Once it was pried open, I tossed my bag out, my apartment fortunately close enough to the ground that I wouldn't break a leg jumping out.

  I was halfway out when one of the assholes pounded on the door and barked out, “Hurry it the fuck up.” And just as I swung my body out the window, I saw the bathroom door open and the prick barrel inside. His gaze latched on to me instantly, his eyes narrowing and a curse ringing out.

  I landed on the ground and grabbed my bag, then ran like my life depended on it.

  Because it did.

  Chapter

  Two

  Arlo

  Present day

  My mother had been called a whore.

  My father had been a boyevik—a soldier—for the Bratva.

  I was an orphan at the age of eleven. A criminal at the age of twelve.

  I was a murderer when I turned sixteen.

  And here I was, fifteen years later, a coldhearted bastard.

  You could have summed up my life in those details. The particulars didn’t matter. The people I’d come in contact with were inconsequential. It was easy to pretend to have interest. It was effortless to act like I had a heart.

  I’d been told a lot of things during my life, lies to make me fall in line.

  “Your mother was nothing but a cheap slut. Women like that don’t last long. They’re used up and thrown away. They serve their purpose that way.”

  That had been one of the longest, most “heartfelt”—in my father’s eyes—conversations he’d ever had with me. The truth, I’d later learn, had been far from what he told me.

  I’d been taken from my mother’s arms shortly after she’d been forced to give birth to me, thrown into the home of strangers associated with the Bratva—the Russian mafia. From the moment I drew my first breath, I’d been indoctrinated to the life of a criminal. Of death and hatred and loyalty to only one entity.

  My mother had been a young Russian girl who had hopes and dreams. That was the fantasy I made up. That was the fantasy she was no doubt told to stay pliant and submissive. Hope could make anyone do whatever you wanted.

  I didn’t know her, didn’t know anything about her from personal experience. She’d been taken from her bed in the middle of the night, trafficked to America, and sold off like a piece of meat to those who had power and money.

  Those I worked for. And sometimes those I killed.

  Those who liked breaking things. Ruining them.

  Those men who destroyed a person until there was nothing left but the darkness, that once hope now nothing but hopeless resignation.

  The familiar anger I felt at thinking of the fate of my mother was like acid in my veins. I didn’t let emotions play a factor in my life. They never had except for the thought of a mother I’d never known, a girl far too young, who’d been raped and beaten countless times, forced to push out a baby she probably didn’t want, then used all over again.

  She’d been the only thing I’d ever let my apathy go for. And a part of me hated that, hated her for making me feel anything other than the nothingness I was so very familiar with. The bleak darkness I embraced.

  I didn’t have to know her love to know she’d been innocent—like so many other young girls thrown into this life.

  For a second I stared at my hands, ones that had been covered in blood many times over my thirty-one years. Hands that would soon be drenched in the life force of another.

  They were fingers and palms that had killed mercilessly. Ones that had taken my father’s life once I found out he’d been the one who raped my mother, fathered me, and ultimately killed her.

  I didn’t have to know the woman who birthed me to exact vengeance in her honor. It would never right the wrongs committed against her—or against any of the other helpless victims—but it sure as fuck made me feel better.

  Patricide. Who knew it was what I’d been born to do? Who knew it was my own personal therapy?

  And it was the act of killing my father that elevated me to the position I was in now with the Ruin and the Bratva. Apparently the Bratva thought I’d done them a favor by taking out my father—a traitor who’d been giving information to the Cosa Nostra.

  I never corrected them, never told them that what I’d done, I'd done for myself and Sasha, that girl who’d been nothing but a child and had only been given hell on earth. Let the Bratva think I did what I did for them. It made no difference to the end result.

  “I heard all the poor fucker did was look at the Pakhan’s daughter, and it earned him that shit.”

  Just hearing about the Pakhan—Leonid Petrov, leader of the East Coast Bratva—had my skin tightening. I didn’t respond or acknowledge what Maksim said. I glanced at him and watched as he pointed at the SOB who was about to be dismembered and dissolved. Maksim cursed in Russian, but I ignored him and focused on the job.

  There was the sound of a lighter flaring, followed by the sweet, smoky scent of the cigarillos Maksim got from a connection he had with the Cartel. I’d learned that all in the span of the first five minutes of being in his presence tonight.

  I was called, and I came. I did my job, got rid of the bodies, and went about my miserable fucking life.

  “A damn look, Arlo,” Maksim muttered under his breath, and I heard him take another drag. “Can you imagine⁠—”

  “No, because I don’t fucking care about the circumstances.” I cut him a glare. “A job is a job when the Ruin calls me.” I tipped my chin toward the black barrel off to the side. “They let you come and learn something, so shut the fuck up and listen. Stop talking.” I held his gaze with mine. “My job is to be effective and fast. Stop gossiping and get the fucking barrel.”

  Normally I did my job alone. It was easier. Quiet. I didn’t want to fucking talk about the weather, let alone how one of these assholes kicked the bucket. I did what I was tasked to do, then put it behind me.

  Because that’s what you had to do when you were a fixer for the Ruin.

  But Maksim was still young and dumb, without much experience, and certainly not where the Ruin or the Bratva were concerned. But because he was a blood relation to one of the higher-ups with the Russian mafia, they allowed him to worm his way into situations that should have been reserved for more controlled, skilled men.

  And this was one of those situations. But pissing off someone higher up in the Bratva or Ruin food chain wasn’t my style, or smart for that matter, so I kept my mouth shut and let the little shit learn a thing or two.

  Because being a free agent for the syndicate known as the Ruin, one that dealt in everything illegal and underground, meant if you wanted to keep your balls, you didn’t question shit.

  When the Ruin called, I took the job and did it fucking well. I didn’t care if it was for the Cosa Nostra, the Bratva, or the fucking Cartel. I didn’t give a shit who the job was for, as long as I got paid.

  So as I looked at the bashed-in face of the body I was about to dispose of, all I saw was a means to an end.

  “I heard they took a melon baller to his fucking eyes.”

  I exhaled and felt my muscles tighten in annoyance. “For fuck’s sake, Maksim,” I said with unrestrained anger and cut a withering glare his way. He held up his hands and placed the thin brown cigarillo between his lips.

  “I’m shutting up now,” he murmured swiftly and walked over to the corner of the warehouse where the fifty-five-gallon barrel drum was stashed. I crouched and opened the large duffel bag, rifling through the supplies I’d need for this particular job.

  Maksim brought over the two most important implements I’d need and set them beside me.

  Butcher saw.

  Lye.

  The latter I’d brought over in abundance earlier.

  Maksim dragged the barrel over to the body currently laid out on the plastic tarp. “They really did his face dirty⁠—”

  “Maksim,” I growled and cut a glance his way. I didn’t need to say anything else for him to shut his trap and give a sharp nod. “Put that out.”

  He took the cigarillo from between his lips and snubbed it out on the bottom of his shoe before tucking the butt in the back pocket of his black jeans.

  For long minutes there was silence. I did the job quickly and efficiently, and I had to give Maksim credit—for this being his first time watching a cleanup, he didn’t lose his shit. Maybe he had balls after all.

  “You want to hit up Yama? We could check out the fights down below at the Pit? I heard there are a couple of brutal ones booked tonight. Or I heard they got some new girls at Nino’s.”

  I finished cleaning up and glanced at Maksim. “No,” was all I said. I had nothing against either place and had in fact fought plenty of times over the years at Yama—the Bratva underground fight ring. And Nino’s, one of the many strip clubs owned by the Ruin, wasn’t my style.

  “Suit yourself,” Maksim murmured. “I’m hitting up Nino’s then. Those girls are eager to please the right people, if you know what I mean.”

  The right people meant Maksim could get free ass because he was associated with the Bratva. If they didn’t recognize him by face alone, as soon as he took off his shirt, they’d see his tattoos and know who he was affiliated with.

  The same as me.

  A group of really fucking bad men.

  But where some of them might have been redeemable… I was a monster who had a first-class ticket straight to hell.

  Besides, I had plans tonight, plans that included me going somewhere I shouldn’t, because I wanted to see someone I had no business looking at.

  The far-too-innocent brunette who worked at Sal’s all-night diner, a diner that was owned by the Bratva to launder their money. And the latter she’d have no fucking idea about. She probably just saw it as another run-down twenty-four-hour diner that catered to drunks, addicts, and those stumbling in after clubbing all night, looking for piss-poor food after everything else was closed.

  I shouldn’t have been thinking about her, not while I was alone and lying in bed, and sure as fuck not while I was hacking up the bastard spread out on the ground.

  But fuck, she’d been on my mind for months, and for a man who wasn’t afraid of anything… wanting her terrified the fuck out of me.

  Chapter

  Three

  Galina

  If you were lonely enough, it was almost like you were never alone. It was a constant, heavy presence that weighed on you almost like companionship, another person. It was a friend I’d grown very acquainted with as the years dragged on, especially after I moved to Desolation and left Vegas behind.

  When I ran. Escaped.

  And I’d been living with that dark companion for the last two months. How fitting was it that I’d created a new life in Desolation, NY. A new name. A new background. The lie of my life.

  But I couldn’t hate Desolation, especially this shitty part of town, especially Sal’s diner, where I waitressed. It was the only place that hadn’t asked me any questions, didn’t do a background check, and paid me under the table.

  I stared at the old, faded industrial-looking clock that hung on the diner wall to my right. I had no doubt if I pulled it down, it would be coated in an inch-thick layer of grime. Same with about anything in this piece-of-shit restaurant.

  The time said it was late as hell, or early, depending on how you wanted to look at it. It was a little after three in the morning, and fortunately I only had a couple of hours left on my shift.

  I didn’t mind the crappy hours or the depressing aesthetic of Sal’s. They gave me as many hours as I wanted, the tips were decent when I worked the rush hour, first thing in the morning, and being here kept me from having to sit in my hole-in-the-wall apartment alone, wondering if they’d find me, if my past would catch up with me.

  I’d heard the backstory of Sal’s from Laura, one of the waitresses who worked the night shift with me. She told me Sal’s had been operating for the last fifty years and had once been owned by a husband and wife, Sicilian immigrants who’d gotten their American dream of owning their own business.

  But sadly, when Marianna—the wife—passed away, her husband Sal had followed not long after. And then, surprise, a private organization—AKA no doubt a shady business who was more than likely using this place as a front for money laundering—had swooped in pretty damn fast and taken ownership. I put the latter together myself, given my background with less-than-notable affiliations.

  And here I was, two months after running from Henry and his sick plans for me to pay for my father’s debt. I was living the dream, let me tell you, but pushing greasy-as-hell burgers, flat colas, and three-day-old apple pie slices to drug addicts, sex workers, drunks, and anyone else who wanted a place to get off the street since we were open twenty-four hours every day of the year was better than the alternative.

  I wasn’t Galina Michone anymore. I was Lina Michaels. The fake ID had been easy enough to get in Vegas, and my life here in Desolation was eerily similar to being back “home,” so I’d assimilated fine.

  “Can I get some fucking service over here?”

  I exhaled wearily and rubbed my eyes before heading over to the clearly drunk customer who’d just come in. I’d seen him plenty of times before, and he was always obnoxious and demanding—not to mention intoxicated. It was clear he thought women were beneath him by the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes when he addressed the opposite sex. He was like every other asshole I’d come in contact with during my life.

  I could smell the booze pouring off him before I even got to his table but tried to put on a professional smile, even if I knew it no doubt looked forced and wouldn’t help with this asshole’s tipping. Because he never did.

  He glared at me, and I pulled my pad and pen out of my apron. “What can I get for you?”

  For a second he just stared at me with bloodshot, glossy eyes and a light sheen of sweat covering his forehead, causing his hair to be damp at his hairline. He also smelled like he hadn’t washed in a while and had only consumed alcohol for the last twenty-four hours.

  “Burger and fries. Beer. And make sure it’s cold.” He spit out the last word, and I didn’t respond, just nodded and turned to leave.

  He reached out and snatched hold of my wrist, his grip unyielding. Instantly my defenses went up even more, and my body tightened.

  “Make sure my beer is fucking cold.” His words were slurred and sloppy, just like his appearance.

  “Let go of me,” I said low, feigning strength I didn’t feel like I really had. Surprisingly he did without a complaint. I wanted to rub my wrist but didn’t want to let him know it bothered me as much as it did. “I’ll bring over your stuff shortly. But next time, keep your hands to yourself.” I left quickly, not giving him a chance to respond.

  After I put in the order, I stood behind the wall, the only privacy I’d get during my shift. Assholes like him didn’t bother me so much, not when I’d lived in Vegas and dealt with pricks on the daily. But they still got under my skin at times, now more than ever, and I felt more vulnerable than I had in a long time.

  I rested my head on the wall, staring straight ahead at the shelving that held a few supplies. I heard the back door open, and I glanced to the side to see Laura coming through, her tattered island satchel hanging off her shoulder. Her long, dark-blonde ponytail was a little askew as if she’d been running, and when I glanced at the time, I realized she probably had been since she was a few minutes late.

  Laura, like me, mainly worked the night shift, but she’d been picking up more hours to save up for classes at the community college. If I had friends, she’d probably be the closest one I’d put that label on.

  She glanced up and noticed me, a genuine smile moving over her face. “Sorry I’m late.”

  I shrugged. What did I care? Things weren’t busy right now, and aside from the drunk asshole, there hadn’t been much “excitement.”

  She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it up beside her satchel on the hook that was nailed to the grease-stained wall. She grabbed a “clean” apron, put it on, then stopped in front of me. “The night is that bad already, huh?”

  I laughed and shook my head. “Not really. Just the regular drunk asshole.”

  She screwed up her nose. “Which one? We get so many of them nightly.”

  So true.

  She gave me another smile before exhaling and looked out to the front, her nose wrinkling again. “I have to work a double today. I can’t complain, because the tips will probably be good, but Lina… I hate people.”

  I laughed, the sound shooting out of me before I could stop it. “Same.”

  We both turned and headed back out to the front. I followed behind, seeing if the drunk was still out there… optimistic that one of these times he’d stumble out and never come back in. But there he was, glaring at the wall, probably thinking of all the ways he could get back at someone who’d wronged him years ago. Because men like him were mean while drunk, but sober… he was probably a nasty bastard.

  I was checking to see if his food was ready when I heard the diner’s front door open. I glanced over my shoulder, my heart immediately skipping a beat before taking on an erratic note as I watched who walked in. The man was one I’d seen here many times over the past two months.

  And he was a man who instantly had every survival instinct in me kicking into gear.

  I didn’t know him, not his name, age, occupation. He always paid with cash, always kept to himself. He never spoke more than what was required to order his food. And his expression never gave anything away. No frustration, no exhaustion. No pleasure or hatred. Nothing. It was as if he had no emotion, this blank slate that saw nothing but took everything in.

  He was tall, with short dark hair, and he carried an air around him that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but danger. The power he wielded was breathtakingly clear in just the way he walked, in the way he held himself. And the strength in his body was evident despite the dark clothing that shielded it from view.