trembles. “Please, tell me where Antonia is.”

  Ignoring questions and pleas has become second nature for me. I focus on my tools instead. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,” I stop at the large hunting knife, “the first one is you.”

  “Don’t,” Alexei begs, gaping at the blade. “I can give you whatever you want. Just—”

  “What I want,” I whisper, slicing his chest (not too deep, he needs to suffer a while), “is for you to go to hell, Alexei.”

  He screams like a pussy. It’s music to my ears.

  The next hour is a delicious mixture between blades and knives, salt and lemon juice, and screams and blood.

  You might think lingchi is all about cutting folks. It’s not. You have to have the finesse to know when to give your victim a break, or the pain could cause shock, resulting in a too-early death.

  Alexei doesn’t deserve that kind of mercy. I lay my weapons down, humming an old Russian lullaby my mom used to sing to us. It helps me remain focused, makes the blood lust rising up my gullet a little more bearable.

  “W-Why?” he stammers, tears curving down his pale cheeks. “Why are you doing this?” Mobster, manager, Wall Street broker—they all ask the same question.

  I’m not going to lay my cards bare just yet. Alexei needs to drown in regret. Let him think about all the innocent lives he ruined, let his victims haunt him to the very end.

  I get on my feet and tape his mouth shut. His screams are for me and me only. No one else deserves to hear his end. Except—

  Her.

  She would have hated it though. She was everything I’m not—kind, loving, trusting. All the goodness, her inextinguishable light, eventually attracted darkness.

  Those bastards stripped her of hope, murdered her dignity, and killed her innocence. By the time they were done with her, she embraced the rope as if it were her only true friend. In a way, it was. It made the pain and suffering go away, freeing her of the slavery she was caught in.

  My gaze darts to Alexei. “Don’t go anywhere,” I say, smiling like I won the fucking lottery. “We’re not quite done yet.”

  I keep the door open and head to the kitchen. Offing folks always makes me hungry as fuck.

  “Dimitri Volkov wasn’t always a Volkov.”

  Markus

  “Boulder!” Tiffany barges into my room, not a care in the world. I could be sleeping naked for fuck’s sake. “Get your sweet ass out of bed. I’ve got something for you.”

  Unless she’s serving Shadow’s head on a silver plate, or at the very least tells me where he is, I’m not interested. “Go away.” I pull the blanket over my head, fully aware it’s only three in the morning.

  “Okay,” she half sings. “Guess you don’t want to know what I found then.” She stands by the door. “I’ll leave you to your pitiful tossing and turning.”

  She sure knows how to get what she wants. “Wait.” I straighten.

  “People say curiosity kills the cat.” She approaches my bed, curlers in her hair. “But it really wakes the cat.”

  The last thing I need at three a.m. is my assistant tweaking quotes. “Just tell me what you got.” She cocks a demanding brow, and I add, “Please?”

  Tiffany sits down on the bed. “You remember how I had issues finding anything about Dimitri Volkov?” How could I forget? She’s been digging through his dirt for days, and I sorta upped the urgency after that party. The one where I fucked my hand while watching Dasha play with herself.

  Jesus, I’m so fucking happy I didn’t have to face her yesterday. What about tomorrow though? I’m supposed to teach her another lesson. Maybe I’ll just call in sick. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

  “Hey.” Tiffany snaps her fingers in my face. “Still with me?”

  I frown. “Just tell me what you got.”

  Her face lights up. I believe that’s pride swelling her chest. “We didn’t find anything on him because Dimitri Volkov wasn’t always a Volkov.”

  She’s giving me a headache. “Who was he then?” It’d be easier if she just spilled the beans. Women, however, don’t seem to do easy.

  “Look for yourself.” Tiffany unlocks her iPad and shoves it under my nose.

  The first thing I spot is Dimitri’s ugly visage. It’s an older pic, judging by the amount of hair still growing on his scalp and the lack of wrinkles around the eyes.

  I read the article. It’s from the St. Petersburg Times and written in Russian.

  “Wait.” Tiffany reaches for the tablet. “I have a translation app.”

  I yank the screen back and read the headline. “Local Businessman Held for Questioning about Wife’s Disappearance.”

  “You speak Russian?” Tiffany asks. She raises her brows, slightly impressed. “It didn’t say in your file.”

  I flash her a mean grin. “I can do a lot of things you won’t find in my file.” Like watching the girlfriend of the POTUS’s son massage her clit, or get a blow job by one chick while thinking of another.

  Tiffany smacks my arm. “Show off.”

  I banish all thoughts of pussy and focus on the screen. “Local businessman, Dimitri Orlov, was taken to the precinct late last night to answer questions about his missing wife. Orlov filed a missing person report when wife, Natalia Orlova, failed to come home after a gala dinner. Officials says Orlov isn’t cur
rently a suspect, but a person of interest.”

  Tiffany’s eyes sparkle. “Weird, huh?”

  Changing your last name after being a person of interest in your wife’s disappearance? “Yeah, it is.” Unfortunately, there are a million explanations why he decided to drop Orlov, and the article doesn’t explain one of them. “Did you find anything else on him?”

  She shakes her head. “It takes me a little longer than usual, seeing as I don’t speak Russian.” Meaning: she depends on her app and that sucks ass. No matter how hard you try, online translations are never as accurate as the real thing. One word is all it takes to screw up the whole meaning.

  “Keep digging,” I order, handing her iPad back. “Something is off about this guy.” I just can’t put my finger on what it is.

  “Yes, sir.” Tiffany jumps up, saluting me. “Roger that.”

  She’s about to head out, but I stop her. “Tiff?”

  She looks over her shoulder.

  “You’re going to join me today.” It isn’t a request. It’s an order. “I need some backup to get through this day.”

  She squints. “You make it sound like you’re going back to war.”

  In a way, I am. I’m heading to the Deveraux Mansion to talk about my next fight later. Chances are I’ll run into Dasha. I need a buffer if I do. And Tiffany with her marriage stories might just be the perfect one. “Just be ready, okay?”

  “You’re the boss,” she chirps, the sarcasm in her voice not lost on me.

  • • •

  One of Deveraux’s lackeys greets us in the foyer. “Mr. Boulder.” He nods. “Mr. Deveraux is ready to see you now.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, not in the mood to see him.

  “I’m afraid,” Lackey says to Tiffany, “he wants to speak with your boss alone.” There’s no room for argument in the douchebag’s voice.

  “Sure.” Tiffany, always the charmer, crosses her arms above her chest. “I’ll just sit around and wait like some stupid assistant.”

  I sorta feel sorry for her. I made her come with me, and now she’s confined to the foyer. “I’ll be right back,” I assure her.

  She flings herself into the luxurious armchair beside the African wood table and pouts like a child. “Whatever.”

  “Mr. Boulder,” Lackey gestures for me to follow him, “if you’re ready.”

  Ready to find Shadow? Ready to forget Dasha? Ready to never see Deveraux again? Ready to go back to Chicago to wait tables and serve grumpy customers? “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  Lackey leads me down the long hallway to Deveraux’s office. The door is ajar, and I sneak a peek inside. Empty.

  “He’s outside,” Lackey clarifies, pushing the back door open. “Please.” He holds the door for me. “He’s expecting you.”

  Deep groans roar through the garden. Sounds like a wild animal caught in a trap.

  I scan the kidney-shaped pool with the large stone cave, the Jacuzzi, and every chair, but Deveraux is nowhere in sight. If it weren’t for the moans and groans, I’d head back inside, assuming Lackey was trying to kid me.

  Following the noises, I move closer to the cave. One of the tables nearby hosts two bottles of Moët and three glasses, two of which are smeared with lipstick. White powder, looking one helluva lot like cocaine, stretches across the table. I’m getting hard-core party vibes here.

  “Ugh, yes,” a female voice screams. “Oh, God. Harder…Yes…Yes…Fuck me harder.”

  My stomach drops as I gaze through a crack, peering into the cave. Good news? I found Deveraux. Bad news? He’s not alone. Worse news? Neither the naked brunette nor the blonde are his girlfriend. Actually…scratch that. That’s awesome news. I don’t think I could take the sight of America’s Favorite Son inside Dasha.

  The brunette—she’s the one who straddled him when we first met (Angela, I believe)—is bent over a stone, getting ass fucked by Deveraux.

  “Harder,” she pleads, her fake tits bouncing.

  He grabs her ass, almost ripping it apart, then thrusts inside her as if his life depended on it.

  “Yes,” Angela screams in ecstasy. “C’mon, fuck me. Fuck me like the slut I am.”

  The blonde one rubs her big tits against Deveraux’s back, licking his ear. “It’s my turn.”

  Deveraux takes one hand off Angela’s ass. He grabs the blonde’s face so tight, it’ll most likely leave some nasty marks. “Do you want me?” he breathes, chest rising and falling quickly.

  She nods.

  “Say it,” he orders, voice dangerously low.

  “I want you,” she chokes out. “Please, Mr. Deveraux.”

  Deveraux pulls out of Angela, giving the blonde one his full attention. He sucks her tits, rubs her clit, and assaults her mouth. “Fuck, you’re wet,” he says, sliding his whole hand inside her.

  She moans his name like a prayer.

  “I’m going to fuck you,” he promises her. “But first,” he reaches behind, scrubbing his fingers through Angela’s hair, “I need you to fuck your friend.” He hauls Angela over. “Can you do that for me?”

  The blonde nods sheepishly.

  “Say it,” Deveraux demands.

  She bites her thumb. “I’ll fuck Angela first.” She makes googly eyes at him. “Just for you, Mr. Deveraux.”

  Deveraux leans against the stone wall. “Good girl.”

  Angela and her friend get lost in a hotter than hell kiss. They’re hands explore each other—tits, belly, pussy. Hell, I’d be lying if I said my cock doesn’t like what he sees.

  They grind, rub, suck, bite, kiss—and start all over.

  Deveraux pulls them apart, eyes on the blonde. “Fuck her harder.”

  He doesn’t have to tell her twice. The blonde pulls Angela onto her leg. “Ride me,” she demands. “Hard.”

  And boy, does Angela ride her leg. Like a rodeo champion. They get lost in each other, kissing and fucking like there’s no tomorrow.

  I close my eyes, trying to get a grip on the fire building in my core. An image of Dasha flickers across my mind’s eye.

  Dasha, Deveraux’s girlfriend.

  My eyes snap open, anger flooding my system. That asshole has a goddess by his side, and he cheats on her with—I look at the girls—wannabe porn stars?

  I can’t…I just can’t.

  Fists balled, I turn to leave.

  “Where are you going?” Lackey asks as I reach the foyer, madness still poisoning my veins.

  “Home.” I pull Tiffany up. “Tell Deveraux he knows where to find me when he’s done fucking his whores.”

  The dude’s jaw drops.

  I don’t care. I need to get the hell away from here before I’m the one who kills America’s Favorite Son.

  “Because I can.”

  Shadow

  Why does an assassin love the opera and ballet? For starters, I’m Russian. We treasure our cultural heritage. My nationality isn’t the only reason Mikhail Glinka’s Ruslan and Lyudmila blasts through the dark bedroom. Ruslan, like Tchaikovsky said, is “the tsar of operas.” A folk tale with all that your heart requires—a beautiful princess, a valiant suitor, an evil wizard, abduction, a major battle, and a great rescue. Whenever my mother needed some peace and quiet, she would play the old vinyl on Grandpa’s record player and tell the tale.

  Opera and ballet are memories I have from my old life—the pre-trained-killer life. Now, when I need peace and quiet to prepare my next steps, I play the record. Always wondering what could have been, but never will be.

  Lighting candles, I get lost in the overture. The music carries me back to Mother Russia, to my parents and brother, to her, and eventually back to Damascus and Boulder. I haven’t heard from Q yet. She promised me she’d dig into Boulder’s sudden change of occupation—SEAL to CIA, CIA to waiter, waiter to streetfighter. My money is still on him trying to take me out, but if Q can’t give me a definite answer, I’ll have to extract it myself. And I know just how.

  In the meantime—I turn the volume down and carry
the razor blade back to Alexei—I have an interrogation to lead and a bastard to kill. In that very order.

  Alexei bleeds all over the white sheets. The shade of his blood—brick red—as disgusting as the man himself. Not many are aware blood varies greatly. Every creature has a distinct scent and color. Alexei’s smells like rotten eggs. No surprise there.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asks for the millionth time.

  I sit beside him, flashing him a quick smile. “Because I can, Alexei.” I can torture and murder him, and no one will stop me.

  He flinches at my response. Funny thing is he too is a cold-blooded killer. Offed more Bratva enemies than he cares to admit. It’s why a response like that scares the living shit out of him. “J-Just tell me what you want,” he stammers.

  I run the blade across his neck, careful not to cut him. “Let’s play a little game.”

  His body trembles. “What game?”

  One you’ll lose either way. “I’ll ask you a question. Tell the truth, and I won’t cut you. Lie and…” I slice his neck. “You get the idea, don’t you?”

  Terror infiltrates his eyes. “I’ll do anything. Just,” his gaze darts to the blade, “don’t cut me anymore.”

  God, what a pussy.

  I unbuckle his belt. “What are you doing?” he screams, lifting his hips as if he could fight me off. He really can’t.

  I shove his pants to his knees, grab the kitchen knife, and cut his boxers. Laughter bursts out of me. His dick is tiny. “Poor Mariposa.”

  He blushes, which is weird and funny at the same time. Here he lies, covered in over five hundred cuts, and he’s still embarrassed about his tiny dick.

  Anyway, I’m on a clock. Time for round one of Truth or Cut. “Where are they?”

  He narrows his eyes. “Who?”

  Wrong answer.

  I wrap my hand around his cock, squeezing tight.

  Alexei pales. “What—” He throws his head back as I stroke it. Hard. “Oh, God.” He moans, half turned on, half afraid.

  Giving the bastard an erection is easier than I thought. “Let’s try this again.” I tighten my grip. “Where are they?”