I'm out of my car before he clears his weapon. Three strides and I'm on him. My hand locks around his wrist, twisting. Bone cracks. The gun—a Makarov, Russian military issue—clatters to the pavement.
He swings at me with his other hand. Sloppy. Desperate. I duck under it, drive my elbow into his solar plexus. He doubles over, gasping.
"Who sent you?" I ask quietly.
He spits something in Russian. Curses, probably.
I don't have time for this.
My knife is in my hand. One quick slash across his femoral artery. He goes down hard, hands clutching his thigh, bloodpumping between his fingers. He'll bleed out in under two minutes.
I pick up the Makarov, wipe it down, and toss it into a storm drain. Check the street—empty. No witnesses. The sedan's engine is still running. I walk over, look inside. Empty.
Back in my car, I pull away from the curb. Check the rearview. The man is lying in a spreading pool of blood, movements already slowing.
My phone buzzes again. Another text:
Make it stop.
I don't respond. Instead, I drive toward Tribeca. Don Marco is right. I'm choosing her over everything else. Over the life I've built. Over the reputation that took years to earn. Over the family that gave me purpose when I had nothing. I'm choosing her, and I don't care what it costs.
She's already taken my focus, my discipline, my edge—the rest is just details.
The penthouse is dark when I enter. Just after ten. She might be asleep already. The elevator doors lock behind me. Then I walk quietly down the hall toward her room. The door is closed. I stop outside it, listening. I can hear her breathing. Awake, not asleep. Waiting for me.
I turn the handle and push the door open.
10
FRANCESCA
Ihear the elevator doors open and close.
I haven't moved from the edge of this bed in hours. Just sitting here, staring out at the city lights through windows that don't open. My eyes are raw from crying. My throat hurts. The same jeans and sweater I've been wearing since he brought me here feel like a second skin.
I hear footsteps in the hallway, getting closer.
The penthouse has been empty since he left the second time. He came back this afternoon covered in blood from whatever he did this morning, stood in my doorway watching me cry, then left again after getting that phone call.
Now my door opens.
He's standing in the doorway wearing clean clothes. Dark jeans and a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He changed somewhere between leaving and coming back.
My stomach drops. This afternoon his jeans were covered in blood. The fact that he changed means he had to. Which means between whatever he did this morning and whatever phone call sent him back out, he probably killed again.
"Did you kill someone else today?" The words come out flat. Hollow.
He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even pretend. "Yes."
I should scream. Throw something. Do anything except sit here asking follow-up questions like we're discussing his commute.
"How many?"
"Does it matter?"
"I don't know." I turn away, looking back at the window. At all those lights blazing across Manhattan. All those people living normal lives where their biggest problem isn't being held prisoner by a mob enforcer. "Maybe I'm keeping score."
"Several this morning. One tonight."
