Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Yuri Morozov.”
I go very still. My heart quickens in my chest. That’s not fear I’m feeling, but it’s definitely concern. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. Take care of it.”
Dad hangs up.
I stare down at the phone.
Yuri Morozov.
Fucking hell. I don’t know what Dad’s up to, but it isn’t good. Usually, he tells me why the target needs to be eliminated, but sometimes it’s a no-questions-asked sort of situation.
This is one of those rare instances where I’m tempted to call him back and make him explain.
Instead, I don’t move. I can’t seem to peel myself from this spot. I want to keep staring at my wife’s office, if only to make sure she’s safe. What if she tries to leave early and someone mugs her on the walk home? What if gunmen kick in the doors and kill everyone in the building?
I’m going to drive myself insane.
“Need to work,” I murmur, starting my car’s engine. The BMW comes to life. “Distract myself.”
But I don’t want to.
All I want is her.
Yuri Morozov’s got the squarest head I’ve ever seen in my life.
It’s cartoonish. The buzz cut doesn’t help. The man’s chin is cut straight across. There’s no jaw, or maybe all jaw, I can’t really tell. He’s blocky all over though, with thick arms and a neck like rawhide.
He wasn’t hard to find. The Morozov Bratva’s one of the largest Russian criminal organizations in the city. They’re powerful and our biggest direct rivals. My father hates their Pakhan with a burning passion. I assume the feeling’s mutual.
It’s extremely unusual for Dad to send me after a Morozov. Especially a member of the inner circle.
Yuri is the Pakhan’s nephew. He’s high up in their command structure. Most of their street-level drug operations run through him. Which means he’s always out driving around the city and is surprisingly easy to watch.
Most kills like this take time. I need to get to know my victims. It’s like a dance or a courtship. I study their movements, learn their habits. In some ways, I learn to love them like a brother. Then I can plan how to wrap my hands around their throat and squeeze until they’re no longer a problem.
It’s easy to kill what I love.
Tonight’s different. Yuri parks in a quiet section of the Bronx at the end of a ratty old alleyway. He sits there for almost an hour until another car parks beside him. I’m not sure what’s happening, but a group of people exits the new vehicle, and they head out of view. Yuri follows them, sauntering along like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
I’m tempted to get closer. Instead, I watch and watch.
Ten minutes later, the newcomers leave the alley. There are three of them. All young, all likely Russian operatives. They pile back into an SUV and drive off, leaving Yuri behind.
Alone and still in that alleyway.
I sit and stare. My heartrate picks up. I check the time. It’s a little past midnight.
Under any other circumstances, I’d never, ever make a move this fast. Not on someone as important as Yuri Morozov. A man like him needs a delicate touch. No mess, no fuss. No lingering problems.
But Bianca’s waiting for me back home. I paused my surveillance only long enough to drive her to my house, and I’m already itching to get back to her.
It’s a good opportunity. Yuri’s alone in there. It’s dark and away from the street. There’s nobody else around. I don’t know what he’s up to, but it doesn’t matter. I can kill him and be done with this.
I can get home to my wife.
I shove my gun into my waistband and tug on my black gloves, silently cursing myself. This is a very bad idea.
But I’m a weak man. I can’t stand the idea of staying out here night after night and leaving my wife home alone unattended. How am I supposed to protect her if I’m not by her side? Always watching?
I peer into Yuri’s car. There’s nothing interesting. A suit jacket’s hanging in the back. He’s got fast food wrappers on the floor. Disgusting fuck can’t even throw out his own trash. I turn to the alley, pausing for a moment.
There’s a dumpster against one wall and old wood pallets leaned up against the other. A shape’s crouched at the very end fiddling with something.
I approach slow. I’m big, but I’m good at moving silently. I creep down the alley, getting closer and closer.
That’s definitely Yuri. I recognize his right angles. He’s got a bag in front of him and he’s going through it, murmuring to himself in Russian as he does it, before finally taking out a plastic-wrapped brick.
It looks like heroin.
He cuts a slight opening and begins fixing himself a dose. I stare in amazement. Never in a million years would I have guessed the Russian boss in charge of their drug trade is a fucking junkie himself. That’s the first rule of dealing: you don’t get high on your own supply.