1
MATTEO
I quit smokingtwo years ago. But today, I need something to do with my hands that isn’t killing a man.
I light a cigarette and lean against the brick wall across from the coffee shop.
The nicotine hits my bloodstream with a familiar burn.
The man sitting by the window hasn’t moved in twenty minutes.
Viktor Ilyin.
He’s watching the door while I watch him, and for a man living a life of crime, he’s surprisingly unaware that someone’s got eyes on him.
I’m not hiding, exactly. Part of me hopes he’ll notice. Hopes he’ll come outside and give me a reason to put my hands on him.
I shouldn’t. I’m under strict orders to only observe and report. But three years of wanting to kill a man does something to your discipline.
My shoulder twinges with a phantom pain. The scar tissue there still pulls sometimes, a permanent reminder of the night Viktor put two bullets in me and left me bleeding in the street. I was younger then. Dumber. Let him get too close during a territorial dispute, back before the war between the Andrettis and Bratva turned Vegas into a goddamn battlefield.
He walked away breathing.
I’ve been trying to fix that ever since.
My contact who works this corner tipped me off that Viktor’s been coming here at the same time for three days straight. Same seat. Same routine. It’s sloppy for a man in his position, developing patterns like this.
Makes me wonder what he’s waiting for.
The cigarette burns down between my fingers as I study his profile through the glass. Average height. Stocky build. Brown hair buzzed short, beard trimmed neat. Nothing special about him. If I didn’t know what he was, I wouldn’t look twice.
But I do know.
I know he helped manufacture Lightning, the designer poison that’s been killing college kids across the city. Ecstasy cut with meth, designed to fry the brain from the inside out. I watched one of Don Lorenzo’s soldiers seize out on the floor of a club, body overheating until his heart stopped. He was a good kid. Loyal.
Viktor made the shit that killed him.
Just one more reason to hate the fucker.
He straightens suddenly in his chair, eyes narrowing as the shop door swings open.
A woman walks in.
I stop breathing.
Blonde hair tumbles past her shoulders in waves that look like she just rolled out of someone’s bed. Silver stud in her nose. A full sleeve of colorful ink running down her right arm, roses and thorns and something I can’t quite make out from here.
But it’s her body that makes my blood run hot.
Dangerous curves. Tits that sway with each step, barely contained by a black V-neck that clings to her like a second skin. An ass made for grabbing, wrapped in denim so tight it should be illegal. Her waist dips in, hips flare out, and my cock twitches before I can shut the reaction down.
She moves to the counter, completely unaware that Viktor’s tracking her like prey. His posture has changed. Rigid. Intent. Whatever connection exists between them, it’s got him wound tight.
She collects a drink from the barista and heads for the door.
Viktor stands. Leaves his cup on the table and follows her outside.
I toss the cigarette and crush it under my boot, already moving.
