Shadow Read online

  I’m not into voyeurism. At least, I don’t think I am. Yet I can’t take my eyes off her. She grinds on him, fucking him through his pants. Her moans are ecstatic, her hands so busy kneading her big tits.

  I close my eyes for a moment, determined to give the motherfucker in my pants a speech about timing. Who am I kidding, though? The sight of a chick so bold, so fucking horny, is hot as hell.

  “Will,” Jennifer interrupts them, her voice lacking the sweetness she showed us. “Markus Boulder and his assistant are here.”

  Assistant. Damn, I all but forgot about Tiffany. She must be—

  Nope. She didn’t even blush. She eyeballs them somewhat bored? All right, either she’s some kind of cyborg, or…I don’t even know.

  Deveraux—he’s blond, well-toned, and shares an eerie resemblance to Liam Hemsworth—tightens his grip on Cowgirl’s hips, pulling her against his chest.

  He whispers something in her ear. Whatever it is makes her groan like an angry bear and pout with disappointment. She gets off him and pushes her skirt down. “Later?”

  Deveraux’s gaze drifts over Cowgirl’s Victoria’s Secret body. “Definitely.” He smacks her ass. “Now get out. I have some business to attend to.”

  Cowgirl checks out my arms. “Nice,” she whispers before slamming the door shut behind her.

  “Markus Boulder.” Deveraux’s voice snaps me out of my WTF-just-happened delirium. “So glad you could make it.”

  Cool. Just be cool.

  I move closer, inspecting a naked stone sculpture on the ebony drawer. A woman doing some painful ballerina pose. “What I’d like to know is why you extended the invitation in the first place.” Here’s another lesson I learned. Nothing bugs a man in power more than turning your back to him. Nothing except for being ungrateful. Kinda like not showing appreciation for an invitation.

  Deveraux adjusts his pants and walks up to me. “I’ve heard great things about you,” he says, gazing out the window.

  “Everything about me is great.” Confidence, remember?

  America’s Favorite Son laughs. “Cocky.” He pats my shoulder. “I like it.”

  In my peripheral, I spot the grin on Tiffany’s face. She’s proud of herself. She should be. Without her, I would have never gotten close to Deveraux...to my shot to take out Shadow.

  “So.” I face him. “Why am I here?”

  He flings himself onto the brown leather couch. “I hear you’re looking for a sponsor.” His baby-blue eyes are trained on me, assessing every move I make.

  I trace the sculpture’s hip down to her thigh. “Maybe.”

  He taps his fingers against the leather. “Maybe?”

  I shrug. “Been doing just fine on my own.”

  Tiffany clears her throat. That’s her way of saying, You’re this close to screwing this up for us. But I’ve got it. I’ve dealt with worse egos than Deveraux’s.

  “Then why did you come?” He grows increasingly annoyed. Good.

  A half-smile spreads on my lips. “Maybe I couldn’t resist an audience with America’s Favorite Son.” That’s the secret. Kick his ego, then stroke it.

  “Well, how would you like to fight for America’s Favorite Son, then?” See, works every time.

  I drop down onto the armchair. “Depends on the conditions, I guess.”

  He shifts closer to the edge. “I’ll pay for all of your expenses, arrange high-profile fights, and make sure you get the prestige and fame you crave.” Yup, London couldn’t resist making me a money-lusting egomaniac.

  I ogle my watch, pretending I have somewhere else to be. “And what do you want in exchange?”

  Deveraux grins like the fucking devil. “For you to win.”

  “I always win,” I shoot back.

  He extends his hand. “Then we have a deal?”

  I hesitate, just for the fucking sake of it.

  Looks like I wait a little too long. “We do.” Tiffany shakes his hand on my behalf. The girl couldn’t take the anticipation anymore.

  Deveraux winks at her. “What a smart and beautiful assistant you have,” he says to me while looking at her tits.

  Getting up, I step between Tiffany and Deveraux. “Call me when you have a fight.”

  “C’mon.” I point to the door. “Let’s go.”

  “Boulder?” Deveraux stops me.

  I look over my shoulder. “Yeah?”

  He flashes me his bleached teeth. “I hate losing.”

  “Yeah.” I give him a lopsided grin. “You and I both.”

  “I knew we’d make a great team.”

  Not really, but whatever.

  “We aren’t brought into this world with guns attached to our trigger finger. We are born with the ability to pull the trigger.”

  Shadow

  She pushes the stroller down Lincoln Road. The little girl inside wears a red sun hat. It protects her sensitive skin from the cruel fireball standing high in the sky. Every now and then, someone stops her to adore her little angel.

  She smiles at them, thanks them for their compliments, and moves on.

  Window shopping with a toddler is hard, especially when the temperatures are rising well above one hundred degrees. She hits the Starbucks at the corner, ordering an iced latte for herself and a chocolate cookie for her daughter.

  She takes her angel out, placing her on her lap. The ice in her drink melts. She doesn’t care. All she wants in life is to see her little daughter smile. And boy, does the kid smile. Her mom only needs to pull a silly grimace, and she bursts with laughter.

  It’s hard not to wonder how my life would have turned out if I had grown up around a mother like her. I’m not saying I am what I am because I have mommy and daddy issues. My parents didn’t abandon or abuse me. They were good people. Honest, hardworking people. The few memories I have of them are happy ones. Papa taking us to St. Petersburg to see our first ballet, The Nutcracker, performed at the Mikhailovsky Theatre—one of Russia’s oldest opera and ballet houses. Mama preparing borscht—a traditional Russian beet and cabbage soup—teasing my older brother about liking the neighbor’s daughter. We didn’t have much, but we had us. Our home was our palace, and it was always filled with love and joy. The laughter died along with my parents and my brother.

  “It’s okay,” Mariposa consoles her crying daughter. “We’re going to get your books and then we go home.”

  The little girl—Alexei’s little girl—gawks at her mom with big doll eyes. God took mercy on the little brat, blessing her with her mother’s looks rather than Alexei’s ugly visage.

  Tossing my iced coffee, I follow the two. Lingering in the background, I take mental notes of their daily routines. They’ll come in handy when I’m ready to scratch Alexei’s name off my list.

  Achilles’ heel, remember? Alexei has not one, but two. Mariposa and Antonia Maria. The kid is nine months old and Daddy’s whole pride. The bastard loves his daughter. Hard to believe monsters like us are capable of that kind of devotion, huh? It’s easy for people like you to throw us all under the same bus, pretending we don’t bleed red. The truth is a little more complex. We have a beating heart, you know. And while we can flip the switch, showing no compassion for our victims, we are still capable of caring about the ones close to us.

  Alexei cares so much about Antonia, he kept her a secret. The Bratva has no fucking clue she exists. Her father knows well what they’d do to his little angel if they ever caught wind of what he’s up to. For the past ten months, he’s been stealing money from the Bratva. He wants out, wants to start a new life with Mariposa and Antonia. The thing is you don’t cross the brotherhood without paying the ultimate price. Like me, they will find his Achilles’ heel, and when they do, he’ll be forced to watch them die.

  The Bratva should be the least of his concerns, though. He won’t live to see their repercussions. Not if I have my way. And I always do.

  Mariposa takes a left, walking down a narrow lane and past a coffee shop. She’s headed for Books & Books—a sm
all independent bookstore.

  The venue is enclosed by buildings. There’s only one way in and out. Apart from a few palm trees, there’s nothing to hide behind either. Looks like I’m going to do some book shopping myself.

  I wait a few minutes before I push the glass door open. The bell rings. A middle-aged woman dressed in a flowery skirt and a sleeveless shirt sits behind the register. She looks over her glasses, nods, and goes back to whatever the hell it is booksellers do when they don’t cash people out.

  Mariposa and Antonia are in the children’s books corner. The devoted mother is looking for a new fairytale Alexei can read to his daughter after doing the Bratva’s dirty work. The bastard will wash the blood of his victims off and pretend he didn’t just ruin the life of someone else’s daughter.

  See, that right there is the difference between Alexei and me. He thinks he can separate the killer from the father. I’m fully aware the killer will always dominate.

  I wander the aisles, stopping at the classics. Close enough to keep an eye on my targets, far enough not to alert them of my existence.

  Scanning the books, I find myself reaching for an exemplar of Bluebeard by Charles Perrault. It’s a French fairytale about a nobleman with an ugly blue beard who killed his wives. Nobody knows why Bluebeard is so cruel—neither the reader, nor the main character, Bluebeard’s new wife. Yet, everyone looks for his motive, a reason for his homicidal tendencies. People like to believe no one is born evil, that killers are made. That’s partially true. We aren’t brought into this world with guns attached to our trigger finger. We are born with the ability to pull the trigger. Guilt, shame, fear—alien words to our kind. Long story short: Bluebeard murdered those women because he could, and most likely because he got off on the thrill.

  Mariposa and Antonia pass by me. She went for a copy of Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White. “You’re going to love this one,” Mariposa baby-talks.

  Antonia giggles.

  Soon the little angel’s laughter will die.

  Along with Alexei Sokolov.

  “Never take what’s mine. Unless I say so.”

  Markus

  “What’s with the frowny face, handsome?” Tiffany adjusts the collar of my black button-down.

  Other than the fact that I look like an idiot? “Nothing.” She spent all day shopping. I don’t have the heart to tell her I feel like a dancing monkey in these clothes.

  In typical Tiffany fashion, she slams one hand on her hip and raises a brow at me. “Did you forget I’m married?”

  “No.” She reminds me every hour or so.

  “Then why the hell do you think I’ll buy your bullshit?” She shoves her big rock under my nose. “See that ring?”

  It’s kinda hard to overlook.

  “Know what it means?”

  “That you wasted a good fortune on a stupid dress?” I’m not always an asshole, but the prospect of partying with Deveraux sorta flipped my switch. He called this morning and invited me to Sin to meet some important people. Yay, lucky me.

  “No, dummy.” She looks me straight in the eye. “It means I can smell lies.” Wow, maybe the CIA should only hire married agents from now on. They’d never need to teach another analysis behavior class again.

  “So,” she goes on, dead serious. “How about we try this again? What’s bugging you?”

  She wants the truth? Here you go. “How much did you spend on this shit?” I point at my reflection in the mirror.

  Tiffany walks to the bed, checking her bills. “Nine hundred bucks for the Earnest Sewn custom fit jeans, three hundred for the button-down, six—”

  “Stop.” I hold my hand up. “Just stop.”

  She narrows her eyes, slightly confused. “Why, what’s wrong with the clothes?”

  “The jeans alone cost more than my monthly rent.” I face the mirror, liking this version of myself even less than the fucked-up one. “And the shoes? Hell, you could probably feed a village in Africa with that kind of money.” They’re not even comfortable. I’d trade them for my Nikes in a heartbeat.

  She studies me quietly, her gaze piercing my soul. I don’t like it. Reading people is my thing. I assess their behavior and speech patterns to glimpse into the abyss everyone likes to hide. “Whatever.” I wave the whole thing off. “It’s not a big deal.”

  Tiffany says nothing. She just ogles me with those judgmental invisible x-ray glasses. If she casts her husband the same glances, I sorta feel sorry for him.

  “What are you going to wear?” Changing the focus on her sounds like a great idea. Better than being the object of her scrutiny.

  “This.” She points at her Snoopy PJs.

  I snicker. “Yeah, right.” Tiffany loves clothes. Always dresses up, always looks perfect. She could be a model.

  She crosses her arms, her expression stern. “I’m not going.”

  I squint. “What do you mean you’re not going?”

  “Do I speak Mandarin?”

  “No.” If she did, I’d understand what she’s saying. “But I thought—”

  “Look.” She puts a hand on each side of my shoulders. “Deveraux invited you, not us. He’s most likely trying to get to know you better. My research says he’s a calculated businessman. He doesn’t like surprises, and Sin is the perfect place to assess you.”

  “How’s that?”

  She flings herself on my bed. “How is it you were one of the best CIA operatives and yet you know so little?” If she’s trying to insult me, she’s doing a bang up of a job.

  “Tiffany,” I roar, tired of taking her shit.

  “Fine,” she sighs. “I’ll share my wisdom with you.”

  “Please.” I gesture for her to continue.

  “Deveraux is suspicious by nature. By now, I’d bet my engagement ring he knows all about you. The fact you’re ex-CIA won’t sit well with him. He’s aware you could be an undercover agent, and let me tell you, that man treasures his privacy. He doesn’t want his daddy to know his vest isn’t as white as America thinks. And if the world catches wind of his underground fighting addiction, ugh,” she waves her hand as if she just burned it, “let me tell you, it wouldn’t be pretty.”

  In my mind’s eye, I read the TMZ headline. It’s a cross between “America’s Favorite Son Engages in Underground Fights” and “The Fall of William Deveraux.”

  “Throwing you in the cold water,” she smirks, “or should I say in a naughty club, gives him a chance to see if the rumors about you are true.”

  “Which ones?” That I’m a ruthless, merciless killer with no honor, or a playboy-manwhore?

  “All of them.” Tiffany’s left brow flies up. “Which is why you’ll be on your best asshole behavior. Got it?”

  Be a ruthless, unlikeable asshole. “Roger that.”

  Tiffany jumps to her feet, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Awesome.” She shoves me toward the door. “Now, go and kill it.”

  It or him that is the question. There’s something about Deveraux I just can’t stand. It has nothing to do with the way he treated that brunette, and everything to do with the smile on his face when he saw us watching them.

  • • •

  Blondie is back on reception desk duty. “Markus,” she squeaks the second she spots me. “Welcome back to Sin.”

  My mood only got worse on the way over. Small talk while fighting off Blondie’s advances won’t make shit better. “I’m here to see—”

  “Will,” she whispers, covering one side of her mouth.

  Another bunny, huh? Well, at least now I know why her belt-like skirt doesn’t wake the monster in my pants. I don’t do other dudes’ bed bunnies. Especially not William Deveraux’s.

  She lifts the velvet curtain. “He’s expecting you.”

  Blondie leads me past the chained, ass-wagging woman to a black door. “This is our VIP room.” She tightens her hand around the doorknob. “Refreshments are free.” Lips curved up, she tilts her head at the lingerie-wearing waitresses. “So is everything else your
heart desires.”

  The shit my heart desires can’t be bought. “Thanks.”

  A quick nod, and she swings the door open. “Have fun.”

  I doubt it.

  Spotting Deveraux? Easy. He’s the one lounging in the midst of a harem. In the great Tarantino’s words, he’s got a “vast selection of pussy.” Spanish, black, Cuban, white, Asian—he surrounds himself with the best of every country.

  “Boulder!” He raises his champagne glass. “Come on over, my friend.”

  I’d rather trade places with dog-lady, but whatever.

  “Ladies,” he says to his concubines. “I’d like you to meet Markus Boulder.”

  They smile, wave, and send me flying kisses.

  I acknowledge them with a nod. “Ladies.”

  He shoves Ms. Asia to the left. “Take a seat.”

  “Thanks, I’d rather stand.”

  His gaze darts from the chick to me. “Your loss.”

  Ignoring his comment, I get down to business. “I’m assuming those,” I point at the chicks, “aren’t your business associates?”

  “Very perceptive.” With the snap of his fingers, he gets a waitress to serve me a glass of champagne.

  I decline, politely.

  “Would you care for something else?” the waitress asks. “Whiskey? Bourbon? Scotch?” She rattles off half of the menu, always smiling, always keeping up the pretense. Deep down, she hates this job. I can tell by the look she shoots Deveraux. It says, “You spoiled rich bastard. Who do you think you are?”

  A genuine smile creeps into my expression. I’ve been where she is, serving annoying customers, acting as if you like them. It ain’t easy. “Just water,” I reply.

  She shows off her dimple. “Coming right up.”

  “Water?” Deveraux teases.

  Thank God Tiffany gave me a license to be an asshole. “Yeah,” I say with a devilish grin. “I treasure my brain cells.” And my AA medallion.

  The expression on his face is priceless. Insulted, yet somehow impressed. After a moment of silence, he faces his harem. “Ladies, would you excuse us for a moment?”