Shadow

by Nadine Nightingale

  Every muscle in my body tenses. “Listen.” I’m so close, my breath beats against his face. “There’s a psychopathic killer out there gunning for the president’s son. You know Dasha is dating him, right?” He nods. “Good. Now that killer already offed half a dozen people. Dasha could be in danger. So,” I point to the elevator, “how about you grab those keys and open the goddamn door?”

  He considers his options. We both know he cares too much about Dasha to ignore what I just tossed at him. “If I get fired,” he mutters, reaching for a keychain in the drawer. “You better tell my mother it was your fault. She’s going to rip off my head.”

  That’s nothing compared to what I’ll do to him if he doesn’t hurry the fuck up.

  “This is wrong,” the receptionist repeats over and over as we move into Dasha’s apartment.

  “Dasha?” I shout, ignoring him. “Dasha, are you home?”

  No answer.

  On edge, I search her place. There’s no sign of a struggle, nothing out of place. She’s just not home. “So much for her being home,” I bark, pissed I broke into her apartment just because some dude didn’t pay attention.

  His gaze darts through the empty apartment. “I swear I—”

  “Whatever, dude.”

  His shoulders droop. “We should probably go.”

  Yeah, we should. We invaded her privacy enough.

  We’re almost out when I catch sight of the old book on the ebony table. Don’t ask me why, but I move over there and pick it up. “The Mask of the Red Death” by Edgar Allan Poe. Isn’t that the story of the prince who tried to hide from a plague and was killed during his own masquerade ball?

  “What are you doing?” Receptionist hisses as I open the book.

  I roll my eyes. Hard. “What’s it look like?”

  “Like you’re sticking your nose in shit that’s not yours,” he shoots back. I make a mental note to congratulate him on his balls. Not many people have the guts to call me out.

  “It’s just a book,” I say, scanning the first page.

  He murmurs something. Cussing included. But I’m a little distracted by the handwritten note on the first page.

  Sestra,

  You told me to be strong. To face whatever the world throws at me, spine straight, head raised. I won’t let them break me. I refuse to be the coward, hiding from death.

  Like this, I get to end it my way. I get to be brave and fearless. Just like you.

  Ya lyublyu tebya.

  “What’s that?” Receptionist asks, looking over my shoulder.

  Her sister’s suicide note, that’s what. My mother left a similar one, scribbled in her diary, left for Luke and me to find after she sprinkled the bedroom walls with her brain tissue.

  Receptionist was right, we shouldn’t be here. And I sure as fuck shouldn’t have read that note. Feeling like an asshole, I slam the book shut and put it back on the table. “Let’s go.”

  “My best work yet.”

  Shadow

  I gloat like a motherfucker.

  Finest. Piece. I. Ever. Fucking. Created.

  I reach into my pocket, smearing my phone with crimson as I type out the text.

  Me: It’s done.

  Q: Feeling better?

  My gaze darts back to him. What I did to the bastard brought me utter joy. His screams were goddamn music to my ears. He was different than my other kills, too. Didn’t ask the annoying “why” question.

  Why would he? He knew who I was, and why he was going to die. The second he yanked his eyes open, he put the pieces together. But do I feel better? Does her death hurt less? Make more sense?

  Me: I will.

  Q: When?

  Me: When I’m done with my list.

  One more name. One more kill. Then it’ll all be over. Her face won’t haunt me any longer. She’ll be at peace. I will be at peace. Until then—

  I have a vernissage to plan.

  The world needs to see Dimitri—my best work yet.

  “When did you last see Dimitri?”

  Markus

  Commotion in the hallway wakes me early Thursday morning. Not even an hour of sleep. Awesome. Just awesome.

  I was up all night thinking about what I heard in that bathroom—about the girl who took her own life—and the note I found in Dasha’s book. Making a connection between the two sounded absurd. Sure, both girls committed suicide, but that didn’t mean shit. Suicide, after all, is the tenth leading cause of death in our country. It was a coincidence. Nothing more.

  But Tiffany’s words haunted me. “Something is off about her,” she said. “Never underestimate a woman, Boulder.”

  Bullshit. Dasha isn’t—

  “Boulder!” Deveraux barges into my room. “Wake up.” Had he bothered to knock, he would know I already was.

  “What’s going on?” I grumble, sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing the lack of sleep out of my burning eyes.

  Two men are with him. I recognize both immediately—Viktor and Bones. The guy Dimitri called Papa and the dude he hired to take care of Shadow. Viktor’s brows are raised. Bones shoots me killer looks.

  I repeat my question. “What is—”

  “When did you last see Dimitri?” Deveraux asks, voice hard, eyes like flint.

  “Uh, at the reception of the funeral?” It sounds like a question because I feel like maybe I missed something. “Why, what’s up?”

  Deveraux sighs heavily. “He’s—”

  “Missing,” Viktor cuts in, the wrinkles around his eyes deep and unforgiving.

  I’m on my feet in a heartbeat. “Missing?”

  Bones crosses his arms. “You deaf?”

  I ignore his hostility because right then and there I understand three things. One, Shadow got to Dimitri. Two, he’s most likely dead. Three, Dimitri wasn’t the only one who doesn’t trust me.

  Deveraux casts Bones a shut-the-fuck-up look and returns his focus on me. “No one has seen or heard from him since yesterday.” He inches closer. “Where have you been all day?”

  Seriously? I laugh.

  Viktor balls his fists. “Answer question.”

  I glare at Deveraux. “I was with Tiffany.” I toss him my phone. “Ask her.”

  His gaze darts from the phone back to me, a sigh of relief escaping him. “That won’t be necessary.” He faces Viktor. “We’ll find Dimitri.”

  “Better,” Viktor barks.

  Deveraux scrubs his fingers through his hair. “Until we do, can I be sure my merchandise will be delivered in time?” He rolls his neck. “As you know, my club opens tomorrow, and Dimitri gave me his word.”

  “We deliver,” is all Viktor says before he and Bones walk out.

  Deveraux and I stay back, glaring at the spot they just stood. After a while, I turn to him. “You know he’s probably dead, right?”

  Suspicion narrows his eyes. “What makes you so sure?”

  Enough with the games. “The guy you pissed off,” Shadow, “he ain’t fucking around. He offed Gleb at the auction, and now he came for his dad.”

  Deveraux flinches. “You seem to know an awful lot about him.”

  Time for the truth. Or part of it, at least. “He killed my brother.”

  “What?”

  “They call him Shadow.” I walk to the window. “He’s a hitman. He’s the hitman. And when I heard the rumors about him being in Miami—”

  “You came running?”

  I shrug. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t have any siblings.” In other words, no. “But I always figured there was more to you than meets the eye.” He pauses. “One thing bothers me though. Why fight at Sin pretending to need a sponsor?” Damn, he’s smart. And if I’m not careful, I’ll blow my cover completely.

  “I still have friends at the CIA,” I say, confident. “Word on the street was Shadow could be after you. Fighting for you was my best shot at getting my hands on him.”

  He thinks it through. “You lied to me.”

  “No, I jus
t didn’t tell you everything.”

  Deveraux draws a deep breath. “That Shadow guy…”

  “Yes?”

  “Should I be worried?”

  Our eyes lock. “If you fucked with him—which it seems you did—you should be more than just worried.” I move closer, whispering the next words, “He’s never missed. Ever.”

  The brutal reality paints his face with terror. “Are you saying—” He cuts himself off, voice trembling.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m saying you need to stay real close. I won’t let the motherfucker get away with another kill. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” comes the short reply.

  Like a ghost, he walks to the door.

  “Hey,” I stop him. He looks back at me. “What did you do to piss him off?”

  “Does it matter?” he shoots back.

  Yes. “No.”

  He moves back to me. “Listen, if you kill that son of a bitch before he kills me, you can have everything you want.”

  “Everything?” I repeat, images of Dasha flickering across my mind.

  “Everything.”

  As if I needed another reason to rid the world of the bastard. But, hey, if he wants to offer, who am I to decline. “Deal.”

  He nods and heads out the door.

  “Not everything that’s pretty on the outside is equally gorgeous within.”

  Markus

  The who’s who of Miami and Hollywood gathers in L’Enfer. A sick beat blasts through the speakers. Alongside the flashing lights, it messes with your brain, deports you to another sphere.

  Leaning against the counter, I scan the Venetian masks of A-list actors, models, and politician’s kids. They shake it like there’s no tomorrow, drowning in the rhythm of a pop song.” None of them worry about the world’s most notorious assassin. None of them are aware he could be right beside them, pretending to be one of them.

  Deveraux faces me. His gold and black Phantom of the Opera mask fits his personality perfectly. “What do you say?” he asks, eyes on the dancing crowd. He hasn’t left my side all night. Fear finally got the best of him. Rightfully so. Shadow is the equivalent of terror. Anyone who isn’t petrified of him is suicidal.

  I blow out a long, pained breath, adjusting my plain black mask. “Looks like it’s a success.” I’m less excited than I should be. But what do you expect? Dimitri is still missing—most likely dead—and despite my severe warnings, Deveraux still showed up at opening night. I mean how the fuck am I supposed to protect him here? Too many people. And those masks. It’s a fucking nightmare.

  Deveraux sighs. “I know you think it’s crazy for me to show up.” He shrugs. “But I’m not going to hide in a corner just because some psycho wants me dead.”

  One, he’s not just some psycho. Two, yes, I do think he’s crazy and arrogant as fuck. But, hey, it’s his funeral. “Just don’t leave my side, okay?”

  He flashes me his dimples. “Not planning on it.”

  “Good.” London will gut me if I get Deveraux killed. From what I’ve seen and heard of that woman, she’s just as terrifying as Shadow.

  The night proceeds with booze and plenty of half-naked women. Some I recognize from TV and ads. Others, like the blonde chick—she has to be like eighteen or something, rubbing her ass against the crotch of yet another teen idol—are strangers to me. Viktor and his crew brought them before the doors to the club opened for the public. They looked shy and out of place. That changed when Papa, as everyone calls him, barked at them in Russian. Shame, I was too far away to hear what he said. Whatever it was, it put the twenty girls in line.

  “Boulder?” Deveraux nudges me.

  I pull my gaze off the possible dangers—doors, higher ground, barkeepers who might slip poison into Deveraux’s drink. “Yes?”

  He eyeballs his Rolex. “Dasha should be here any minute.” He smiles. “Let’s go talk to Viktor and his men before she shows.”

  “After you,” I say, tilting my chin at the VIP area. It’s across the dance floor, cut off from the rest of the crowd by red ropes and six securities. Two of which I helped Deveraux hire.

  They open the ropes for us, nodding.

  “Viktor,” Deveraux cheers, kissing the dude’s cheeks. “You, my friend, are amazing.”

  The old man waves it off. “We always deliver.”

  My gaze darts back to the girls. As far as I can tell, he didn’t bring anything else. No booze, no nothing.

  Deveraux nods. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  The old Russian cocks a brow. “Not sure I say same.” Putting together what he’s truly saying isn’t always easy. His English is beyond rotten.

  Deveraux looks him in the eye. “So still no word from Dimitri?”

  Viktor shakes his head.

  “I truly am sorry.” For a fraction of a second, I actually believe Deveraux. Then his lips curve up. Just a millimeter. That’s enough to make me doubt his sincerity.

  Viktor downs his vodka. “Don’t be.” He casts me an evil glance. “Bones deliver justice.” In other words, whoever is responsible for Dimitri’s disappearance will have to face Bones. Which reminds me, I need to call London and tell her about Bones. If he’s the man I think he is, she needs to inform the CIA and get his ass thrown in jail. ASAP.

  Deveraux leans back against the comfy velvet couch. “I sure hope so.” He pauses. “Dimitri is a good man.”

  Was…I almost correct him. Dimitri was a good man. It’s been days. If Shadow got his hands on him, the poor bastard died several deaths already.

  Around a quarter to midnight, the large wooden doors of the ballroom open, and none other than the goddess herself walks in. She draws the attention of every single person. Maybe that’s what she intended when she decided to wear a long gold dress hugging her curves so tightly it looks like a second skin. Tiny stones embedded in the fabric sparkle like diamonds. The back is cut out to the tailbone, leaving no room for a bra or much imagination. Dasha’s mask is pure gold, highlighting the red of her gorgeous, wavy hair. She rocks killer heels. Shoes, I have no doubt that could be lethal in the wrong hands.

  Mesmerizing.

  Hell, even the models and actresses agree with me. I can tell by the way they stare at her. With awe and a little bit of envy. Okay, a lot of envy.

  She saunters toward us, turning every head in her wake. They yank the ropes aside, drooling all over her as she passes through.

  Deveraux catches me staring. I pull my gaze off her, hoping he’s oblivious to how badly I want her in my arms, my lap, my fucking bed.

  “Boys,” she greets us, bowing her head just a little.

  Viktor licks his lips, scanning her from head to toe. “Krasivaya.”

  And for once, Papa and I seem to be on the same page. Dasha is beautiful. No questions asked.

  She smiles at the old Russian. “Spasibo.”

  He nods, eyes lingering on the slit in her dress exposing her soft thighs.

  “Come.” Viktor pats the empty spot beside him. “Sit.”

  She follows the order, gracefully sitting between Deveraux and Viktor. “Half of Miami is trying to get in,” she says to Deveraux. “The line outside is hardcore.”

  Deveraux gloats in his success. “Good. It means I excelled.”

  She plants a quick kiss on the asshole’s cheek. I try not to cringe, but…well, I fail.

  “Want to dance?” he asks her.

  She smiles. “You know I do.”

  Deveraux looks at me. “That cool with you?”

  Hell no! Dasha rubbing against Deveraux is the last thing I need. But I can hardly admit that. Plus, she doesn’t even look at me. “Sure.”

  Deveraux grabs her hand, pulling her up. “Would you excuse us?”

  Viktor nods.

  I follow the two, keeping as much distance as I can. I’m not going to be the third, unmoving wheel on the dance floor. I find myself a nice spot at the bar instead, watching them press against each other to a remix of Ed Sheeran�
��s “Shape of You.”

  There’s no sign of Shadow. It’s just Dasha, Deveraux, raunchy music, and the ugly green-eyed monster starting a fire in the pit of my stomach.

  Fucking focus, Boulder.

  Dasha belongs to Deveraux. Judging by the cold shoulder treatment she’s giving me, I was nothing but a good fuck. A one-night stand. Which sucks, by the way. God, I truly hope the chicks I screwed since I’ve been back from Damascus didn’t feel that way when I walked out on them the next morning. If so, I owe them a big fucking apology.

  At some point, Angela joins the couple. She pushes between Deveraux and Dasha. Having had a lot of experience with jealousy lately, I recognize her expression instantly. For Deveraux, Angela might only be a good time. Can’t say it’s the same for her though.

  The closer they get, the less Dasha moves. Then when Angela winds her arms around Deveraux’s neck, pressing her pussy against his dick, the goddess excuses herself and walks to the bar.

  I play cool. Refuse to look or talk to her. Hey, I’m not her pansy. She can’t just act as if we didn’t fuck all night and then assume I’d kneel down and worship her.

  “Water?” she asks, holding a full glass under my nose.

  I keep my eyes trained on Deveraux. He claws his fingers into Angela’s ass, about two seconds from screwing her in the middle of the dance floor. “No, thanks.”

  “You’re mad at me.” It’s not a question, it’s a confident statement.

  “No.” Why would I be? I knew what I was getting into when I ate her pussy on the kitchen table. Dasha isn’t dumb. She’d never leave a guy like Deveraux for me. And she fucking shouldn’t. I’m broken. Haunted. A mess.

  Putting the water down beside me, she stays next to me, watching her boyfriend dance-fuck his assistant. “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks, out of the blue.

  I narrow my eyes at her. “What?”

  “You were at my place, weren’t you?” No trace of anger or annoyance in her voice.

  Damn you, Receptionist. How dare you tell on me. “I was worried about you,” I admit after some time. It’s the truth. She can take it or leave it. It’s up to her.