I collapsed against the wall, sliding down until I sat on the floor in a heap—knees to chest, bottle cradled like a dying thing. Blood soaked through my shirt in warm patches. The cold tile pressed against my legs.
I rocked slightly. Covered my ears tighter. Hummed nonsense to drown the whispers—nursery rhymes, Mamma Mia songs, anything to fill the silence.
But they slipped through anyway, insidious and sure.
"He chose death over this—over you."
"No," I sobbed, voice breaking into pieces. "No no no—"
The room spun—gin hitting hard on an empty stomach, blood loss making everything fuzzy and soft at the edges. Theshadows weren't just watching anymore. They were moving. Creeping closer. Reaching.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Please come back. Please don't be dead. Please don't have left me on purpose.
21
DROGO
Friday night.
The handler drove me to the Upper East Side in silence. The city blurred past the windows—lights and people living their normal lives, unaware that a man was about to die because I'd agreed to kill him.
We parked two blocks from the target's brownstone. Quiet street. Trees overhead filtering the streetlights into dappled shadows. Old money everywhere—the kind of neighborhood where people didn't ask questions and doormen made six figures keeping secrets.
The handler killed the engine and turned to me.
"Alone tonight," he said in his flat, accented English. "Mistress canceled—sick. Wife in Hamptons for the weekend. Doorman shift ends at midnight. He will leave. No replacement until morning."
He pulled up a photo on his phone—the brownstone, second floor, window circled in red.
"Bathroom window. Unlocked. We checked this afternoon. Fire escape accessible from side alley. In and out, fifteen minutes maximum."
He handed me a small black bag. Canvas, unmarked, heavier than it looked.
I opened it.
Inside, laid out with surgical precision:
A syringe pre-loaded with clear liquid. Fentanyl cut with heroin—handler had explained earlier. Lethal dose. Heart stops in minutes. Looks like overdose.
A baggie of white powder. A spoon blackened on the bottom. A lighter. Rubber tourniquet.
A suicide note—printed on plain paper, handwriting forged from samples Klaus's people had obtained somehow. "I'm sorry. I can't live with what I've done. God forgive me."
Latex gloves. Black balaclava. Lock picks I wouldn't need if the window was already unlocked.
"Make it look like he couldn't face exposure," the handler said. "Rich man, guilty conscience, drugs to numb the pain. Tie off his arm. Find visible vein—inner elbow, easy to stage. Inject. Scatter the paraphernalia on desk. Leave note where police will find it. Out same window you entered. Fifteen minutes."
I stared at the bag. At the instruments of murder dressed up as mercy.
"What if someone sees me?"
"They won't. But if they do—" He patted his jacket where I knew a gun sat. "I handle it. You keep moving. Understood?"
"Yeah."
"What about security cameras?"
