I love Montreal in June. As soon as warm weather rolls in and the blackened slush clears from the streets, the city blooms with life. Festivals every goddamn week—the Jazz Festival, Grand Prix Weekend, and on and on. People choke the sidewalks and sunlight blankets the gorgeous, brick-lined lanes of Old Montreal. Sizzling hot dogs—that ambrosial aroma of summer—saturates the air. Reminds me of balmy afternoons with my dad, links crackling on a grill. The life I had before I traded it in for this one.

And I miss home so acutely my chest tightens. This is nothing like where I grew up. The dark underbelly of this city spoils the beauty. It might look pretty, but it’s rotten to the core. Humid air carries its sweet tang—flowers mingled with garbage. And standing in the middle of it is Detective Carter.

He’s alone. He stands in an empty alley surrounded by waste. It smells like shit, especially with this muggy air. My gaze travels up the apartment buildings. They have their windows open. Might hear every word of our conversation, but I’m not planning on talking much.

My shoes crush a beer can, and Carter’s head turns at the noise. I could kill him for the smirk playing on his lips.

He shrugs. “Had to get your attention somehow.”

The monster I’ve grown inside me claws to be released. Bastien pounds my ribs. “Where the fuck is Captain Ritter?”

“He’s indisposed.” His smile grows. “Sick.”

This is just a game to him. “You stupid fucking moron,” I spit, venom bleeding from my lips. “Anyone could have seen us.”

All I get is an eye roll. “They didn’t.”

I’m willing to accept a certain amount of moronic decisions from Carter, but not this. He went too far. “You compromised my cover. Put my wife in danger.”

“Your wife?” he chuckles. “Jesus. Someone’s taking his job a little too seriously.”

My fist smashes his head, too fast for him to block, and my left swings to crunch his jaw. His body twists in a violent movement. Black rage snares my limbs, propelling me forward. All I have to do is replay what he said. I want to fucking kill him before he kills me.

Carter stumbles to the side. I smash his face in. With my knees. My elbows. He goes down like a rock, but I won’t stop until I smear him all over the floor.

Blood splatters my hands. They slip when I grab his neck and squeeze. He gasps, choking. “My life isn’t a bet you can gamble with.”

He scratches the backs of my fists, his face beet red. “No.”

“You’re trying to cover your tracks. Neither of you can stomach killing me yourself. Let the mob do it. Why get your hands dirty?”

All it would take is one whisper that I was seen talking to a cop to end my fucking life. Jesus, he told Eva we worked together.

“Not true,” he sputters. “Fuck off.”

Either he’s a moron, or he’s hell-bent on murdering me. I can’t accept the risk.

You also can’t butcher a cop.

It’s him or me.

A shoe crashes against my skull. Stars burst in my vision as Carter shoves my hands off his throat. He kneels. I smash my boot into his ribs, and he crumples to the floor. Blood blossoms all over his face. I grab my sidearm. Point it at his head. One bullet and he’s done.

“Go ahead,” he screams. “Kill a cop. See what happens, asshole.”

“This bullet will fly right through your fucking brain.” I kick him again.

“Ow—fuck! Just listen for a second!”

“You’ve pushed me too far, and I’ve got nothing to lose anymore. Put your hands down!”

“Wait!” He struggles to his knees. “I can’t pull you out if Vito is still alive.”

“What? Don’t fucking move!”

“Vito is an inconvenience to us. We need him gone.”

Who the fuck is us? “Kill the boss? Are you out of your mind?”

“This is bigger than you realize.”

“No shit. Who the hell do you work for?”

His lips press together firmly. “You want to leave? That’s the deal. Get rid of him.”

I’d rather kill you. “I’m not a fucking hit man. Find someone else.”

“I can’t be connected to this—”

“What do you think will happen when I’m charged with first-degree murder? I’ll spill every detail about our meetings.”

The eye not swollen shut glares at me with malice. “Go ahead. It’s your word against a cop’s. You’re nothing. Nobody.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“If you rat me out, there’ll be a knife waiting for you in prison.” He grins a red smile. “You might want me killed, but I’m more trouble to you dead than alive. Put the gun down before someone sees us.”

I feel it again. The pull to the darkness. It tells me to slaughter, to snap the only thread linking to my identity. I’ve done so many things I’m ashamed of, but I’ve never taken a life. My finger twitches against the trigger. If I kill him, it’ll be like turning the revolver on myself. Everything I am will be gone. Forever.

You can’t claim you’re not like them if you do this.

And Eva… I have to be there for my wife.

Slowly the gun inches down. Images of Carter’s body ravage my mind, tempting me to destroy the part of me that still feels mercy.

I’ll end him, but not like this.

* * *

Booking this appointment was a risk. For all I know, I’m made, and Vito might be already tracking my movements. Preparing for the moment I’ll let my guard down to kill me. I have to operate under the assumption that my days are numbered.

Carter and I parted with an uneasy truce, but he’ll sell me out the second he has the chance. I crossed a line. Aimed a gun at his head. Carter won’t forget that. Next time we meet, he’ll be prepared. Probably with whoever the fuck he’s working with.

I chose a lawyer who wasn’t associated with anyone under Vito’s payroll. His office is all the way in Laval. Couldn’t risk a Montreal attorney—too many of them in Johnny and Vito’s pockets already. Not to mention the goddamn justice system. I told him I’d pay cash only. My bank accounts owned by my real name are frozen, and the ten thousand Ritter loaned won’t get me far, but, fuck. I have to do something. It’s better than sitting around, waiting to be killed.

The receptionist waves me forward with a curt nod. “You can go in now.”

Finally. I head toward the double oak doors, yanking them as a gorgeous office opens up. The lawyer, Charles McConnelly, sits behind a massive, clutter-free desk. He’s a man in his late sixties dressed in a charcoal-gray suit. He fixes me with a watery blue stare and shakes my hand. His lips curve. “Charles McConnelly.”

I don’t know what fucking name to use. “Sébastien. Thanks for agreeing to meet me on short notice.”

“No problem. What can I do for you?”

I sink into the chair, pulling the burner phone from my pocket. I find the audio files. My finger hesitates over the play button. “We have attorney-client privilege, right?”

“Of course. What’s this about?”

I quickly launch into my story about working undercover as a police officer, that my relationship with my handlers soured when I wanted out. The lawyer listens intently, stopping me a few times to ask questions, and then I play the recordings for him. Detective Carter’s threats fill the office and after several more files his voice fades into static.

It shuts off and I search Charles’ face. “I need to know if this can be used as evidence.”

Everything depends on it.

He clasps his hands, frowning. “Quebec is a single-party consent province, so it was legal for you to record those conversations, but I think the judge will throw it out.”

The bottom drops out of my stomach. “Why?”

“Lack of predicate. How will the court even know those voices belong to Captain Ritter and Detective Carter? It’s not reliable evidence. The judge will discard it as hearsay.”

Jesus.

I had every hope riding on these goddamn audio files, and they’re worthless. “I can’t believe this.”

“You need to get some photos. If you hired a PI, make sure he takes pictures of your meetings. I’m truly sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

Before I can raise another question, he extends his hand as though he’s eager to see me out of his office. I’m frozen to the chair. Somehow I shake his hand, stand, and accept Charles’ smile. He probably thinks I’m full of shit, and I don’t blame him. Who would believe me?

Carter and Ritter—those fucking bastards made me get rid of everything tying myself to my old life. My parents would testify for me, but I’d rather die than drag them into this mess. They’re good, honest people. I won’t risk getting them hurt. That leaves me and fucking Saul. If he doesn’t do his job, I’m screwed. I’ll have to live my life as this asshole I created, who sinks his hooks inside me every day.

I leave the office, the door smashing against the wall as I step into the night. The receptionist complains, but I ignore her. My shoulder bashes something solid—another man whose eyes I recognize. Adrián.

Fuck.

I mutter an apology as he spins around. Recognition flashes across his brutish face, and then shock when he glances at the still-open office door. The words splashed on it condemn me: Criminal Defense Attorney. And I see the puzzles moving in his head, slowly clicking together. That I wouldn’t be visiting a lawyer if I weren’t charged with a crime. And if I haven’t—why am I seeing a goddamn lawyer? Something clicks behind Adrián’s eyes.

Bastien is a fucking snitch.

I could keep walking to my car. Get inside and not stop until the Yukon Territories. Leave everything. Even Eva.

He’s close enough to gun me down, but he doesn’t have permission to waste the boss’ son-in-law. Soon as I’m gone, he’ll run to Vito. Tell him what he saw. It’ll raise too many questions. Vito will dig deeper; he’ll discover there are no standing charges against Sébastien Lucchese. Either I was pinched, and I’m making a deal with the cops, or worse.

I need to stop Adrián. A threat won’t be enough. Not this time.

He has to disappear.

The parking lot is blanketed in darkness, but there are still businesses open to the public. That lawyer’s office is in gunshot-hearing distance. The sound would crack through those thin glass windows, even if I used one of the soda cans rolling on the pavement to muffle the noise. Meanwhile, Adrián is getting away. I hate him. He’s a fucking bastard, but he’ll rot in jail. I can’t take his life.

Kill him or abandon her.

I can’t do it. It’s against everything I believe in.

Then say goodbye to your wife.

Her face swims in my mind and fills my heart with blood. No fucking way I’m leaving her behind. I’d rather rip out my heart than desert her. My pulse gallops faster as I make my decision, knowing this is wrong and I’ll pay for it later. When I’m dead, and my soul is judged for cold-blooded murder. The devil can drag me to hell, but right now I don’t care.

I can’t lose her like this.

Rage surges up my throat. I hate these fucking people. I hate the way they talk, the tough-guy bullshit. I hate the platitudes about family. As if it matters to the two-faced bastards. Every day, I worry I might somehow be infected, that their poison will seep into me. Change me.

And it finally happened.

I drift above. Separate from my body. I watch myself fall into step behind Adrián. There’s no hesitation in my movements. I grab my gun, but I don’t feel it in my hand. It’s as though I’m a disembodied spirit following myself.

My hands don’t shake. Not even as I raise the pistol over Adrián’s unsuspecting head. I smash the handle on Adrián’s skull. I hit him hard—with a violence that surprises me. A sickening crack like an egg breaking open echoes through the parking lot. He falls. No one saw. Good. The monster controlling my movements would’ve killed them, too.

I drag him toward his Volvo as moans echo. Fish keys out of his pocket. I think I’ve scrambled his brains because he keeps uttering the same word, “Mom.”

It rolls over my shoulders like rain. This is way easier than I thought it’d be. Adrián’s trunk is lined with garbage bags. I throw him inside and shut the lid. Blood on my hands. Fuck. One last look around the parking lot, and then I climb into the driver’s seat.

I don’t recognize the hands on the steering wheel, and yet they take me—us—to a forest. The car bounces on the dirt road. Then I park where there are no lights and open the door. It’s cold, but I don’t feel a thing.

When I open the trunk, Adrián rolls on his back.

He’s still fucking alive.

I drag him out as his mouth forms the same word. Mom. Dump him on the ground. Grab the gun. Aim it at him. His wild stare finds me. An animal pleading for his life.

Don’t do this.

The voice is my father’s, but it’s so distant, and I hardly remember who he is anymore.

I pull the trigger. Adrián’s head slams into the floor and then it’s done. He’s dead, and killing him was the easiest thing in the world. The headlights of my car illuminate every detail, and a swell of self-disgust crashes inside me. A line of nausea rises in my throat, and even that passes quickly, too.

It was so easy.

Adrián has a shovel in his trunk. What a considerate guy. It takes me hours to dig a grave, and by the time he’s tucked in the ground, there’s no more doubt I did the right thing. No more anything.

Still more work to do. Adrián was a made man, and I’ll be facing retribution if anyone ever finds out what happened. The car needs to be destroyed.

I take it to a junkyard where I pay the guy to smash the Volvo into a pulp. He doesn’t ask questions when I show him a roll of cash. The cab takes me to the parking lot, and by the time I drive home, the sun is rising. Again.

Forty-eight hours with no sleep.

I’m dead to the world.

Back home, Eva sits at the kitchen table. I see her through the curtains, and I curse out loud. When will she learn to stay away from the windows?

I park the car and climb the front steps to my apartment. I open the door. Balled-up tissues surround Eva’s clenched hands.

She wheels toward me, eyes filled with tears. “You’re a fucking cop.”