The door shuts behind Bryn, slashing away the link to my living soul. It's perched on her shoulder, while I stayed in the room soulless, to do business. Our business, our way. Soul gets in the way of that.

I take a deep breath in.

Bryn can deal with Nicky, because she's pissed. When my love is pissed, she's capable of wanton destruction on an unimaginable scale. I'm even less concerned about the boys. They obeyed Irene, then they obeyed me with the readiness of children who've paid the price of disobedience early on. At a guess, the twins' parents didn't die peacefully in their bed. I'd pity them if I had the luxury to pity anyone. I can afford one weakness, and Bryn took that vacancy.

Once I exhale, my gaze settles on Irene and her crony.

"I need the players' lists and all the bets, Irene."

"This wasn't part of our deal, Matty." The snark on her face tells me everything she isn't saying. So this was her plan C, to saddle me with the untold amount in payments to the unknown heavyweights. Debts in the underworld are a bloody business, and gambling debts are harsh, because a man's honor is at stake.

It's a perfect strategy, I'll give Irene that. Like a slow release poison on a weapon, so the loser can die knowing they had killed the winner.

However, every plan has a weakness. It doesn't take me long to figure out what it is. Or rather who that is.

My attention switches to the men on the couch, Kassan. It's hard to say what shines more, his tall, balding forehead or his eyes. His breath hisses like he has been running for miles, instead of lounging. The gun in my hand attracts his glance like a magnet draws iron dust. He might have pissed his pants, but he binges our real life drama.

Wanna get in on the action, motherfucker? I can arrange that.

"Where is the list, Kassan?" I ask him with a deceptive gentleness.

His lips flap before any sound comes out. "I don't know anything about any lists."

Color me surprised he says that, but even Irene looks taken aback by how badly he lies. Ilya snorts or barks, and whatever his outburst is, it's intimidating enough to stitch Kassan's mouth shut.

Or, at least he thinks he's clammed up by pinching his lips into one straight, thin line.

I don't laugh at his pathetic attempt at projecting confidence, or, God forbid, argue.

What I do is I rove my glance up and down his conveniently presented body to make him squirm.

And squirm he does! He hides his hands, tries to pull his legs in like a damn turtle, wedges his ass further into cushions. His right eye twitches. Useless, all this shit is as useless as an ostrich putting his head into the sand. Kassan didn't make himself any smaller as a target.

"I'm a hitman," I tell him. "Killing is just business. When I was starting out I had to hurt people when pain was ordered by my boss. Since, I avoided it, but you... tell me, did you enjoy hurting those poor fuckers at the vineyard?"

He musters some righteous indignation. "I didn't do anything! I'm an innocent. L'innocente."

Oh, boy! Points for Googling how the mafia justice works. The asshole even translated it for me. "You claim you're a civilian? So, what, you let others do all the work in Cali?"

His face spasms, but there's no hiding the fever of an addict who'd finally got his fix.

"Never got a single cut in with a knife? Didn't smell fresh blood coming from the wounds? Didn't even listen to them scream?"

The liar shakes his head. I squeeze the trigger before he can deny his deeds again.

A pillow explodes into shreds of fabric, white stuffing and red blood. Kassan wails, reaching incredulously for what's left of his kneecap. Irene half-turns to the bare window with a muttered fucking wuss.

"It's a terrible idea to lie motionlessly when a gun is trained on you," I tell Kassan. "But then again, now you have no choice, like you didn't give any choice to those old fogies who've done nothing wrong."

Huge droplets of sweat run down his face. His skin turns sallow and dribbles as the first shakes of shock come over him.

"Pain sharpens the senses, doesn't it? Let's see if your memory is any better now. Where is the list, Kassan?"

"You... you..." he moans. "Fucking psychopath."

"Right back at you, buddy. You see, I've met your type before. Dark dreams plague you. Only a few of your number put this shit into reality, because you are cowards. But! If there is an opportunity to act on your dark desires without being punished... say there's a war or someone powerful hires for secret work... watch out, here you crawl.

"So you see how I don't believe it when you say you weren't involved beyond dreaming up the themes. You're with Irene, because she enabled you. And you would have enjoyed every second of this opportunity, savored every detail..." I point with my gun between his eyes. "In short, where is the list, Kassan?"

To be honest, I expect him to pinch his blueing lips, but he suddenly crumbles. "Nicky. Thumb-drive." He hangs his head. Maybe he experiences guilt on some level. Maybe he doesn't want to see disgust contorting his girlfriend's face.

Irene makes sure he doesn't skip the full blast of her judgment. "Fucking gringo wuss," she says to the jungle-green spreading beyond the glass. If she completely hated him, though, she'd be looking at him. Like I would look straight at every person on that list, till they end before me. This will have to wait, of course, and I can wait. I can wait for years.

For now, I glance at Ilya.

The enormous Russian has been giving commands, not receiving them, for a long time despite his youth. His gun doesn't waver from Irene's mid-body point, the killing shot, as he flips the cell to his mouth and presses speed-dial without looking.

"Bryn," he says, "make sure Nicky doesn't destroy or hide a thumb drive." Damn, I'm glad he's my ally from now on, not my enemy. Particularly if Mila returns, in whatever capacity, those two would be a fucking handful.

Ilya didn't put the phone on speaker, but my chest spreads out as I hear Bryn's quiet okay. No questions asked, no sobs, no panic. She just says okay. Bryn's a scatter-brain when she has the space and the time to think, but when push comes to shove, she focuses like nobody else I know.

I hold back a sigh. Almost done, my love.

As soon as I'm certain that Bryn is no longer on the line, I squeeze the trigger. No showing off, nor taking my aim slowly. No warnings. No talking at all. Just a clean boom of the execution.

Kassan departs still surprised, like most men bound for Hell.

Dammit, sometimes I feel like I'm a janitor, and those days are the best. I just wish I could call the cops in California, tell them that their future cold case is closed.

Irene stares at Kassan's body, then shrugs. "He thought he was buying his life, not a quick death. What a moron."

"Yes." I couldn't let him live. Like a beast who tasted men's blood, he wouldn't stop hunting.

"I taught Nicky better." Irene is twisted, so her maternal pride is also twisted, but it's boundless. Here's your proof that screwed-up people also love, if you need the proof. "My Nicky wouldn't discard the drive just for vengeance, trust me. She's the only one who knows the password and without it..."

She doesn't need to finish her last sentence. Without it, hacking the drive will be a colossal risk. This was Irene's failsafe. If the worst came to worst, Nicky was supposed to walk out of here with serious leverage and money. With Kassan's betrayal, the mama's girl is limited to bargaining with Ilya and me, but it's better than nothing.

I finally do what I have been dreaming of for three thousand miles. I blow her handsome head off. It explodes like a pumpkin tossed from the apartment building onto the concrete in the projects. Just as slick, just as messy, only the spill is red, not orange.

My second shot echoes in the banquet room louder than the first, the one that killed Kassan, deafening me for a hot minute.

Ilya didn't do any shooting since the helipad, but he wipes his gun tenderly before stashing it away. Once the ringing in my ears—and his, I'm sure—stops, he says with a toothy smile, "So, Matty, if the girl is my assurance, then everything she owns is mine. Capisce?"

I think about it for a moment. Peace in L.A. is worth more to me than money on the drive. Except...

"Except the names, Ilya. I want the names. You keep the blood money."

A quick nod. "That's fair."

"Nothing is fair."

"Also fair." The witty motherfucker then tilts his blond head to one shoulder. "What do you want to do with the bodies, partner?"

"I'll leave that up to you and the kids. For the chunk of change you're getting, you can do some work."

"Fine, fine. It's been a pleasure doing business with you, so I'll do the dirty work while you console your woman." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "But mark my words, Matty—"

"God, I thought Russians were a reserved people. Shut the fuck up."

His laugh echoes through the striped room with two cooling bodies. It's inappropriate and grotesque, but he insists on this conversation. "Mark my words, Matty, this love thing is fucked up. It'll be your downfall."

As if I don't know it. As if I can help it. Or want to help it. "Fuck off, Ilya. Just fuck off, until you know what the fuck you're even talking about."

"Actually, I had time to reflect on that while I was waiting for you, and I came to the conclusion that I did my time early," he says, sobering up. "Never again. Love sucks."

Heh, famous last words. I let him revel in his juvenile delusions of dodging bullets and never falling in love. Don't take me wrong, some people are incapable, but if he thinks this much of love, it will find him.

Then we'll talk man-to-man.

Or we won't, and either is fine with me. Right now, I want to see Bryn so much, it hurts.