Page 81 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was tonight's scenes grinding through my brain on repeat. Suddenly I wanted to talk. The guy was a stranger anyway. After tonight we'd never cross paths again. Whatever I said would leave no trace in my life.

I opened my mouth, voice rough from the whiskey. "I have a friend..."

The bartender smirked. "Classic opening."

I ignored him and continued. "I have a friend who had a misunderstanding with the girl he loves. They were apart for five years. He spent all that time looking for her. When he finally found her, there was already some pretty boy in her life. They're close."

"He wants to get rid of the guy. He even..."

I looked down at the thin reflection of light in my glass. "He wants to make him disappear. Permanently. So he'd never show up in front of her again."

I paused. The alcohol's warmth mixed with the suffocating tightness in my chest, like a layer of ash that wouldn't burn through.

"Oh damn," the bartender said. "That's a dark thought."

I stared at the liquid swirling in my glass and laughed quietly. "Yeah, it's dark. So he stopped himself. Because he's afraid if she found out, it would break her heart. She'd hate him even more."

The bartender slowed his polishing. "Your friend sounds pretty devoted."

Devoted?

I chewed on the word, turning it over in my mind. It felt absurd.

Ever since I met Anna, I'd lost my mind. All that judgment, that control, that cold precision I'd honed over decades walking a knife's edge—useless.

I wasn't myself anymore. I'd become a stranger even I didn't recognize.

Outside, the rain picked up, hammering against the window. Water streaked down the glass, blurring the warm glow of streetlights.

Most of the customers had left. Just me and a couple murmuring in the corner. The bartender stacked the polished glasses on the rack, metal clinking softly in the quiet.

I reached for my drink when the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

An instinct I'd developed over decades in the underworld—danger.

I set down the glass and pulled some cash from my coat pocket, movements casual, like any regular customer settling his tab.

"Thanks for listening," I said, even managing a slight smile at the bartender. "Take care."

No need to drag innocent people into a war.

I stood and headed for the exit.

The door swung open. Cold, rain-soaked air hit my face. My hand was already reaching for the gun tucked at my back.

The "couple" by the door suddenly stood. One of them reached inside his jacket.

In the same second, I flipped the table. Wood and bottles crashed toward them.

Gunshots erupted.

I rolled behind the bar as bullets whizzed past my ear and chipped the wall, sending plaster raining down.

The bartender had already ducked under the counter, not daring to breathe.

I chambered a round behind the cover of a liquor barrel, listening to footsteps approach. Shoes crunched over broken glass.

One of them fired. The bullet grazed my arm, a searing line of pain.