Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Fuck.

I sprung out of the bed.

"CHAYA?!"

Instinctively, I wiped my hand on the sheets. Then regretted it. Now my bloody handprint was streaked down Georgiy's bed next to his very dead, very headless body.

"Chaya?" I tried to yell again, but it came out more like a squeak.

This could not be happening.

My pulse pounded in my ears. I tried to take a deep breath, but my chest refused to expand. I tried again. More weird groany squeaks escaped my throat.

You cannot afford to lose your shit right now.

Turn the light on.

I stumbled backwards, tripping over Georgiy's stupid ugly rug in my stupid Prada heels that apparently were still strapped to my stupid clumsy feet. My fingers trembled as I fumbled against the wall and flicked the switch. The chandelier over the bed lit the scene.

Oh. This was bad.

Really fucking bad.

Blood sprayed and splattered across the wooden headboard. What should have been white sheets were now black with blood. His bare hairy chest gaped open in gore. At least five stab wounds. No. Definitely more. No sign of his head.

What the fuck happened last night?

I stood there naked and shaking in the doorway, trying to remember something. Anything. But all I could picture was Chaya stitching me up at the tub. And something told me she was long gone.

I needed to find her.

I needed to find clothes.

I needed to puke.

I needed to be smart.

I needed Desirae.

The honest thing to do would be to call it in and explain everything. That's what she'd tell me. But the only thing worse than the polizia finding me and my DNA anywhere near Georgiy's body would be his own men. Who were currently MIA.

Which meant if I left now, I would have a head start.

My mind raced with a plan. I'd been on the run the last several months, I could keep the pace, especially with a head start.

A head start to get nowhere without my—Artemisia's—money. Which was tied up in Georgiy's projects.

I whined and groaned and stomped my feet like a petulant child. But I was starting to think clearer. My lungs expanded with a real breath this time. Oxygen finally made it to my brain. And my brain told me again I couldn't do anything without clothes. That was my priority for the moment.

Carefully, I crept into the master bath where I last remembered sitting with Chaya, still half-dressed. She had to have drugged me with whatever she injected me with. And then put me into the bed to frame me? But why? Had Georgiy been dead and headless in there the whole time? My blood loss from the bullet wound had made me vulnerable. And naive. His fucking granddaughter my ass.

Focus.

My dress from last night wasn't in the bathroom. In fact, there was no sign we had even been in the bath. My blood had been wiped clean from the floor.

This felt like some sinister prank.

My heels clicked across the travertine tile, annoying me every step towards the walk-in closet. Chaya had intentionally left them on my feet, like another little twisted jab it seemed. Or maybe more of a challenge. But I could deal with the heels later. I just hoped Georgiy's current wife or mistress had clothes that would fit my body.

My natural thief instincts finally seemed to be kicking in. From here, every move was thought out. The less I had to touch and wipe off, the better. Stilettos, although a nuisance at times, had always proven to be great tools in a pinch. I used the heel to pull the drawers open and grabbed the first thing on top.

High waisted leather leggings.

Okay, not the worst.

I eyeballed the hangers. Pretty much everything was animal print. But I could work with that. Artie always loved when I rocked the mobwife aesthetic, especially during our jobs. As she always said, sometimes blending in meant standing out.

I slithered into the skin tight leather pants, hopping up and down three times to squeeze my ass in. From the top rack, I yanked down a silky leopard print blouse and quickly slipped it on. Artie would've stuffed me in a plushy fur coat to complete the look.

The thought of being on the run and actually never getting to see her again hit me hard with a sharp pain in my gut.

I needed to stop thinking about her. Of all people right now. She was the reason I ended up here in the first place with a hole through my body. Her and her damn money.

And for all I knew, she could have been the one to call in the hit. Especially to frame me. But if Georgiy were dead, she knew she wouldn't get her money. It didn't really make any sense.

As I tucked the blouse into my leggings, a new plan popped into my head. One I wasn't particularly fond of, but it would solve a few problems.

If I could stomach it.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror just then for the first time. The blouse did little to hide my bandage. Already, blood had started to seep through and I would need to change it soon. God, at least I hoped it was my own blood. I ran a hand through my dark messy hair, wanting to fix it, but I knew I was just trying to stall. While I still had some adrenaline bouncing around my body, I hurried out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom, and down to the kitchen.

Nothing looked out of place. Not a crumb on the sleek marble countertops. No dish towel stained with my blood draped anywhere. Even the trail of blood I remembered leaving from the parlor to the stairs was gone. I breathed a slight sigh of relief. Then eyed the block of knives on the counter. Fortunately, they were all still there as well.

Using the flouncy sleeve of my new blouse, I wrapped it around the metal handle of the chopping knife and removed it. It seemed heavy enough. Carefully, I tested the bite against my skin. I swallowed hard.

Definitely sharp.

Before I lost my nerve, I hurried back up the stairs and into the bedroom.

The scene looked even worse from this angle in the room. Red pooled across the white sheets and poured down over the rug. His left arm stretched out towards me, tattooed with the symbol of the Brotherhood, beckoning me with the task.

Except, I needed his right hand.

The putrid smell of warm, sitting blood began to churn my stomach. Maybe it was a little guilt as well. But he was already mutilated, what would it matter at this point? Jesus, where the fuck was his head? He was really starting to get into mine again. I had to do this quick.

One clean chop.

I went to the other side of the bed and carefully pulled his already stiff arm out away from his body. But me being left-handed made the angle of the swing difficult no matter how close I got.

I needed to get back into the bed with him.

My knee sunk into the mattress just inches away from his oozing stump. A stream of viscous black blood began to pool around my leg.

I clenched my teeth.

Held my breath.

And swung.

The knife thwunked into his wrist, getting stuck half way between his bones.

The more I tried to wriggle it free, the more my whole body moved. Blood started to soak into my leggings. I knelt into his forearm to give myself leverage. The knife pulled free from his cracked bone and I raised it back up, ready to swing once more.

"Kirby, what the fuck?!"

"Oh my god," I sighed at the sight of Desirae. "I need your help—"

The barrel of her gun locked onto me. "Put the knife down."

"Oh—I'm not—it's not what it looks like, I swear. Des—"

"Put the knife down," she commanded slow and clear.

Still hovering over Georgiy's headless bloody body, I dropped the knife to the floor and raised my hands so she could see them.

She swept in close to me, barely tearing her eyes away, but I could tell she didn't know where to look. She slid open the pocket door to the bath with her foot to clear it.

"Des, it's just me here."

"That's what I was afraid of." Her serious tone softened. She lowered her gun just enough. "I saw the signs that you were getting worse, and chose to ignore them. But this..."

"Des, I didn't do this," I pleaded. "I know how bad it looks, but—"

"You're kneeling above the headless torso of your Russian wrangler with a butcher knife in your hand."

"Let me get down," I coaxed, "and I'll explain."

"You are welcome to start talking from where you're at. Maybe start with where his head is?"

I stared blankly at her for what felt like forever before my mouth moved. "After everything we went through back in Bay City, you seriously don't trust me? Wow... that CIA training must have really did a number on you." I tried to hide my heartbreak with utter disappointment. "What happened to that alluring agent who helped me break into the collections room at the Bay City Art Museum to steal back my painting?"

"She knew what to expect with an art thief. But now..."

"Now, I'm a killer," I finished for her. "I did what I had to do, remember?"

"Did you have to do this?"

She wasn't going to believe me. I'd have to prove it to her. I glanced around the room, looking for any clue that Chaya or anybody else had been in here. My eyes landed on the blank wall above the bed where I was sure there had been a painting last night.

"The Caravaggio," I murmured.

"What? Kirby, don't move."

I didn't listen.

I twisted around to face the wall. Sure enough, there was a perfect rectangular outline of Georgiy's blood splatter from where the painting had been hanging.

A painting of the beheading of John the Baptist.

"It's happening again," I mumbled.

"What is?"

For a second, I considered the fact that Chaya might also be innocent. That maybe something had happened to her.

"There was a woman here with me last night. She stitched me up."

"Who?"

"She said she was Georgiy's granddaughter. Chaya."

"And you're claiming she did all this?"

I looked down at the mess of Georgiy from here. Six months ago, I couldn't have imagined anyone doing something like this, but after the Bay City murders, I learned people were far more capable of evil than I realized. Hell, here I was, in the middle of chopping his dead hand off. Maybe I was getting worse. Desirae had every reason to question me.

I needed to stick to the facts. That's what she wanted to hear.

"There was a painting here, Des. One of Caravaggio's beheadings of John the Baptist."

That got her attention.

"The one stolen from that exhibit in London in the 80s?" she asked.

"Likely."

Her teeth rubbed at her bottom lip. The gun wavered just slightly. The look in her eyes told me she wanted to trust me. But something was holding her back. "None of that explains why I walked in on you about to chop Georgiy's hand off."

"I need to get Artie her money," I explained. "The account can only be accessed with biometrics."

Her head bobbed with acknowledgment, but she still hadn't fully lowered her gun. "We could've found another way. Christ, Kirby, look at you."

I really was losing it.

"All right, get down," Desirae urged, "and we'll figure this—"

A half-muffled scream startled us both.

I lost my balance and fell into Georgiy's wet, bloody body. Before I could look up to see whose voice it belonged to, I heard Desirae jumping into action.

"Signora, ma'am..."

Acidic vomit rose to the back of my throat as I pulled my hands out of Georgiy's slashed chest. The stench that wafted up afterwards nearly gagged me, but as I made eye contact with the terrified woman in the doorway, my body quickly sobered.

Amondi.

The housekeeper. Words frantically spilled from her mouth in a language I didn't understand. But Desirae immediately picked it up in response and tried to calm her down. Georgiy's half-severed hand taunted me while they went back and forth.

"I am the police," Desirae claimed in English this time. She returned her gun to her holster and stepped close to Amondi.

While Desirae had her back to me, I reached down for the knife again and went for his thumb. Maybe she was right that there was a better way to have gone about all this, but I wasn't willing to take that chance. The steel blade cut cleanly through this time. Grabbing the severed thumb, I tucked it into my waistband and hurried towards the door with the knife.

Amondi flattened herself against the wall in terror with her car keys still in her trembling hand. I snatched them from her fingers just as Desirae caught a hold of my arm.

"You're not leaving. Not this time."

"It's not like you can arrest me now. You're CIA," I scoffed. "And Amondi doesn't believe you anyways. You'll look just as guilty as I do to the polizia."

"Interpol will be all over this. And they know exactly why I'm here. How do you plan on explaining any of this to someone who isn't me?"

"Easy. I don't plan on getting caught."

She shoved me hard against the wall next to an authentic Minniti painting. With the knife still in my hand, I raised it to the canvas, knowing she wouldn't dare risk the destruction of irreplaceable artwork.

"Both of you, to the balcony," I ordered.

Desirae's jaw clenched. She knew I wasn't bluffing.

Slowly, she backed up to the other side of the room and pushed open the curtains to the balcony. Amondi just cowered in the corner and that was good enough for me. She was clearly already traumatized.

"I'm sorry, Amondi. I'll make sure you get a big tip when the money goes through."

Desirae just glared.

"Go on," I urged her. "On the balcony and shut the door."

As soon as the glass panel latched with Desirae on the other side, the house alarm blared.

Throwing the knife down, I raced over to the balcony door to try to turn the alarm off before it signaled the police—or worse, Georgiy's men, but there was no control pad.

"Dumbass," Desirae mouthed through the pane.

I gave her the finger.

There was no time to try to turn the alarm off now. I needed to leave.

My fingers tightened around Amondi's keys as I ran back through the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the parlor. But on the back of the front door, a knife jammed into the wood held a small piece of paper.

Find Lu.