Valon trailed along behind Fatos and Bastian as they were led through the mansion where the infamous Besnik family lived. It was grand, bigger than any home Valon had ever seen, but while Fatos looked around in open envy, Valon was unfazed. He didn’t think anything could impress him anymore.

Now that he was known beyond their small circle for what he was capable of—notably for how he lacked emotion while doing it—apparently, he was being offered a job that only someone like him could pull off.

But Valon didn’t believe that for a second. There were plenty of fucking idiots who wanted to do this, kill just because, especially if they were getting paid to do it. But since Bastian wanted him to do it, he had no choice.

“Stay here.”

Valon remained outside the door as Bastian and Fatos disappeared behind it, their voices muffled behind the heavy door. Unlike Bastian’s place of residence, the Besnik family had armed guards everywhere, and none of them looked like they had ever smiled a day in their life.

He couldn’t have been standing outside of the room for more than a couple of minutes before he heard, “Bring him in.”

Remaining silent, he trailed behind the two who were leading him in, digging his hands into his pockets to fight the urge to fidget. He wasn’t nervous, but something about this group of men made him wary.

Bastian’s men were like open books. Give them alcohol and semi-conscious women and they were satisfied. This lot seemed far less obvious.

All eyes were on him as he entered the room. Bastian and Fatos were seated at a table with two other men. It was clear which one was the boss, the other just seemed far too young.

“Valon, yes?” the boss asked with an easy smile, gesturing for him to take the lone seat available at the table. “I’ve heard great things about you. I am Jetmir Besnik.”

That he could kill with his bare hands…and when he was really inspired, he could drag out that death for hours. This trait wasn’t something he thought was great.

Not responding, Valon just waited for him to go on.

“I have a little problem, you see. I have been asked to do something for a couple of friends of mine, the Volkov brothers. Perhaps you have heard of them? And while I would not mind doing it, I need someone with your particular skills.”

Apparently, someone needed to die if he was coming to Valon about it. He had to admit, he was a little intrigued. And he had, actually, heard of the Volkovs, though he didn’t know much about them or their operation. Mikhail and Viktor, he thought their names were.

“Who?”

“A man by the name of Mishca Volkov. He has information that I need to expand my business over in the United States, but he has been unwilling to share this information with my associate, so my associate has come to me to fix it. You can see my problem, yes?”

Valon shrugged. No, he really didn’t.

Jetmir reached into his inside coat pocket, pulling free a photograph and sliding it across the table to Valon. When he picked it up, he studied the black and white image and the man featured in it.

There was not much he could tell from the photo, only that the boy had dark hair and dressed well, and he was a year or two younger than Valon.

Dropping the picture, Valon looked at Jetmir, meeting his gaze. “Why do you need me for this? You have capable men here?” This was an assumption on Valon’s part. Just because a man carried a gun didn’t mean he knew how to use it. Strom was the perfect example.

“This boy you see, he is a Captain in the Volkov Bratva. You may or may not have heard of them but know that they are deadly, and if one were to go after them, they need to send the best. You are the best at what you do.” His smile was a contradiction to his words. “And you do not know fear.”

That wasn’t right, actually. Valon did know fear. He had felt it many times in his life. It was that he didn’t show weakness in the face of those fears. That was what made him different from each man seated at that table.

“How much?”

Bastian frowned at him, but Valon ignored him. Otherwise, the fat man would help himself to whatever it was Jetmir intended to give him in return for completing this job for him.

“Thirty thousand U.S. dollars.”

Nodding once, Valon asked, “When do we start?”

* * *

Having never flown on a plane, or even left the countryside that he’d grown up in for the last twenty-three years, Valon felt out of sorts. Luckily, he had Loki with him, though he had been regulated to a crate during the ride. He had requested that stipulation for this assignment. Bastian had been annoyed by this fact, but Jetmir had readily agreed. With what Valon was doing for him, he hadn’t cared if he brought all the fucking dogs in Albania.

Landing in a place that he had only ever read about, it seemed far busier than he expected. And louder. Everything just seemed almost too bright for someone who was used to the silence of everyday life. But he didn’t mind it. He actually liked it, and if he were here for any other reason than to kill someone, he might have enjoyed it more.

From the plane, they took multiple cars to a brownstone building in Brooklyn—or at least that was what Strom said—and climbed out. Valon opened the gate for Loki to jump out, laughing when he stretched in the way only dogs did, stopping abruptly when Fatos clapped a hand on his shoulder.

Either he didn’t notice the glare or he just ignored it as Fatos said, “We need to go over strategy.”

Shrugging off his touch, he headed into the building, Loki trotting at his heels.

“I’ll drive,” Strom offered as they began discussing what the night would entail. “You two wait in back and surprise.”

Considering Valon had learned how to speak better English in a few years than Strom did after more than thirty, he really needed to do better, but that might have just been because Valon had wanted more for himself after Elena had gone.

It hadn’t taken long before everything was forgiven and things had gone back to normal. When police didn’t show up for those first six months, they’d figured that she was smart enough to just disappear.

In three years, Valon had learned how to drive—though he wouldn’t say he was particularly great at it—and read any book that he could get his hands on. He could be a slave, but at least he would be a smart one.

“He won’t know what hit him!” Fatos exclaimed on a laugh, again looking at Valon as though he would find some kind of camaraderie. There was none.

“Let’s get this shit over with.”

* * *

Quiet and observing, Valon leaned back against the wall of the van, his ski mask shoved up to bunch at his hairline. The others had been excited about what was going to happen tonight. They were too eager, which meant that they would be prone to making mistakes.

Valon didn’t feel such things.

He didn’t relish in the pain he was going to inflict by the night’s end. He was resigned to it. He definitely felt for the poor bastard who was going to get taken tonight.

They were heading out of Brooklyn, toward the location where the Russian was supposed to be for the night, but before they had gotten far, Strom suddenly exclaimed from the front seat, “There he is!”

Since there were no windows in the back of the van, Valon didn’t know whether this was true or if Strom was just an idiot. If he had to wager, he’d bet on the second.

“Are you sure?” Fatos asked, already reaching to tug down his mask.

“It is, but there is the girl with him.”

Shit. There wasn’t supposed to be any witnesses. If—

“We’ll bring her, too,” Fatos said. “Circle the block so he doesn’t get suspicious.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Valon asked as Strom followed his instruction. “The girl wasn’t part of the plan.”

“If you get squeamish, then I’ll take care of it.”

Fatos laughed as if he was joking, but they both knew he was serious.

Strom suddenly sped up then hit the brakes hard, shouting, “Go!”

Fatos shoved the side door open, jumping out, Valon quickly following behind.

Valon only caught sight of the boy’s face for a second, the shock and fear clear for anyone to see, before he was shoving the girl in the opposite direction and yelling, “Run!”

That struck Valon as odd, not that he was trying to protect the girl, but because he lacked the distinct Russian accent that he was supposed to have. He sounded…well…American.

When Fatos rushed him, the Russian cocked his fist back and let it fly, nailing him in the face that had Fatos cursing him as he stumbled backward. The girl was running, screaming down the street, but Strom was rushing after her, his big body slowing him down.

Valon just waited, watching the fighting. Fatos had recovered quick enough, charging at the boy, sending them both to the ground. They were grappling on the snow-slick concrete, trying to dominate each other, but they were evenly matched.

Strom had finally snagged the girl, restraining her as she struggled.

“Niklaus!”

Valon wasn’t sure whom she was calling for—no one there went by that name—but suddenly the boy looked in her direction, all the fight leaving him. Valon could see the moment when he was going to get away from Fatos to get to her, but he stopped it before he could even move.

With one well-calculated hit to his face, Valon knocked him off balance, watching as he hit the ground, his head hitting harder. But he was still conscious, still fighting to go toward the girl.

Valon admired his tenacity, his resilience.

But they were out of time.

Kicking him in the face, this time he made sure he was out.

Fatos was still struggling to his feet as Valon hauled the boy up, practically carrying him over to the van. The girl was still screaming, though the piece of cloth that Strom had stuffed into her mouth muffled the sound.

Reclaiming his seat, Valon stretched out his legs, folding his arms across his chest. Fatos glared at him, and Valon didn’t pretend not to understand why that was. He was jealous of what he was capable of, but Valon wasn’t going to apologize for being better than he was. Not ever again.

With their two prey in the van, Valon looked at Strom. “Let’s go.”

The address Jetmir had given them led to a large industrial warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Nothing was located in immediate vicinity of the place, so whatever happened inside was unlikely to be heard.

The perfect place for misery and death.