The phone call came at night. One of those nights when Daniel Nieto didn’t sleep, when heat clung to the air, sending moisture dripping down his spine under the shirt he wore. On a night so dark, only the sporadic spark of fireflies dotted the blackness where he sat outside on the porch while his memories died slowly inside the Greek-style house.

The small burner phone he’d placed on his right thigh vibrated, making his skin tingle, breaking the monotony of silence for a few unwelcomed seconds. The amount of people with the number didn’t even total five. But there was a certain number one could call, should they want to reach him. The woman who’d answer would redirect to whatever burner Daniel had at the time, but only if she deemed the caller worthy.

Apparently this caller passed the test.

“¿Bueno?” He listened, head tilted back, eyes closed as she spoke only the impending caller’s name. Curiosity made him tell her, “Put him through.”

She didn’t say goodbye, all he heard was a soft click indicating the call had transferred.

“Tek,” he greeted the man on the other end with a familiarity he was relieved to not have to fake. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You wanted to know who’d killed your wife.”

His eyes flew open, stomach clenching as he lurched forward. Any mention of his wife sent him reeling. He’d known the identity of his wife’s killer from day one, but sometimes ignorance had its advantages. He kept up with the pretense now, despite the sudden pressure in his jaw as he gritted his teeth.

“You know.”

“I do.”

Daniel liked to observe people. How else would he be able to discern their weaknesses? He knew his caller, not personally, but enough. Not once had he anticipated this phone call. He knew the name Tek was about to hand him, but instead of enlightening his caller, Daniel bade him, “Tell me.”

“Stavros Konstantinou.”

Beatific smile bared to the quiet night surrounding him, Daniel stretched out his legs. “You don’t say.” Knowing what he did about Tek and the man whose name he just dropped, Daniel had to wonder why the sudden betrayal. It didn’t make a difference, but for someone like him, any kind of information was a weapon to be used.

“I can give you everything you need to know, and where you can find him.”

The rage in Daniel’s gut—his constant companion these past few years—simmered nice and hot, but he laughed at the offer. “Where’s the fun in that, mi amigo?” Before, all of it was business.

Now?

Pure pleasure.

The only way he got any nowadays.

“Whatever floats your boat.”

The caution in Tek’s voice meant Daniel’s reputation was at the forefront of his mind. Good man. “I owe you, Tek. Whatever you need. Anytime.”

“I just might take you up on that.”

Daniel dropped the phone to the floor next to his feet and ground it underneath his heel. Then he stood.

He’d carefully crafted his plan. Keeping ahead of those intent on laying him next to his dead wife by no less than ten paces. When they were on their hands and knees, playing marbles in the dirt, he was the chess grandmaster.

Most thought Daniel remained in the dark about the identity of the man who’d led a gang of hooded men into his house in Mazatlán. They thought him helpless to retaliate, off somewhere still recovering from the effects of that bloody night.

Physical injuries were all healed up now, though the evidence of the garrote around his throat lingered. The wounds not seen by the naked eye were different. They festered, spreading, infecting everything. He liked it like that. Going after a man like Stavros Konstantinou required stealth and planning, as well as a certain fire. A lust for blood and death. The Greek was a contractor, operating a lucrative mercenary business that hired out its services to only the highest bidders. He killed for money. Without conscience. Without repercussions.

Untouchable.

A monster.

After staring into the mirror for all of his life, Daniel was adept at recognizing monsters. Stavros took everything from him within the space of ten minutes, and Daniel had spent every moment since then biding his time. Though he appreciated it, Tek’s phone call wasn’t at all necessary.

He left the clingy darkness behind and stepped into the house, back under the artificial lights that seemed too harsh and bright for his eyes. Upstairs, he found her, wandering off when she’d been put to bed an hour before.

Her hair had come loose from its bun, spilling down to her shoulders as she gripped the front of her nightgown in her fist, preventing her feet from tripping over it, and made her way down the hallway with wide, hollow eyes.

He followed, silent and on alert. Used to it, yet still unable to stomach that sight.

Being witness to her slow fade into nothingness was unbearable. Still he watched, because he was nothing if not dutiful. And if there were two things he knew for sure, they were penance and self-flagellation.

As she opened the door leading out to the porch he’d just vacated, Daniel waved away the two caregivers that rushed forward. He paid them well to take care of her, but he’d do as much as he could when he was around.

Like now, as he joined her outside. They stood side by side, both her hands gripping the edge of the balcony as she inhaled and tilted her face up. Sometimes she was aware of him, and other times, like now, she remained in her own world.

Not safe though, because her world as they’d once known it was disappearing.

His plans were for her. All for her. Because of her. For that, he had to leave tonight. Not right this second, though. Not until she was back in bed, not until he knew she had some respite from it all. He stood next to her in the dense blackness as the breeze he barely felt rustled her hair.

Speaking was useless when she didn’t know him, wouldn’t recognize him. Besides, he had nothing to say. He gave her his company instead. His presence. All his strength in silence.

Her quiet sobs startled him and he took her into his arms, staring down into eyes that didn’t light up at the sight of him. Wet eyes, lost and dull.

He ached.

Still he held her against his chest, allowing her tears to soak him. To stoke and stir the rage like a fire poker. In many ways, hugging her felt like closing his arms around someone unfamiliar. But traces of her remained, and he clung tightest to those.

He wasn’t supposed to have weaknesses, but he had her. She stayed in his embrace, alternating between crying softly and jabbering nonsensical things to herself, until his arms burned from holding her. Until his legs protested standing for so long.

Only then did he carry her back to bed, tucking her in before he went through the routine.

Brushing her hair.

Lying next to her atop the covers, ankles crossed, holding her hand. When he left, the caregivers would do this. Every night. Brush her hair, hold her hand, and pray that she succumbed to sleep.

It took thirty-eight minutes from the time he climbed onto the bed to the moment she closed her eyes. The pressure on his hand disappeared and he realized only then how tight she’d been holding on to him.

Daniel brought that hand up to his face, nostrils flaring at the evidence of her nails. He fisted it then dropped that hand to her forehead, smoothing away her hair. After brushing a kiss across her cheek, he got off the bed.

If he lingered, he’d never leave, and he had plans.

With one last look at her peaceful face, he left the bedroom, checking in with her caregivers before he left. Leaving her always swamped him in a toxic mix of relief and guilt. They were with him as he drove away from the house, and even as he boarded the private jet at the small municipal airport five miles away.

“Ready to do this?”

He waited until he’d buckled the seatbelt before meeting the eyes of the young man who stood over him. “Estoy listo.” I am ready.

A smile touched Toro’s mouth. “I almost feel sorry for him.” He dropped next to Daniel and winked. “But almost doesn’t count.”

No, it did not.

* * *

Stavros Konstantinou flicked the lighter on. Then he pinched the blue-tinged flame, extinguishing it. One flick of his thumb and up shot the flame again. With the thumb and forefinger on the other hand, he smothered the light once more.

It was a habit. One he’d held on to through his teen years.

He sat in the outdoor gardens of his villa in Lisbon. In the dark. The men who guarded his home knew to stay far, far away when he came out here. Something he rarely did. But he’d recently come back from the States and he was…restless.

One of the reasons he’d put the villa on the market.

He’d only bought it to be close to a woman and she was gone now. As for the family-owned mercenary business he’d inherited, he’d stepped away from that already. He’d only been as involved as he’d been in order to stay close to his father. But the old man was gone, too. Along with his wife, Stavros’ stepmother. Except for his one surviving uncle, his entire lineage had been wiped out. It no longer bothered him—if it ever did—that the only person he mourned was the woman he’d loved, but never had.

His stepsister.

His affection for Annika had been a weakness he’d never appreciated. One he’d sought to stamp out, any means necessary.

He flicked the lighter again, the shimmer of the moon on the water in his swimming pool catching his eye.

Beauty.

Stavros appreciated beauty. He was called to destroy it, but that by no means meant he couldn’t appreciate it. Like now. He pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket and called forth the tiny flame, putting it to the thin cigarette’s end to catch fire. He’d quit smoking before, and he’d quit again.

But tonight, just tonight, he killed himself slowly. Taking a deep drag as he shrugged off his coat, letting it drop next to him.

The moonlight and orange glow on the end of the cigarette were the only illumination here in his little corner. He threw his head back and closed his eyes. A man like him didn’t know peace, and likely wouldn’t know what to do with it. But he took this moment for what it was, a reprieve until the next battle began.

Nothing to say where it would come from, or when, but he trusted his instincts. His killer instincts, his father called it. He had a nose for blood and a love for spilling it. Inevitably it would come that he’d be doing the breast-stroke in the crimson liquid soon.

The sound of loose gravel tightened his fingers on the cigarette though he didn’t move. He blew out a small cloud of smoke and grinned up at the moon.

Yes. Sooner than he’d expected, but he could work with it.

Leaves rustled to his left.

He had company. Stavros licked his lips and flicked ash away. “It’s dark and my eyes aren’t what they used to be,” he spoke in a low tone to his unwelcome visitor. “You came all this way, you may as well show yourself.”

No other sound, but a man was suddenly in his line of sight. Directly in front of him. The moon touched his full head of hair, made it shine, but his face was impossible to discern. He was tall and skinny, that Stavros knew. Bold, too, to be where he stood at that moment. Stavros knew a lot of bold men.

None of them were suicidal.

He watched the shadowed figure, eyes hooded against the smoke. “You’re brave,” he murmured. “I admire bravery, though I find it a wasted trait.”

“Those things will kill you, you know that, ¿verdad?”

An ugly voice. Rough and ravaged, as if it had been chopped to bits with a dull machete then tossed into a blender. Only one man had a voice like that. Stavros had given only one man that voice.

Relief loosened his body. He knew this enemy. Knew this fight, and he’d been waiting for it for four years.

He rose slowly, mourning the loss of his comfortable seat. Feet planted apart, he jerked his chin and pinched the cigarette, removing it from his mouth. “Mr. Nieto, you’re far from home tonight.”

“I am where I should be.”

He’d always likened Daniel Nieto to a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth to kill. Unstoppable.

“Is that so?” He dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his shoe. Then he counted to two and sprang forward, gun in hand.

He never reached Nieto. The sudden burning in his shoulder stopped him, stunned him, and as he blinked in slow motion, it dropped him to his knees at Nieto’s feet.

“I got an interesting call. A little birdie told me you ordered my wife’s death.” Nieto hadn’t moved save for his glittering gaze as he looked down at an immobile Stavros.

He shivered, cold sweeping up from his toes in one quick wave. He’d thought death would’ve been more than this. Less…anti-climactic. But beggars shouldn’t be choosers. He smiled up at Nieto, shadows encroaching on his vision. “Your bird was wrong. I killed her myself. But then you already knew that, didn’t you?”

He came back to consciousness with his mouth stuffed with imaginary cotton, his hair wet with sweat, and his body suspended from a concrete roof by a heavy chain around his neck. He gritted his teeth at the pain radiating from everywhere and shook his head. That rattled the chains.

A light came on.

He was in a cage, a floor to ceiling monstrosity similar to a shark cage, in an otherwise empty industrial-sized space, and he wasn’t alone.

The man standing in the corner snapped his fingers, and Stavros was lowered to the ground by a device he couldn’t see. The chain remained around his neck, his hands bound behind his back. His ankles were also shackled so that he couldn’t move more than a few inches on the floor with his ass.

He cocked his head as Nieto knelt next to him.

“Welcome to my world, Konstantinou. I look forward to your stay.”

“You have made me your prisoner?” He barked a laugh despite the effort that took. “How…original.”

The man winked at him. “Originals are the best. You and I, men like us? We appreciate the best.” He touched the heavy chain at Stavros’ neck. “You took my wife, so I’m taking your life. Slowly.”

“It doesn’t matter how long you keep me here, I will find a way out of this cage.” Stavros tried to shrug. “And when I do—” He licked his cracked lips. “When I do, that is when the true war begins.”