"Aleksandr's new girl?" His voice is rougher than I remember. Cheap liquor and cigarettes have weathered it.
"Da."
He gestures to the table. "Put it down. Then stay, have a drink with us." He laughs at his companions.
Not a true request.
I walk forward and set the drive on the table, my hand trembling slightly—not from fear, from the effort of not reaching for the knife strapped to my ankle. Not yet. Not here. Too many witnesses. Too many variables I can't control.
"I should get back," I say.
"Aleksandr can wait." Igor pours vodka into a plastic cup before handing it to me. "Drink. It's rude to refuse."
The other two men watch with interest that makes my stomach turn. They're wondering if Igor will share. If I'll resist. What entertainment my fear might provide.
I take the cup and sip. The vodka burns—cheap shit that tastes like regret and bad decisions.
"Good girl," Igor says. His hand finds my waist, pulling me closer. "You're prettier than the usual messengers. Aleksandr has good taste."
His touch feels like insects crawling on my skin, like desert sand grinding into open wounds. Like every nightmare I've had for ten years condensed into one moment of contact. I force myself not to flinch. Not to react. Just smile and sip vodka and let him think I'm harmless.
"You're so big," I lie, he’s barely taller than me. I let my voice go breathy. "So strong." Vanity is every man's weakness. Igor's especially.
His grip tightens possessively. "You think so?"
"Mm." I lean closer, letting my lips brush his ear. "Want to go somewhere private? These others...they're watching." I can feel him getting hard against my hip. Disgusting. Predictable.
"There's an office in back," he says, already moving and thinking with the wrong head. Eagerly making the mistake that will cost him everything.
The other men laugh and make crude comments in Russian about what Igor's going to do to me. How lucky he is and how they want a turn after.
They won't get one.
Igor leads me through the warehouse, past crates stacked with what looks like packages of children’s toys. I know they’re actually stuffed with cocaine. We pass rusted machinery that probably hasn't worked in decades to a small office with a metal desk and a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. He locks the door behind us after entering.
Mistake number two.
"Come here," he says, unbuckling his belt.
I walk toward him slowly, hips swaying, playing the role he expects. I get close enough he can smell my perfume and reach for me with both hands.
Close enough to strike.
My knee drives into his groin with every pound of force I can generate. All those hours at the gym, all that training, all that rage condensed into one perfect point of impact.
He doubles over, gasping, surprised as much as hurt. Thankfully I’ve knocked the wind out of him and he’s not calling for help.
I don't give him time to recover. The knife comes out of my boot—small, wickedly sharp, and perfectly balanced for throwing or cutting. I don't throw it. This needs to be personal. Intimate. The kind of violence you can only deliver when you're close enough to count someone's eyelashes. I grab his hair, yanking his head back, and look into his eyes, making sure he sees me. Really sees me. "Remember the desert?" I ask. "Remember Yelena?"
Recognition flares. Then fear. Beautiful, satisfying fear.
"No," he chokes out. "You're…you died …"
“I begged you to stop,” I say, moving the hand with the knife forward. The knife enters below his ribs, angled upward, seeking vital organs with the precision of someone who's studied anatomy like scripture. Who knows exactly where to cut to cause maximum damage while keeping someone conscious as long as possible.
He screams, well, tries to , but I clamp my other hand over his mouth, muffling the sound to a whimper.
"Shh," I whisper. "No one will care if they hear you." I repeat the same words he said to me back at him. I twist the blade and feel it scrape against bone. Against the soft resistance of liverand intestine as it cuts through. The body is remarkably fragile when you know where to apply pressure. Blood pours over my hand , hot and slick, darker than I expected. I’m grateful I wore black today, something inside of me knew this would happen. His legs give out, but I hold him up, keeping him vertical, and my eyes locked with his.
