Potrei ucciderti per questo. – I could kill you for this.
Dice che è urgente. – He says it’s urgent.
Ma che fai, stronzo?! – What are you doing, asshole?!
Vaffanculo! Sei cieco? Madonna santa! – Go fuck yourself! Are you blind? Dear Mother of God!
Coglione! Mangia merda e morte, porca puttana! – Moron! Eat shit and die, you pig-whore!
Testa di cazzo. – You dickhead.
Tutto bene? – Everything okay?
La mia principessa russa. – My Russian princess.
Non ti lascerò mai andare. – I will never let you go.
Sei pronto? – Are you ready?
Si. Iniziamo. – Yes. Let’s get started.
Vi dichiaro marito e moglie. – I now pronounce you husband and wife.
Farei qualsiasi cosa per te. Perfino lasciarti andare. – I would do anything for you. Even letting you go.
Russian words and phrases
Cволочь – Scum
Придурок – Idiot, moron
Kакой ужасный беспорядок. – What a dreadful mess.
Mне он нужен живым, Сергей. Понимаешь? – I need him alive, Sergei. Do you understand?
Trigger Warning
Please be aware that this book contains content some readers may find disturbing, such as mentions of an immediate family member’s death, as well as graphic descriptions of violence, torture, and gore.
Prologue
20 years ago
(Rafael, age 19)
“Clear,” I say into the phone.
A moment later, a man dressed as a maintenance worker exits the exclusive antique and jewelry store at the other end of the long hallway, hurrying toward a door with an emergency exit sign overhead. Even with his baseball hat pulled low, Jemin keeps his head bent and the phone pressed to his ear, trying to hide his face from the multitude of surveillance cameras. The dude is being cautious despite Endri Dushku, the leader of the Albanian Mafia, shelling out a pretty penny to a guy in the mall’s security office to fuck up the video feed for ten minutes.
The moment Jemin disappears from view, I enter the staff-only stairway. “I’m coming down.”
“No,” the voice on the other side orders. “Endri wants a video of the blast. I set the timer for five minutes, so get your camera ready. I’ll be waiting at the garage exit when you’re done.”
I push up my sleeve to take a look at my wristwatch. It’s old, the glass face scratched and the leather strap worn-out. Other than the clothes on my back, it was the only personal item I had with me when my brother and I fled Sicily.
“Fine,” I grumble into the phone and cut the line.
It riles me to no end to follow orders from a pretentious asshole like Jemin, but that shit ends today. The deal I’ve made with the head of the Albanian Mafia expires tonight.
Yesterday, to my utter amazement, Dushku offered me a regular role in the Albanian clan, one that includes all the standard benefits. I was tempted to agree. It would mean security and no shortage of money. But not respect. I would remain nothing more than the Sicilian scum they’d taken in. So, respectfully, I declined the offer.
In the chaotic and violent world of organized crime, very few values are upheld. The sole exception—keeping one’s word. And Endri Dushku keeps his promises. Starting tonight, I’m a free man. With the experience and the underground connections I fostered while working for the Albanians, I can easily earn a living and reach my goals. I promised my brother we’d go back home someday. And I, too, keep my promises.
I just have to finish this job.
Cracking the stairwell door, I keep an eye on the second hand as it makes its way around my wristwatch. The faint ticking is the only sound breaking the silence, bouncing off the concrete walls like a damn whisper inside a high-ceiling chapel. The shopping mall doesn’t open for another couple of hours, so there’s hardly anyone around. Most stores’ employees won’t be arriving anytime soon, and everyone else tends to congregate in more public areas like the food court. This end of the complex is deserted, the perfect condition for setting up the explosives inside the store filled with old trinkets and shiny delicate crap no one born in this century cares about. The owner of the store is old-school and should have known better than to decline the Albanian clan’s “protection.” If he hadn’t refused to pay, Dushku wouldn’t have decided to teach the guy a lesson, starting this week with a bang. The bomb inside the shop will level the fucking thing and destroy the collectibles that are tucked away in a bajillion glass cases.
I’m just setting up my phone to start recording when the happy laughter of a child rings through the mall hallway. My body goes utterly still. There shouldn’t be anyone here right now. Least of all kids.
“I don’t understand why you had to trouble the poor woman to help us before the place even opened.” A female voice drifts toward me. “We could have picked up the dress later.”
“I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the crowds,” a male responds while the pitter-patter of little feet gets closer. “Baby! Come back here!”
“Oh, just let her be.” The woman again. “You know she likes those crystal roses inside the antique shop window. There’s no one around anyway, and you can still see her from here.”
My hand squeezes the edge of the door so hard, the wood cracks. A deafening thump reverberates through my head—my heart beating so fucking loud, it could rival ear-splitting thunder as my brain processes the situation. There isn’t enough time to call Jemin and get him to kill the timer. Even if I do, it’s doubtful he’ll listen to me. He’s never given a shit about collateral damage.
