Ren: Offer him a sheet mask. He loves those.
She gave me some a couple of months ago, so I have some.I can’t really imagine him using them, though. I wonder if he has a better skincare regimen than me?
I touch my cheek. My skin is rather dry.
Tristan pushes himself out of his chair, phone in his hand. “The doctor is here.”
“Doctor? Wait, what?” I try to stand up, but my legs give out. My fingers curl into the armrest of the sofa, ready to try again.
But Tristan stops right in front of me, and my head tips back so I can gaze up at him.
The one time he came to my flat with Ren, he stood outside on the landing, grumbling under his breath. I’d offered to let him in, but he wouldn’t budge from where he leaned against the wall. And Ren hadn’t really wanted the Ghost as her shadow, so I’d shut the door.
Now the only reason he’s here is because he’s being paid.
His shoulders are tight, his brown eyes dark as he stares down at me. For a second, I no longer see Tristan Trevino. Instead, it’s the Ghost I’m looking at.
Killing men is not that hard.
Hold your weapon steady, aim, shoot.
There’s always a thump when the body falls. And if done right, there should be no further movement.
Aim, shoot, done.
Rinse and repeat.
There’s a rhythm to killing men. A pattern. A schedule.
I’m silent when I approach my target. It’s like a game, how quiet can I be? A good kill means they don’t notice me until it’s too late. There’s not enough time for them to choke on a scream.
I don’t struggle to find the men I kill. Most of the time, I’m paid to do it. I’m a triggerman, a mercenary. A gun for hire.
But money isn’t my only motivation. It annoys Ren, but Ikill other men simply because I want to. Because someone needs to help balance the world.
I think the Ghost was like that. Trevino’s alter ego.
The masked vigilante who took out Marissa, a vile woman who pimped pregnant women. He caused waves a few years back when the Ghost began to hunt Marissa and her operatives. He almost made an enemy out of Lev Zimin—Russet and Len’s father-in-law.
The head of the New York Bratva.
Some sort of truce has settled over the city since.
It helps that the Ghost is seemingly gone. Tristan Trevino is simply a business owner these days—a bodyguard for hire, working for corrupt men who need protection and aren’t afraid to splash out on the service.
Ren shouldn’t have hired him. I don’t need protecting.
Tristan’s head cocks to one side, those dark eyes seeming to hear my thoughts.
Chest burning, I frown harder. “I don’t need a doctor. Tell them to go away.”
His thumb and finger pinch my chin before I finish the sentence. I’m lightheaded, breathless. And it has nothing to do with my injury.
His eyes burn into mine. They aren’t just a dark brown. They’re various shades of caramel, swirling into a molten hue.
“Don’t be a brat, Matheson. You’ve sat here, in pain all night, and I’m done with it. I’m letting Tyler through that door and you’re going to let him examine you. Understand?”
I don’t shake my head because he’s still holding it in place.
