Sunday morning, Bois woke up, rolled over onto her back, looked to her left. Zlatan Lukic was in bed with her, back turned to her. His hair was shaved down to a number one cut. Rough body hair on his bunched, hard, muscled shoulders. He had been with Bois when she killed Wayne. Zlatan was a good f**k. Bois had done him twice now but dangerous. A temper. A Croatian guy who ran with Billy Hassan. As she looked at him lying there, she already wanted him gone. She got out of bed, walked naked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out milk. Turned on the Nespresso coffee machine, got some pods from the cupboard, put the whole process in motion. Made herself a strong latte, a long macchiato for Zlatan. Walked into the bedroom. Put her coffee on a small chest of drawers on her side of the bed.
