Finally, Lev shrugs. “Okay. So. St. Petersburg guy. Anton found him in a warehouse. Alone. No witnesses. No cameras. And the thing about Anton… when he’s working, he’s efficient. Clinical. He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t make it personal.”
“What happened to the guy?”
“He disappeared.” Lev’s grin widens. “Like, completely. No body. No trace. Nothing. Just… gone. And the message was clear: steal from Igor, you don’t get arrested. You don’t get a trial. You just stop existing.”
My stomach twists.
“There’s another one,” Lev continues, warming up now. “This was in Prague. Some arms dealer tried to undercut one of our shipments. Anton went in as a buyer. Sat across from the guy at dinner. Smiled. Shook his hand. Made small talk about the weather.” He pauses for effect. “Three hours later, the dealer’s dead in his hotel room. Heart attack, the coroner said. Except the guy was thirty-two and ran marathons.”
“How—?”
“Nobody knows.” Lev’s voice drops. “That’s the thing about The Reaper. He’s a ghost. You don’t see him coming. You don’t see him leave. You just wake up dead.”
“You can’t wake up dead, idiot,” Dima mutters.
“You know what I mean.” Lev waves him off. “Oh! And then there was—”
“Enough.” Dima’s voice cuts through. Final.
Lev deflates. “I was just getting to the good part.”
“The ‘good part’ involves a wood chipper. She doesn’t need that image.”
“There was a wood chipper?” I ask faintly.
“Allegedly,” Dima says.
“Definitely,” Lev adds.
They both realize what they’ve said at the same time. Turn to look at me.
I’m gripping my coffee cup so hard my knuckles are white.
“He’s not that person with you,” Dima says quietly. “You know that, right?”
“Do I?” My voice comes out too sharp. “Because I don’t know who he is right now. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing or if he’s even—”
I stop. Can’t say it. Can’t even think it.
“He’s alive,” Lev says. No jokes now. No grin. “If he wasn’t, Boris would’ve contacted us. That’s the protocol. No news is good news.”
“That’s the worst expression ever invented.”
“Yeah,” Lev admits. “It really is.”
Silence settles again. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
I take a sip of coffee. It’s too hot. Burns my tongue. I don’t care.
“I’m angry,” I say finally.
“We noticed,” Dima replies.
“No, I mean—” I set the cup down. Hard. Coffee sloshes over the rim. “I’mangry. At him. For leaving. For making me wait. Forbeing so fucking good at disappearing that even the people who love him don’t know if he’s alive.”
Neither of them argues. Just lets me say it.
“And I’m angry at myself,” I continue. “For being this person. The one who can’t function because a man isn’t here. The one whose whole world stopped spinning the second he walked out the door.” I press my hands flat on the counter. “I used to be fine alone. I used to have my own life. And now I’m just… waiting. That’s all I do. Wait and worry and check my phone like some pathetic—”
