Savage Hearts

3

“A llama-type animal from Peru. They look a little bit like a camel, but cuter. Their wool is the softest and most expensive in the world.”

She’s serious. This broad is literally not shitting me. I stare at her with my mouth open for a beat, then smile. “You know what? I’ll just go with good, old-fashioned cashmere, thanks.”

She smiles at me like I’ve just made her whole week. “Certainly! Anything to eat or drink before we depart?”

What the hell. I’m on vacation. “Do you have champagne?”

“Yes. Would you prefer Dom Perignon, Cristal, Taittinger, or Krug?”

She waits for me to decide, as if I have a clue, then suggests, “Mr. O’Donnell prefers the Krug Clos d’Ambonnay.”

I furrow my brow. “Who’s Mr. O’Donnell?”

“The owner of this aircraft.”

Ah. My future brother-in-law. An Irishman, by the sound of it. A very rich Irishman, evidently. He’s probably ninety years old with dementia and no teeth.

My sister is such a mercenary.

I tell the flight attendant I’ll take the Krug, then ask where in the world we’re going.

With a straight face, she says breezily, “I really have no idea.”

Then she turns and walks away, as if this is all completely normal.

Nine hours later, I’ve polished off two bottles of champagne, watched three Bruce Willis movies and a documentary about famous drummers, enjoyed a nap of indeterminate length, and am slumped sideways in my chair, drooling on my sweatshirt, when Andrea returns to cheerfully inform me we’ll be landing soon.

“Lemme guess. You still don’t know where we are.”

“Even if I did, Miss Keller, I couldn’t tell you.”

She says it kindly, but her expression conveys in no uncertain terms that her job would be at risk if she blabbed.

Or maybe something more important than her job…like her life.

Or maybe that’s the two bottles of champagne talking.

When she disappears down the aisle, I slide up the window covering and peer out. Above are clear blue skies. Below are rolling green hills. Off in the distance, a long strip of blue water shimmers in the afternoon sun.

It’s an ocean. The Atlantic? The Pacific? The Gulf of Mexico, perhaps?

The plane starts to descend for landing. It appears we’re headed for an island off the coast.

Watching the ground rise up to meet us, I have a dark, powerful premonition that wherever I’m headed, there’s no going back.

Later, I’ll remember that feeling and marvel at its accuracy.

2

Kage

T

he man standing across from my desk is tall, hulking, and silent.

Dressed entirely in black, including a heavy wool overcoat beaded with the evening rain, he stares at me with an emotionless look that somehow also conveys a capacity for extreme violence.

Or maybe I only think that because of his reputation. This is the first time we’ve met, but the man is a legend in the Bratva.

Almost as legendary as I am.

In Russian, I say, “Take a seat, Malek.” I gesture to the chair beside him.

He shakes his head in refusal, which irritates me.

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

His green eyes flash. A muscle slides in his jaw. His big hands form fists briefly then flex open again, as if he needs to smash something. But he controls his anger quickly and sits.

Apparently, he likes being issued orders as little as I do.

We gaze at each other in silence for a while. The clock ticks ominously on the wall like the countdown to an explosion.

He offers no polite greeting. There’s no pleasant small talk, no effort to get acquainted. He merely sits and waits, patient and mute as a sphinx.

I sense we could go on like this forever, so I start. “My condolences for your loss. Your brother was a good man.”

He replies in English. “I don’t want your sympathy. I want you to tell me where I can find the man who killed Mikhail.”

I’m surprised that he doesn’t have a trace of an accent. His voice is low and even, as emotionless as his eyes. Only the pulse pounding in the side of his neck gives any evidence of humanity.

I’m even more surprised that he’d dare to speak to me with such flat disregard.

Few people are that stupid.

My voice as cold as my stare, I say, “If you want permission to operate on my soil, I advise you to show me respect.”

“I don’t need your permission. I don’t show respect unless it’s earned. And I’m only here because I was told you’re the one with the information I need. If that’s incorrect, stop wasting my time and say so.”

Bristling, I grind my molars and consider him.

I’d normally shoot a man for that kind of disrespect. But I’ve already got too many enemies. The last thing I need is an army of Bratva from Moscow descending on Manhattan with the intent of separating my head from my body because I buried the vicious Hangman who serves their king.

Not that they could. Even this enormous bearded asshole sitting across from me is no match for my skills. If I decided to kill him, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

Plus, if he does take out Declan O’Donnell, head of the Irish Mob and a man I’d very much like to see dead, Malek will be doing me a solid.

But still.

My house, my rules.

And rule number one is show me respect or bleed out on the rug, motherfucker.

My voice deadly soft, I hold his gaze and say, “The Irish murdered my parents and both my sisters. So when I say I know how you feel, I’m not talking out my ass. But if you continue acting like a mannerless cunt, I’ll send you back to Moscow in a thousand bloody pieces.”