“Hush, lassie. We don’t apologize for our feelings here. Lachlan should arrive soon. If he can’t put a smile on your face,you’ll provide the dinner,we’llgiveyethe show.” With a soft smile, she offered patience, eager to help in any way she could.
As she walked away, I heaved a sigh, ordered something sparkly and fruity. While I sipped my drink, the bartender retreated to the furthest section of the rooftop bar. I put my drink down, placed my elbow onto the glossy counter, and glanced at the red neon lights of the big sign, supported by heavy beams—a work of art. The Red Room signage gave a vintage Los Angeles vibe, propped at the top edge of the building and viewable from miles away. Well, in one direction since skyscrapers surrounded the lounge.
As I sat there, hand clutched around Pop’s large cross pendant, Vassilievich’s ending remark played through my mind, a taunt.
This weekend,Natasha.For now, I will pray. But if God doesn’t vindicate you before then … I will.
35
LORENZO
From the roofof The Red Door, neon lights glowed. A crimson red over the white divider along the street.
“What the—? This is not a hydrant zone.” Borya scrubbed a hand through his hair, his speech transitioning into Russian as he rushed across the street from The Red Door. He glared through the darkness at the cop.Rain. A few minutes ago, a concerned citizen—also Rain—called the Russian lounge about Natasha Resnova’s AMG. As expected, someone alerted him. I would’ve left Rain in the getaway vehicle, but I needed him distracted. The minute he saw the car without law enforcement to argue with, he’d follow his instincts.
“Sir,”—she snapped a piece of gum—“move your car, or I’ll finish this ticket.”
“Okay, okay.” He reached into the pocket of his tactical jacket.
I stepped out of the shadows. My hand darted over his mouth from behind, the other held a knife. The blade slid across his neck, blood spraying outward.
I stepped backward, bringing him onto the sidewalk. My eyes flicked up over my shoulder. Bright lights flooded fromthe lounge’s sign. Painted me and the stiff in red. If someone approached the roof’s edge, they’d blow my cover.
“Rain, get rid of him and Natasha’s vehicle.”
She nodded.
I glared at his jeans. He always wore slacks. So far, I matched him from the waist up. I pulled an ash-blond wig from my jacket—the same color as Borya’s hair. Situating the wig on my head, I asked, “How do I look?”
“Good.”
“Are the cameras down at The Red Door?” I asked, lifting the edges of the fake hair to apply wig glue. Probably more than enough, but with the shaggy long hair, it would cover any residual glue.
“Already done.” She struggled to lift Borya’s body.
With a groan, I grabbed him, putting the less bloody part of his body into the trunk. She had better handle the rest of him.
I strolled into the lounge, popping the collar of my tactical jacket. Head lowered, periphery narrowed, body tight and compact. Hands shoved deep into my pockets to make myself a touch smaller. Didn’t need anyone questioning the height discrepancy with Borya.
The hostess’s frown lingered on me. Must’ve had beef with Borya? Didn’t care.
Online gallery photos hadn’t done the place justice—gold railings, marble floors, chandeliers dripping with light. Pure opulence. The kind of place Natasha belonged. A place she thought she’d be safe.
I strolled into the elevator and rode it up.
On the roof, my focus snapped inward like a sniper scope.Natasha. At a sleek bar, framed by city lights. Her elbow propped, head tilted as if the air itself bent toward her. She leaned away from a pink slushy drink, lips glossed.
Still inside the elevator, I froze, watching her.
Between us sat too many MacKenzies. One of them beat me to the punch. Jamie’s little brother—the social media golden boy—swaggered toward her, shot glasses in hand.
My jaw clenched until it ached. That should be me.
The doors swept closed. I lifted a hand, triggering the sensors, and stepped out.Don’t trip, Enzo. You’re a trained operator.
Natasha swiveled in her barstool. That laugh, that tilt of her mouth—meant for the MacKenzie boy, not me. The resemblance to Jamie made my steps falter. She added the hottest Arabian sand to the wound by smiling at him. Like friends. Like she’d … answer when he called. Unlike with me.
I approached silently and slid onto the stool opposite her, removing a small vial from my pocket. Uncorked it with two fingers, hidden by a curtain of blond hair. Her elbow positioned between us, she spoke to the social media sensation on her other side. In one sweep, I scoped the scene. MacKenzies laughing, whiskey tumblers flashing. The brother—the knife-tat brother—already half-drunk, waving his glass.Great.He was my cover.
