“Never.”
Always.
Passing the prestigious artworks, I head to the only bathroom I’m familiar with. The one I jerked off in while watching Dasha fuck herself.
In case Irina is giving some dude a blow job, I knock.
No reply. No moans. No nothing.
I move in, heading straight for the bathroom. No need to use it, but I welcome the peace and quiet. I should have known it wouldn’t be easy. Dasha was hard enough to be around prior to last night. Now that I’ve had her—all of her—it’s impossible.
A fucking ice bucket is what I need. Cold water from the faucet will have to do.
I saunter over, the refreshment within hand’s reach, when voices float through the bathroom. For a fraction of a second, I flash back to the sight of red hair spilled all over Dimitri’s sheets. Soft moans. Hard-rocking hips. And I pray. I fucking pray this isn’t the kind of déjà vu that’ll get me arrested for murder. The jury won’t show sympathy for a guy who bashed a grieving father’s head in on the day of his son’s funeral.
Staying very still, I focus on what is going on in the room next door.
No moans, no sex noises of any kind. Just Deveraux and Dimitri chatting in hushed voices. “You know what this is about, don’t you?” Dimitri grumbles.
Inching closer to the ajar door, I sneak a peek. They sit across from each other, both edgy and on alert.
“Should I?” Deveraux replies coolly.
A slight pause. A sigh. Then, “You may act like you don’t care, but I’ve seen the fear in your eyes, my friend. Let’s not play games, shall we?” Dimitri moves to a drawer. “Recognize this?”
My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. Is that—
“Masha i Medved,” Dimitri confirms my suspicion.
“The stuffed animal your son’s killer left on my stage?” Deveraux’s tone is arrogant, aloof.
Dimitri narrows his eyes, tossing the toy in Deveraux’s lap. “Think, Will. Where have you seen it before?”
My ears perk. Do they know why Shadow leaves that shit? His motive?
Deveraux shrugs. “Why don’t you enlighten me, seeing as you seem to have all the answers?”
Dimitri flings himself into the armchair. “It lays beneath a dead girl, my friend.” A sharp exhale. “Remember her? The one you fucked so relentlessly, she hung herself in this very room?”
Wait, what?
“Elena,” Deveraux whispers, hit by lightning.
Dimitri nods. “Elena.”
Deveraux’s eyes grow distant. He bites his lip, adjusts his pants—a fucking dead girl turns the bastard on. “She was…” His eyes roll back in his head. “Fucking delicious, wasn’t she? So innocent, so tight, so fucking naïve.”
Dimitri and I have one thing in common; we both want to murder Deveraux. For different reasons? Sure. But murder nevertheless.
“My son is dead.” The Russian slams his balled fist onto the coffee table. “And we,” he points between us, “are going to be next.”
Deveraux—always the jerk—grins. “Let me get this straight, my friend. You think someone killed your son to avenge Elena?”
“Yes,” comes the sharp reply.
“She killed herself.” Deveraux ogles Masha i Medved. “It wasn’t our fault.”
A long pause. “Wasn’t it?”
“She tied the rope around her neck, didn’t she?” Deveraux smirks. “Besides, she was a fucking nobody. Who would risk his life to avenge her?”
“I’ve been doing this for too long to believe in coincidences.” Dimitri raises his voice. “If something smells and tastes like rat…it fucking is rat.”
“Now you’re just being dramatic.”
“The TSA agent, the commissioner, the judge, Alexei, and now Gleb?” Dimitri shakes his head. “Whoever is responsible for my son’s death is on to us.”
On to what? What the hell are they talking about?
“You really think someone is killing our associates because that little whore hung herself?” Deveraux is unhinged. I hear the trembling in his voice. It must dawn on him Dimitri could be right.
“Think about it,” Dimitri shoots back. “They were all tortured, all murdered. I don’t have to mention what happened to your merchandise, do I?”
“No.” Deveraux blows out a pained breath. “I’m still waiting on the new merchandise, remember?”
“You’ll have them just in time for the opening night.” He flashes a quick grin. “I’m a man of my word. Never forget that.”
“All right.” Deveraux dusts his fancy pants. “So what do you want me to do about our little problem?”
“Nothing,” Dimitri shoots back. “We handle it.”
“How?”
Dimitri keys something into his phone. A few minutes later, the door swings open and some tall dude with a neck tattoo saunters in. The two crossed bones looking back at me from his neck ring a bell. Where have I seen this tat before?
“Will,” Dimitri faces the dude, “meet Bones. Bones,” he tilts his chin at Deveraux, “meet William Deveraux.”
Bones? As in the Bones? The hitman whose favored weapon is a hammer? The guy who’s next in line of notorious evil assassins? Nah, that can’t be—
“He’s going to find the bastard messing with us,” Dimitri continues. “And when he does—”
“I’ll make sure he pays,” Bones cuts in, cracking his knuckles.
Deveraux ogles Bones, no judgment in his eyes. Then he turns to Dimitri and says, “Looks like you’ve got it under control. So why are we even talking about this shit?”
“Boulder,” Dimitri spits out.
Did he just say—
“What about Boulder?”
Yup, he did.
Dimitri leans back. “Do you trust him?”
“Any reason I shouldn’t?” Deveraux counters.
“My men said he was the last person Gleb spoke to.” Dimitri’s unspoken accusations hang in the air. “He was also the one who recognized the poison and—”
Deveraux laughs.
“You think that’s funny?” Dimitri is beyond pissed.
“That guy,” he says, “is the definition of stand-up. He surely isn’t the type to kill judges and commissioners.”
“Stand-up?” It’s Dimitri’s turn to laugh. “Wanna know what else my men told me?”
Deveraux waves his hand. “Do tell.”
“They followed him to your girl’s apartment yesterday.”
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! How did I not know I was being followed? I was trained for this shit.
“And?” Deveraux plays cool, but the edge in his voice tells a tale of hate and murder.
“And he didn’t leave till dawn.” Dimitri laughs again. “It’s not very stand-up to fuck your boss’s girl, is it?”
A chair screeches over the floor. “How about you leave Boulder and my girlfriend to me, and make sure you deliver my merchandise and fix the other shit?”
“I’m just looking out for you, Will.”
“And I thank you for that.” He walks to the door. “Now, excuse me. I have to go fuck my girl.”
I stop breathing as he slams the door shut. What the actual fuck was all this about? Other than accusing me of being the killer—hilarious and fucking insulting at the same time—and fucking Dasha?
Some girl that hung herself? Revenge? Merchandise? And…
There really is a connection between Shadow’s victims. Dimitri was able to put the pieces together; why wasn’t I?
“The world will bow before me—for fear or respect, depends on how sick your mind is.”
Shadow
I call my next masterpiece Dimitri.
Plain.
Simple.
Telling.
Second to last on my list, the high-ranking Bratva member is bound for something big. Lingchi, ladies and gentleman, won’t cut it this time. Dimitri will be my version of The Scream that artwork students of murder will study long after my own demise.
They’ll
admire my skills, my imagination, my originality. Then they’ll move on to imitate the great Shadow. Until, eventually, they find their own place in the world of death and produce their own Munch.
I know what you’re thinking. How is Shadow going to get to Dimitri? Didn’t he up his security after what happened to his son?
The answer is yes, he did.
Rather than six heavily armed bodyguards, he’s now surrounded by ten. He no longer drives his baby-blue Ferrari. He exchanged it for the bullet-proof Hummer that Viktor, his Bratva superior aka Papa, gifted him a while ago. To reward his loyalty, I believe.
You see, I wouldn’t be the best if I hadn’t anticipated that. Good assassins are always two steps ahead. The best? Ten.
Dimitri will die by my hands. No questions asked. And getting to him will be easier than you might think. So, lean back, watch the show, and learn. I promise I will not disappoint. The world will bow before me—out of fear or respect, depends on how sick your mind is.
I gather my supplies—sharp knives, the camera—everything I need to create Dimitri.
A text from Q comes through. I’m tempted to ignore her, but I have a feeling she’s going to lose her shit if I don’t text her soon. She’s been trying to get ahold of me since Friday. Pretending she doesn’t exist isn’t the solution.
Q: What the actual fuck is going on with you?
Q: Hello?
Q: If you’re dead and you didn’t tell me, I’m going to kill you. Again.
Pretty dramatic for a woman who rules a male-dominated empire, huh?
Me: If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re worried. Cute.
Q: It’s alive. Wow.
Me: *eye roll* What’s up?
Q: Is it true?
She sure as hell knows how to be vague.
Me: Is what true?
Q: I had a talk with the merchandise. It said you let a guy live?
Me: So?
Q: So? What the hell has gotten into you?
Me: Long story.
Q: Blurb. Now!
I’ve known Q long enough to be certain she won’t let this go. She can’t. It’s just not in her nature. Control is her middle name.
Me: Remember Boulder?
I told her about Damascus after she gave me a couple of jobs and plenty of vodka.
Q: The guy who cost you your career?
If you want to call murder a career.
Me: That’s the one.
Q: What about him?
Me: He’s the one I let live.
Q: Again?
Yes, again. Pathetic but—
Me: If I end him, it would be all for nothing. She…He’s a good guy, okay?
A good guy? Did I just type that out? Maybe I should get an MRI. Something’s got to be wrong with my goddamn brain.
Q: Since when do you care about good guys?
Me: I don’t.
Q: Right.
I roll my eyes at the screen, done with her twenty questions and undercurrent accusations. She isn’t. Done, I mean.
Q: Should I be worried?
Me: No.
Q: What if he comes between you and the ice cream?
Ice cream, by the way, is code for target.
Me: Then I’ll take care of him.
Q: Sure? You seem to have established an unhealthy obsession.
I could kill him in the blink of an eye. Flip the switch. Pull the trigger. End his regretful existence. No problem. Whatsoever.
Me: Shut up and make sure everything is ready for Friday night.
Q: WE are ready to roll.
Me: Good. Got to go and murder some asshole.
Q: Have fun.
Q: And don’t lose your head over that guy.
I’m Shadow. I don’t lose my head over anyone. Except—
Her.
“He’s the president’s son. You don’t want to fuck with him.”
Markus
“Zero. Zip. Nothing.” Tiffany shoves her laptop away, looking defeated.
I stop pacing her hotel room and frown. “There has to be something.” A girl committing suicide in the bedroom of a rich dude has to have made headlines.
Tiffany props her elbows on the table, tracing the hollows beneath her eyes. It appears she hasn’t slept much these past days. I recognize tiredness when I see it. “I’m telling you.” She sighs, loudly. “There’s no article, no police report.” She meets my gaze. “No nothing, Boulder.”
“How is that even possible?” There has to be a grave, an obituary, a fucking police report.
She pulls her shoulders to her ears. “Are you sure you heard them right?”
I cast her a nasty look. “My ears are just fine, thank you very much.” Deveraux and Dimitri know why Shadow is coming for them. They are fully aware why he leaves Masha i Medved, too. If I want to catch that son of a bitch, I need to get to the bottom of this. Motive leads to the killer. Always has, always will.
Tiffany goes back to work. “I’ll keep looking.” Her fingers fly over the keyboard. “In the meantime, how about you tell me what happened with Dasha?”
Shit, really? Now? “I already told you, she’s clean.” I texted her, assured her Dasha wasn’t a killer or anything of the like, and swore she was simply a private person who didn’t think very highly of social media.
“I meant what happened between the two of you?” she rephrases.
“Nothing.” I turn, hoping she doesn’t catch my red face.
Eyes on the screen, she cocks a brow. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“So something happened.”
“Jesus, what is it with women reading shit into everything?” I sound like a complete asshole, but I can’t have the Dasha-is-cheating-on-Deveraux-with-me conversation with my assistant. Not ever.
Tiffany’s fingers halt. She looks up, eyes narrowed. “You’re fucked, Boulder.”
Be cool. Be fucking cool. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Right.” She draws a deep breath. “I still need you to hear this. He’s the president’s son. You don’t want to fuck with him.”
“I’m not fucking with him.” I’m fucking his girlfriend. Big. Fucking. Difference.
Tiffany rolls her eyes. “Just remember, I warned you.”
“Whatever,” I murmur, plummeting down on her bed.
I feel Tiffany’s eyes piercing holes in my head. “Tired?”
“Deveraux’s club opens the day after tomorrow. He had me running errands all week.” I was barely at the house, and I had to cancel all my lessons with Dasha. I was so close to telling him to “fuck off.” He hired me as a fighter slash bodyguard not an errand-boy. But I used the time away from him to regroup with Tiffany and consider my next steps in the Shadow hunt. Too bad I still have no clue what the next step is.
Wait and see.
Yeah, looks like I don’t have much of a choice, do I?
“Go home and catch some sleep,” she orders. “I’ll let you know if I find something about that ominous girl.”
I don’t want to go back there. But there is someone I need to see. “Fine.” I move to the door. “Text me as soon as you have something.”
“Who’s there?”
Shadow
Knock, knock.
“Who’s there?”
I swallow the disgust his voice invokes in me. “It’s me.”
The car door flies open. Dimitri eyeballs me, confused. “You?”
“Me.” I smile.
He looks around, scanning the abandoned area. “Are you alone?”
“I am.”
“What are you doing here?”
I clench my hand around the syringe, hidden behind my back. “We have a date.”
“No, we don’t.” He narrows his eyes. “I’m here to meet—”
“Deveraux?” He nods. “Sorry.” I shrug lazily. “He can’t make it.”
Suspicion bleeds into his eyes. He backs up, bumping into his car. “You…you set me up?”
“I d
id.” No point lying.
Terror tightens his jawline. “Why?”
“It’s time that you pay for your sins,” I reply.
Damn, you should see the look on his face. Pure and unfiltered horror. Delicious.
“What the—”
I slam the needle in his neck, injecting him with the sedative. “Sleep tight, motherfucker.”
“I get to end it my way.”
Markus
“Are you sure she didn’t leave?” I ask the receptionist for the hundredth time.
He pulls his brows together, pissed I didn’t believe him the first time he said Dasha didn’t leave the apartment complex. “I assure you, I would have seen her.” Because she’s mesmerizing. Because every guy with a heartbeat would pay attention to a goddess. Because I’m digging her, and you of all people should understand how hard it is to keep your eyes off her. Of course, he doesn’t say all those things. But I promise you that’s exactly what’s going through his mind. The hunger for Dasha is in his voice, his eyes, his whole fucking being.
“I’ve been knocking for the past two hours.” She’d open the fucking door if she was home.
Receptionist skims his magazine. “Ever thought she might keep the door shut on purpose?” That right there puts a fucking smile on his lips. He’d like that. He’d fucking love it.
“No.” I lean over the counter. “So why don’t you call?”
He sighs heavily. “She won’t answer.”
“How do you know?” I wiggle my nose. “You’re a psychic or something?”
“No.” He rolls his eyes. “But if she didn’t answer the previous hundred calls, she won’t take this one either.”
He’s got a point. I just don’t understand why she won’t open the door or pick up the phone.
“Relax,” Receptionist grumbles. “I’m sure she’s fine.”
Is she though? What if Shadow—
No. I’m not going down this road. Not ever.
But what if something did happen to her?
“Do you have a key to her apartment?”
He squints. “Yeah, but—”
“Let’s go.”
“Are you crazy?” He shakes his head. “I could lose my job.”
Shadow Page 22
