I exhale heavily.
Don’t get involved. Don’t get—
“Who will,” I growl.
He swallows, his eyes darting around nervously.
“Deep breath…” I growl as I grab his hair.
“WAIT!”
My eyes narrow. “The Italians?”
A violent shake of his head.
“Not the Russians, surely…”
He smiles weakly, and I groan.
“You dumb motherfucker. You borrowed from the fucking Bratva?!”
He nods vigorously, looking ill.
“Who.”
His lips clamp shut.
“Tim, the next time you go in that toilet bowl, I’m fucking pissing in it at the same time. Who.”
If you knew me—the real me—you wouldn’t necessarily think I had any weak points. But I do: innocent bystanders. People who have the misfortune of being around fuckheads like Tim.
I might be perfectly content flushing his face in the toilet until he drowns. But he’s not wrong: if he croaks, the Russians will get the money he owes out of his wife, one way or another.
Tim squeals as I grab the back of his shirt and haul him, dripping toilet water, out of the stall and across the floor of the restroom. I slam him against the wall and let him crumple to the floor. Then I start to wash my hands.
“Chernoff!” he finally blubbers. “Boris Chernoff!”
I glare down at him.
You fucking idiot.
“Him and that fucking spooky witch of his!”
My brow furrows as I soap my hands. “Who’s that?”
“I don’t know!” he cries. “Chernoff’s new attack dog. She’s like his new consigliere, or whatever that is for the Bratva!”
I have no idea who he’s talking about. But then, I don’t pay that much attention to Bratva shit.
“How much do you owe Chernoff?”
He gulps weakly. “Three hundred grand.”
I grit my teeth. I can’t believe I’m about to spare this piece of shit’s life for a measly three hundred grand. But I won’t have his wife, whose only crime was saying “I do” to this walking choad, getting dragged into this.
“How much cash do you have on—”
Movement behind me pulls my attention up from the sink. In the mirror, I see Tim stumble to his feet, glance at me with terror in his eyes, and then lurch for the bathroom door. I roll my eyes as I turn.
“You’re not seriously going to make a run for it, are—”
Tim’s feet skid out, slipping on the toilet water. He gasps as he tips backward, a shocked expression on his dumb face as his world goes upside-down. With a choked bleat, he somehow does a half backflip before landing on the floor, head-first, with a sickening crunch sound.
The bathroom goes silent.
Fuck.
“Tim?”
I frown as I walk over, then crouch down to slap his face once or twice. “Tim.”
Blood begins to form a puddle under his head. There’s no way his neck is supposed to be at that angle. My fingers go to his jugular, and my jaw grinds.
Shit.
He’s dead.
I exhale as I roll my shoulders and stand, staring down at him. Now, I’m not in any way shape or form bent out of shape about it. But it does look like I’m going to owe Lukas a favor after all.
