1
RADOMIR
“No amount of begging will change this now,” I tell him, twisting the silencer onto my pistol. Malcolm is tied to the chair, his face red, tears sliding down his cheeks. Mouth opening and closing like a fish. It’s a sight I’ve seen countless times before.
“You know this is justice,” I growl. “They told me who you are. What you do.”
He starts shaking, then throws his head back as if he’s going to scream.
“I warned you about that,” I snap.
We’re in his kitchen, where I found him. Doesn’t matter to me where the job takes place. It’s a nasty, bloody business, and one room will work as well as any other. Simple. Sneak in, tackle him, tie him to the chair. Give him some final words. Final words that the Bratva ignores. Always. Then leave.
“You should’ve stayed in your lane,” I tell him, aiming the gun.
“Wait,” he murmurs, whimpering.
“Afraid I can’t do that.”
“I have a?—”
I pull the trigger, cutting off whatever he was about to say. Men will say anything if they think it’ll give them a few more minutes of life. Blood spatters the wall, the floor. I start untwisting the silencer, getting ready to leave.
On the shelf behind him, there’s a digital photo display. It shows Malcolm standing next to a river holding a fish. Now, it changes, that photo fading out. Another fades in.
I drop my pistol on the floor. Stumble to the shelf and stare as my heart thunders inside my chest.
The photo shows a woman with wavy brown hair. Beautiful, rich, thick, healthy hair, glittering in sunlight. Big round brown eyes and a nervous smile, like she’s ashamed of her teeth or something. Which is insane. They’re not picture-perfect, but they’ve got character.
Just like every inch of her.
She looks nervous about her black dress, too. Self-conscious, maybe. It hugs her curves. I’ve just killed a man, but my pole is twitching, threatening to respond. I close my eyes, take a breath. Open them and stare at a word. Mara.
Who is this woman? Is it his daughter?
I look closer. She’s wearing a badge in the photo. A big ’22’ pinned to one of her breasts. Never thought I’d be jealous of a badge before. I stare at the way the pin twitches the material, making it pull tightly over her big, curvy, juicy mound.
Imagine tearing down that dress and freeing those bouncy tits, sinking my killer’s hands into them. Squeezing them together, then sucking and biting her nipples until they’re erect and tingly.
Setting her on edge, just like the image of this stranger is pushing me to the edge. Stirring urges I cannot control. I turn away and glance down at Malcolm.
Just a mark with a name and an address. Nothing more.
But the Bratvadidn’t tell me he had a family.
“Dad?” somebody calls from the front of the house. A high-pitched, naïve woman’s voice. Innocent, unprepared.
I grab my pistol and quickly stalk out the back door. Across the dark yard. I’ve already killed the lights. I press myself against the rear fence, watching the house.
Fuck. This is bad. I’ve never regretted a hit before.
But I’ve never watched an angel with fuck-me innocence in her eyes find her dad’s corpse before.
She switches on the kitchen light. Stands there in a set of hip-hugging jeans, devastation on her beautiful face. She stares at her father for a few long moments. Then opens her mouth in a gut-wrenching scream.
I bite down, grind my teeth. I’m certain of one thing…
I need to protect her. I can’t let anybody hurt her.
