“They came through the front door,” I say, quiet menace lilting my words. “And walked right past you.”
Steve’s breathing quickens. “I stepped away to use the bathroom. It was only for a minute.”
“A minute is all it takes to die.” I lean closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Or to kill.”
I watch the rest of the footage in silence. The men are converging on Raven. Me erupting from the stairwell. The brief, violent confrontation ends with Raven slipping away during the fight.
Once it’s over, I straighten and fix my gaze on the trembling man while slowly sliding my prosthetic eye out. “Look at me, Steve,” I tell him, and hold his face with one finger under his chin so he can’t drop his gaze.
The wet pop when it leaves the socket makes him flinch before he even realizes why. For a breath, he stares into the hollow where my other eye used to be—the raw pocket of it—and something in his shoulders folds.
“You fucked up,” I state. “Now you’re dead.”
“Sir, I’m sorry—” His apology dies as I bury my knife in his throat, slicing the flesh open until blood sprays from the wound.
“Apology accepted,” I tell him, twisting just enough to make him gurgle. “See? Communication solves everything.” I leave the knife in him.
He goes down clutching at himself, painting the carpet I paid too much for.
I glance at the spreading stain and sigh. “This is exactly why I replaced the white one last year. People have no respect for interior design.”
I nudge his shoulder with my boot, testing if he’s got one last apology in him. Nothing.
“In our line of work,” I continue, stepping over him like he’s a misplaced file, “mistakes get people killed. Tonight it could’ve been that woman. Tomorrow it could’ve been me.”
His eyes bulge.
“Men far more powerful than you have tried to get me killed,” I continue. “But I really like being alive, Steve. It’s one of my favorite hobbies.”
I seat the prosthetic back in, then crouch beside him to watch the light drain away. Once I’m sure he’s dead, I pull the knife free. The squelching sound is fucking disgusting.
Standing back up, I let his body slump to the floor behind the desk, out of sight. My phone is still upstairs, but there’s another at the security desk. I pick it up and send a text to Vito, my right-hand man.
He doesn’t question my demand for him to get here with his crew to clean up and erase any and all traces of the attack and men I killed.
Me: I need you to come take care of the three unwanted at my home. I didn’t ask them to stop by.
Even though I’m ninety-nine percent sure my phone isn’t bugged, it never hurts to be careful.
The reply from Vito is immediate.
Vito: On it, boss. I’m with the others, we’ll make sure the intruders go away quietly. Do I get a raise for being quick?
I can practically hear him drawl the question, and I mentally nod while sending him five middle fingers. I can’t give in easily. People might mistake me for being nice and expect me to bring them chicken soup when they catch a cold, or care what or who they did on their days off.
Next, I tap out messages to my network. Each contact is carefully cultivated over years, each favor I’ve granted to give me leverage.
One by one, the replies come in, confirming my orders will be carried out. No one is stupid enough to ask questions.
“See,” I sneer at Steve’s corpse. “This is how business is done. If you’d just done your job, you’d be alive to hear me tell you that you’re shit at… well, your job.”
Favors are not just the currency of my world—they’re the very thing I live by. I never grant them out of the goodness of my black heart. Ha, not by a long shot. It’s all about what someone can do for me, and what I might need down the line.
Well, apart from the once or twice a year I do actually grant a favor just because. I like keeping people guessing. And it messes with Remus. Two of my favorite things all rolled into one.
Yep, life ain’t half fucking bad. Smiling at my own awesomeness and unpredictability, I clean myself up in the security office bathroom, washing blood from my face and hands, using paper towels to dry off.
My fresh clothes aren’t clean anymore, so with a frown, I peel them off until I’m back in just my boxer briefs, socks, and shoes. Fuck me, I look motherfucking ridiculous. And the pair of sweatpants I find in Steve’s locker isn’t helping matters much.
