A way to stop replaying the crunch of bone under his knuckles or the wet sound a body makes when it hits concrete.
I learned a long time ago that violence has a cost. Not guilt. I don’t waste time on guilt. But the images stack up, layer after layer, and if you don’t find a way to clear them out, they’ll eat you alive.
The chlorine stings my eyes. Good. I focus on that instead of the blonde bartender who’s been living rent-free in my skull since last night.
I hit the wall after fifty laps and haul myself out. My phone’s in the shade where I left it. It’s lit up with a message from Shaw, the tech guy who handles our intel. I gave him nothing but a first name and place of employment twelve hours ago.
He delivered.
I sink into a patio chair and open the email.
Sierra Dixon. Twenty-four years old. Born and raised in Vegas. One year at community college, dropped out. Four years bartending at The Happy High Roller. Father and uncle co-own a shipping company. No criminal record. Not even a parking ticket.
Clean. Normal. The kind of woman who probably sleeps through the night without a gun under her pillow.
I scroll down to known associates. Family. Friends. The usual.
Then I see his name, and my stomach drops straight through the chair.
Viktor Ilyin. Listed as a recent romantic partner. Eight months together. Split four weeks ago, according to her social media.
My hand goes still on the screen.
They dated. She was with him. She let that piece of shit touch her, hold her, crawl into her bed.
So she wasn’t just some random woman he was harassing. She’s his. Or used to be.
My finger finds the scar above my right hip. The other one Viktor gave me. My shoulder twinges in sympathy.
Viktor Ilyin is a ghost. He moves through the city like smoke, never in one place long enough to catch. I’ve been tracking him for months, and last night was the first time I got close.
Then he slipped away.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.
Don Lorenzo wants him alive. Needs intel on Lightning, wants the body count low while the feds are watching. I follow orders. Always have.
But every cell in my body is screaming for blood.
I get dressed and head out. The drive to the casino takes twenty minutes, and I spend every one of them trying to figure out what to do with this information about Sierra.
She’s not with Viktor anymore. That should make her useless as a lead. I could follow her around, sure, but there’s no guarantee he’ll show up again. Last night might have been a one-time thing.
Except I have a feeling it wasn’t.
I saw the way he looked at her outside that coffee shop. The possessiveness. The rage barely leashed behind his cold eyes. A man like Viktor doesn’t let go of what he considers his. He’ll keepcircling, keep pushing, until he either gets her back or destroys her.
The casino appears on my left. It’s the newest property in the Andretti’s hospitality empire, all glass and steel and the kind of quiet luxury that tells you real money changes hands here. I pull into the underground garage and take the elevator up.
Two soldiers flank the entrance to the restaurant. They nod at me as I pass, and I return the gesture without slowing.
The private room is in the back. Dark wood. Dim lighting. The smell of garlic and fresh bread thick in the air. Lorenzo is at his usual table with Santino, his consigliere. They’re deep in conversation about the hotel expansion, words likeprofit marginandrevenue growthbouncing back and forth.
I don’t understand any of it. That’s not my job. My job is to break things. To hurt people. To make problems disappear.
Luca, Lorenzo’s youngest son, is at a separate table, working his way through a plate of carbonara despite it being barely eleven in the morning.
The business talk trails off. Lorenzo turns to me.
