The smell of cordite stings my nose, sharp and metallic. It’s better than the smell of fear.
We are three floors underground, in a soundproof concrete bunker beneath the city. The man on the rope outside the safehouse is dead—Stavros put a bullet through the glass and into his skull before I could even scream—but the lesson stuck. Nowhere is safe. Not the mansion. Not the penthouse.
Stavros stands beside me, reloading a magazine with terrifying speed. He slams it into the black Glock 19 and hands it to me.
"Again," he orders.
"My arms hurt," I complain, though I take the weapon. It feels heavy, cold, and lethal in my grip.
"Dead people don't complain about sore muscles," he says, stepping behind me. "The man on the rope had a knife, Alina. If I hadn't been there, he would have cut you
