Love Is In the Air Volume 1

by Susan Stoker

  “Do you really think I’d risk my career, hell, my life, for some whore?”

  “Shelly Lennox was someone’s daughter.” I stand, jagged contempt slicing through my cool demeanor. “She was someone’s sister.” A lifetime of hatred coils around that one word as my rage erupts.

  “I didn’t touch that damn girl.”

  Reaching inside my jacket pocket, I pull out my pocket knife. Bloodlust sings in my ears as I press the button on the side, popping the seven-inch blade.

  Perry’s face pales, fear settling in his shit-brown eyes.

  I aim the blade downward and drive the tip deep into the wood of his pretentious desk.

  “I’m not the first senator in DC to sample what the future has to offer, so why me?” He frantically punches his own chest. “Which Capitol Hill wallet funded this? It can’t just be about one stupid girl…”

  “I do not associate with politicians.” The word slides off my tongue like a putrid oil slick. “This is about revenge.” For more than just Shelly Lennox. “You killed an innocent woman, and you thought her father’s retaliation would be a slap on the fucking wrist?”

  “Shelly’s father is a construction worker. He couldn’t afford braces for the bitch, much less a hitman.” His throat bobs with unease, desperate to hold on to the moral high ground slipping out from underneath him.

  “Unfortunately for you, Nort, I took this pro bono.”

  As I dislodge my knife from the desk, Perry’s thirty-second bravado begins to crumble, his eyes tracking my every movement. “Wait!” He shoves his shaking palms forward. “You want me to confess? Fine, I’ll confess!”

  I drink in his fear like the finest wine. His desperation is fuel to my killer’s soul.

  “I am not here for your confession.”

  He collapses onto the desk, all the fight draining out of him. “You’ll never get away with this. She was a nobody. I’m somebody. I’m important, damn it!”

  Blah, blah, fucking blah.

  Dropping my knife, I reach inside my jacket again. “Wrong again.” I aim my gun, and with one bullet, the back of Senator Norton Perry’s head splatters across the white walls of his office. “You were important. Now, you are just a headline.”

  I check my watch. Ten minutes before his mistress arrives.

  Plenty of time.

  Retrieving my knife, I earn every cent of what would have been a twenty million dollar job. By the time I am finished the only recognizable piece of Norton Perry is the nameplate sitting on his desk.

  It still is not enough.

  It will never be enough.

  An hour later, I am sitting in a parked car in an abandoned lot in Arlington, Virginia.

  The glow from my laptop screen fills my rental car. My mission is complete. I could return to London, but Perry’s blood did not satisfy my hunger. His death was nothing but a crumb thrown to a starving man.

  My fingers fly across the keyboard with ease as I enter sequences of code branded into memory. Within seconds, I am behind the darkest curtain of depravity.

  The dark web.

  Accessing the familiar encrypted chat, I stare blankly at the cursor, deciding what details to report to my handler. I am a man of few words, so the ones I type are short and to the point.

  Job is done.

  The response comes as quickly.

  I still expect compensation.

  If Minx is anything, it is efficient. Although we have done business for fifteen years, I only know her by her code name. I have never met her in person and do not care to. Anonymity is safer for both of us.

  You will get it. I want a new job while I am here.

  If she does not come up with something soon, I will find it on my own. Just as I start to close the laptop, her response flashes across the screen.

  Head to Miami. Fifty million.

  Fifty million means someone of importance. Royalty. Syndicate heads.

  Bratva.

  My blood runs cold, and a black cloud of déjà vu sweeps over me.

  Name?

  I wait in both dread and anticipation for her answer. My breath catches in my chest, trapped by the two I fear seeing appear on the screen.

  Instead, the one I do nearly stops my heart.

  Zasha Gaheris.

  I blink at the screen, convinced my eyes are betraying me. This has to be a mistake. Someone had to have fucked up. I expected to see Niko or Ava’s name—not their daughter.

  Not the little five-year-old girl with dark pigtails and honey-brown eyes.

  Twenty years ago, I helped her father abduct the daughter of the most powerful Russian crime syndicate in the United States. That woman is now his wife. And that wife is now queen of the Miami underground.

  Do not show emotion.

  I type with a steady hand, ignoring the chaotic noise inside my head.

  How did a pakhan’s daughter get on the list? Who contracted the job?

  The cursor blinks only seconds before Minx’s response blazes across the screen with all the compassion of a corpse.

  Don’t know. It’s all arranged by third party shell accounts and black hats. Guess her mother stuck her hand in someone’s pussy purse.

  Pussy purse.

  Sex trafficking.

  In my mind, Zasha’s dark pigtails morph into blonde ones, her eyes fading to the palest blue. No. I push the memory away, locking it in a guarded corner of my mind.

  This is not about her. This is about Zasha.

  Since her daughter’s birth, Ava Chernova, head of the Miami Bratva, has made it her mission to go after domestic and international human trafficking rings. No easy task, considering her father commandeered one of the largest ones in the world for over three decades.

  If another ring has resurfaced and reorganized enough to go after a pakhan’s daughter, there is no time to warn her. A job like this will have double the payout of a fucking senator.

  And a child will not put up a fight. I should know.

  I do not think. I act on raw instinct.

  I want the job.

  My blood roars in my ears as I wait for her response.

  Why?

  It is the only way I can ensure no one else gets to her first. But I do not type that, instead, I force myself to deliver cool indifference.

  The name sounds familiar.

  But Minx is no fool.

  Cut the shit. You think I don’t know you were with Gaheris in that Colombian prison? You’re biased, which compromises the job.

  She is right. I am biased. I have no intentions of carrying out this hit. Blood or not, the Gaheris’ are family.

  It is my job to separate business and friendship.

  Her response is swift.

  Please. You’re so connected to Gaheris and Chernova, you might as well be fucking both of them.

  She expects me to react, so I let an uncomfortable silence hang in the air. Finally, she relents.

  Fine. But I’m putting both our asses on the line for this. If you fuck up, we’re both dead.

  She does not have to tell me that. I know the risks of failure.

  I won’t fuck up.

  I do not tell her my idea of fucking up and hers are two very different concepts.

  I’ll be in contact with more information and a picture of the Gaheris girl.

  I start to tell her I do not need any more details. I know Miami and Seven like my own dick. Then I remember it has been thirteen years. When I left Florida, Zasha was a defiant five-year-old.

  Now, that little girl with pigtails is an eighteen-year-old woman. Fuck if I know what she looks like.

  So, I tell Minx what she wants to hear.

  Done.

  Closing the laptop, I shove it in my backpack. It is a fifteen-hour drive from Washington, D.C. to Miami. The clock is ticking for my friend’s only daughter.

  Fifty million dollars.

  Driving is not an option. Even fifteen hours could be too late.

  “Iius Khristos!” I growl, punching the steering
wheel.

  The rental car is registered to one of my aliases. By the time they find it, I will be surrounded by palm trees. Grabbing my backpack, I kick the door open and toss the keys on the seat.

  2

  Mikhail

  Life is not meant to be static. People come and go. Places evolve. Relationships end. Some die. Others are born.

  Change is the only true constant.

  However, as I walk through the doors of Seventh Heaven, better known to the locals as Seven, I realize it may be the one exception to the rule. From the steel-covered walkway to the red neon sign shadowing everything in a blood-soaked hue, it is as if the devil himself stands watch, forbidding time from entering the building.

  Seven operates as an upscale strip club, but anyone with half a brain knows that is just the shiny wrapping, designed to appease the local police and occasional federal agent. Those brave enough to open the box and look inside get a look at the real Miami. The one littered with brothels. The one with a back-office that brokers port trade alliances with drug traffickers.

  The one owned by the Russian mafiya.

  The Chernov Bratva.

  As I approach the door, I tuck my gun in the holster underneath my jacket. A precaution. Seven was once a second home to me, but that was thirteen years ago. Niko saved my life in a Colombian prison, but I am not stupid enough to think he would not hesitate to take it.

  Opening the door, I only make it a couple of steps before a muscular man with stringy black hair steps in front of me. Instead of pushing past him, I return his suspicious glare.

  He gives me an arrogant scan. “Members only, buddy.”

  My fingers twitch. As irritating as he is, his disrespect is not worth a reaction. “I am on the list.”

  His lips flatten. “Name?”

  “Mikhail Drozdov.”

  He barely glances down at the black iPad in his hand. “Nope. Don’t see it, comrade.”

  I do not care for his mocking tone, but I know better than to incite a fight with one of Seven’s bouncers. The last thing I need is a confrontation. I have a loaded gun under my jacket and a dagger strapped to my ankle. If pushed far enough, I could gut him before his next breath, but I do not wish to spill blood in my oldest friend’s club.

  “I am not your comrade, and I am on the permanent list.”

  At least I assume I am. It has been thirteen years.

  The number of people who have found their way onto Seven’s permanent member list can be counted on two hands. It is an exclusive club. The Elite. Membership comes with trust, and that trust comes with a price.

  And in our world, that price is never paid in cash.

  “I’ve worked this door for five years, and I’ve never seen your face,” he says. “Why is that?”

  “I have been overseas.” The sound of Zasha’s expiring clock ticks louder in my ears. “And if you have worked here for five years, then you know what the list means.”

  His smug face pales slightly at my veiled threat. Sweat coats my palms as his finger scrolls the touchpad.

  His nostrils flare as he blows out a defeated breath.

  Told you, motherfucker.

  “My apologies, Mr. Drozdov,” he bites out while stepping aside. “Welcome back to Seven.”

  Urgency roars at me to leave him, but I never miss an opportunity to etch my name into someone’s paranoia.

  “It is imbalanced.”

  “What is?”

  “You know my name, molodoy chelovek.” Throwing Russian into conversations with Americans knocks them off balance. I called him “young man”, but for all he knows, I just called him a dead motherfucker. “It is only customary that I know yours.”

  He holds my stare, but that cocky smirk has long faded. “Tag,” he mumbles.

  “Well, Tag, I need to see either Niko or Ava. Preferably both.”

  He clears his throat. “The owners aren’t here.”

  “Where are they?”

  He hesitates. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who hasn’t shown his face in this club for years, Mr. Drozdov.”

  “Look, mudak. I am not fucking around. This is a matter of life and death. If you want to have Chernov blood on your hands, be my guest. But I do not think that will end well for you, comrade.”

  “Niko is out on business.”

  He emphasizes the word as if I do not know what the hell business means. Niko and I are contract killers. However, whereas I freelance, he is part of an elite underground organization. Which means he could be anywhere in the world.

  “And Ava?”

  He shrugs. “Also out on business.”

  “When do you expect her back?”

  “Do I look like her fucking secretary?”

  Shoving him against the wall, I press my forearm against his throat. “I do not care if you take her messages or wipe her ass. You will show respect, or I will carve the word into your skin so you will never forget it. Are we clear?”

  His eyes bulge as he wheezes, “Very.”

  Every moment Zasha walks around with a target on her head is one tick closer to it exploding.

  Pushing past him, I make my way toward an empty table near the stage. From experience, I know Ava never leaves the club for too long. As for Niko? Who the hell knows. That fucker could be in Tampa or Timbuktu.

  I barely settle in my chair when my phone chimes. Once the national headline scrolls across the screen, I press my lips together to keep myself from smiling.

  Looks like Norton Perry’s mistress showed up right on time.

  Tucking my phone back into my pocket, I balance my elbows on the table and rub my temples. There is a show on the stage, but I barely notice.

  I cannot allow anything to distract me from the dire situation my friend is in.

  That Zasha is in.

  I attempted to find an address for her while on the flight from D.C. to Miami but came up with nothing. It is as if she does not exist.

  I am not shocked.

  Niko is no fool. If he allowed his daughter to attend a public school, it would be under a false identity. There would be measures, counter measures, and back up counter measures to ensure her safety. Which is why this hit has shaken me as much as it has.

  A commotion at the table in front of me drags me out of the past and on a scene that makes my blood boil. A young man who looks to be in his early twenties bounces in his chair as a waitress stands stiffly next to him.

  I do not like the way he is leering at her.

  On some level, I cannot blame him. She is extraordinarily beautiful. I notice the way her tight ass rounds in that short black skirt and the swell of her breasts spilling out of the top of her low-cut top. I may have extreme control over my emotions, but cocks do not take well to commands.

  Yet it is her face that steals the breath from my lungs.

  Even dressed provocatively, I can tell she would be a challenge. The defiance in those cat-like, caramel-brown eyes would not easily be tamed. Her pale skin begs to be marked, and the thick strands of dark hair hanging past her shoulders would be the perfect length to wrap my fist around to see how deep her rebellion runs.

  I shake my head. What the hell is wrong with me? Women are dangerous distractions during missions.

  I force myself to look away when their voices grow louder and more heated. I cannot make out their words, but they are definitely arguing.

  And she is pissed.

  “I said, no!” she shouts.

  She said no. My gaze snaps to where the man’s palm smacks her ass. My blood pressure spikes, but when he digs his fingers into her cheek and squeezes, it shoots to stroke level.

  I stand, ready to show this asshole some manners when she slams a liquor bottle onto the table and grabs his hand, twisting it hard.

  “Seth.” She spits out his name like a poisoned dart. “Do I come to your house and roll around naked in your blow?”

  I raise an eyebrow. Well, this just got interesting.

  The mudak smirks up at h
er. “No.”

  Leaning a palm on the table, she pins him with an icy smile. “Then you’ll afford the owners of this place the same respect. You pay to play in Miami, asshole. If you want to touch the merchandise, then show me the cash. Otherwise, keep your fucking hands to yourself. Are we clear?”

  I do not know whether to be impressed by this waitress’s initiative or offended for Ava by her unprofessional outburst.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He laughs hysterically, giving her four repetitive salutes.

  The waitress rolls her eyes, flipping him off as she walks away. “Iius Khristos. Idi na hui.”

  The idiot groans, his dilated eyes following her ass. “That sounds so fucking hot.”

  “She told you to go fuck yourself, mudak,” I mutter.

  The rhythmic click of her heels stops, and she swivels her chin over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  I grit my teeth, silently cursing myself.

  See? What did I say?

  Weakness shines like a fucking diamond.

  3

  Zasha

  Narrowing my gaze, I stare at the stone-faced man sitting at the table by himself. It’s not uncommon for someone to know Russian around here considering who owns the club, but I’ve never seen his face before.

  And it’s definitely one I’d remember.

  A shiver replaces my irritation. It’s not the air. It’s him. It’s that damn lethal stare chilling my skin before needling underneath it.

  He hasn’t blinked since we locked eyes.

  I should walk away, but Bratva blood runs through my veins. I question. I analyze. I suspect. Something about this man doesn’t sit right with me.

  Gripping the bottle, I saunter back to his table and slide into the chair across from him. “I asked you a question.”

  “I do not wish to have company.”

  Jesus. Fucking blink, already.

  “That’s too bad.” I slam the bottle on the table, followed by two shot glasses. “And also not the answer I asked for.”