My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
By the time I reach Brighton Beach, the sun is high and harsh. The neighborhood is uglier than I remember. Soviet-era architecture mixed with an aging boardwalk. Russian signs on every storefront. This is Bratva territory through and through, and I'm walking into the heart of it.
The folder Don Marco gave me contains detailed surveillance on Max Orlov. He frequents a bar called the Red Star, arrives every night around eleven, stays until closing. Always leaves alone. Walks three blocks to his car—a black Mercedes with tinted windows, parked in the same spot every time.
I should wait until tonight. It would be a clean, simple execution.
But the file mentions other patterns. Every morning around midday, he meets with his crew at a warehouse near the beach. Discusses collections, resolves disputes, plans the week's operations. The meeting lasts an hour. Then he walks to his car. Usually with protection, but sometimes alone.
All I can think about is getting back to her.
I arrive early, position myself in an alley across from the warehouse. The Mercedes is already there, gleaming black paint, perfectly maintained. Orlov takes pride in his possessions.
He won't be around to enjoy them much longer.
The morning is cold, wind coming off the ocean carrying the smell of salt and rotting fish. I pull my jacket tighter and wait. Patience is half the job. The other half is execution.
At late morning, the warehouse door opens. Orlov emerges, flanked by his bodyguards. They walk him to his car, standard protection protocol. The men are armed—I can see the bulge of shoulder holsters under their jackets.
This is going to be messy.
I should abort. Wait for tonight when he's alone. That was the plan.
But all I can think about is Francesca in my apartment. Pacing. Testing the windows. Searching for exits.
Trying to get away from me.
I move.
The first man goes down with a knife to the kidney. Silent and efficient. I catch him as he falls, lower him to the ground. The second man is turning, reaching for his gun, and I'm on him. I clamp my hand over his mouth, draw the blade across his throat. Quick and clean.
The body hits the pavement with a thud.
Orlov spins, his hand going to his hip. He's fast. Former military, clearly. A professional.
But I'm faster.
I close the distance before he can draw. My knife finds the soft space below his ribs, angling up toward his heart. His eyes go wide. He gasps. Tries to speak.
I twist the blade.
He drops.
It's done.
The bodies lie in broad daylight on a Brighton Beach street. Not the clean, professional hit Don Marco wanted. Not the subtle message that says "stay out of our territory."
This is a declaration of war.
I stand there, blood on my hands and shoes, and the reality crashes down. I've just made a catastrophic mistake.
There's blood spray on my jeans. A footprint in the pooling blood near Orlov's body—my footprint, my shoe, a pattern that could be traced. One of the bodyguards' guns went off during the struggle—I didn't even notice until now. The sound would have carried. Someone heard it.
All these years without a mistake. Not anymore.
Merda.
I move fast, wiping the knife on my own jacket, pocketing it. I should clean up the scene, remove the footprint, stage it better. But I can hear sirens in the distance. Someone called the cops.
