Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters Book 3)

I spot him the instant I step into the grocer, because nobody from here looks like that.

Nobody from anywhere looks like that.

Leaning against the wall by the restrooms near the back, his arms folded over his sizeable chest and a toothpick stuck between his movie star teeth, he’s the picture of effortless cool.

He’s tall, muscular, and has full sleeves of tats down both arms. His dark hair waves down to his shoulders. He’s got the angular jaw of a superhero and the proud bearing of a bullfighter.

In a tight white short-sleeved T-shirt, faded jeans, cowboy boots, and mirrored aviators, he looks like the love child of James Bond and Elvis Presley, with a dash of the pirate Blackbeard sprinkled on top.

I hate him on sight.

I also know instinctively that he’s not here by accident.

He’s here for me.

The odd thing is, he’s not trying to hide it. He wants me to see him, that’s obvious. Judging by the way he’s lounging against the wall, arrogant as the devil, he wants everyone to see him.

He removes his sunglasses and looks me up and down.

I’m gratified to see him purse his lips in dissatisfaction.

“Dobroye utro, Malek,” says the old woman behind the counter to my left.

“Good morning, Alina,” I reply in Russian, turning to her. I walk casually to the counter, making sure the movie star sees my relaxed smile. “How are you today? How’s the knee?”

“Perfect! I can’t believe how good. Years of hobbling everywhere are over like that.” She snaps her fingers. “God favored me when I was moved to the head of the line for that replacement.”

It wasn’t god who moved her forward in the Ministry of Health’s long waiting list, but I don’t mention that.

“I’m glad to hear it. Do you have my order ready?”

“Vanya is putting it together. Only a few minutes more. Sit and have a drink while you wait.”

She gestures to a self-serve coffee bar on the opposite side of the store. Behind it is a wall of glass with a view to the street beyond.

“I’ll do that. Thank you.”

Without looking at the movie star, who’s still lounging against the wall near the restrooms, watching me, I walk to the bar, select a paper cup from a bin, and pour myself a large coffee.

I never take it with cream or sugar, but today I do.

I make an elaborate show of choosing an artificial sweetener, rifling through the colored paper packets in their little metal container as if I’m hoping to find a gold bar. Whistling, I stir the sweetener into the coffee. Then I take a thoughtful sip, shake my head, set the cup onto the wood counter, and add a generous dollop of fresh cream.

I sip again. When I produce a loud, satisfied, “Ah!” a voice from beside me says, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you’re in the wrong line of work. You should’ve gone into acting, mate. That deserved a bloody Oscar.”

His tone is dry. His accent is Irish. I want to plunge a knife into his chest.

He slides onto a metal stool beside me and sets his sunglasses on the counter. That’s when I notice the tattoos on the knuckles of his left hand: stars, flowers, initials, a skull with a dagger through it. A black square that looks like it’s covering something else.

My body falls still.

I know those tats. I’ve seen them before. In that specific order on each finger.

I’ve been staring at them for the past sixteen years.

In Russian, he says quietly, “Pakhan sends his regards.”

This Irishman speaks Russian. He knows Pakhan. He wears the same ink on his skin. He knew where to find me and exactly the time I’d be at this store.

I set my coffee down slowly, taking a moment to center myself.

When I turn and look at him, he’s watching me with an alert expression, possibly a respectful one, but no trace of fear.

“Who are you?”

“A friend. Or an enemy. It all depends on you.”

I recall something Pakhan said to me over dinner, and a lightbulb goes on over my head. “The dead man who knows everything.”

He makes a face. Switching back to English he says, “Ach, is that what they’re calling me now? I sound like a B movie.”

After a moment where I only gaze at him, he gestures to the stool next to me. “Have a seat, mate. I don’t like to crane my neck. You’re a bloody skyscraper.”

I sit on the stool and stare at him. He grins like he’s being interviewed on TV. There’s a dimple in his cheek I’d like to stab a fork into.

“So? Where should I start?”

“Your name.”

“Killian.”

“Last name?”

“You get a last name if we decide we’re not going to kill each other.”

“If I wanted you dead, you already would be.”

He smiles. “That’s my line. I like you already.”

“What is this about?”

“In a nutshell, the future of nations.”

He says it with a straight face, as if I’m supposed to have any fucking clue what that means.

“Uh-huh. Sounds important.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm.”

“Are you one of those annoying people who can never get to the point?”

“And now you’re insulting me.” He shakes his head. “When Pakhan said you were short on charm, he wasn’t kidding.”

Fighting the urge to take his skull between my hands and crush it, I say slowly, “Get. To. The fucking. Point.”

His tone dry, he says, “Since you asked so nicely.” He reaches over, picks up my cup of coffee, and takes a sip. “Hmm. That’s quite good.”

I’m about to smash a fist into his nose, when he says, “Pakhan has cancer. Pancreatic. He’s got a few months left, if that.”

It sets me back onto my heels. I sit with that piece of information for a moment, digesting it in silence.

Killian watches me with eyes as sharp as a hawk’s.

“Why isn’t he telling me this?”

“He will. I mean, if you’re still alive by the time that conversation occurs.”

“Threaten me again and see what happens.”

He casually lifts a shoulder. “It’s not a threat. It’s a fact. If this meeting goes sideways, you’re a dead man.”

I chuckle. “You might be the stupidest person I’ve ever met.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be afraid, but I’m telling you the truth. I’m very good at what I do.”

“Not as good as I am.”

He smiles at me like you’d smile at a baby. “Okay. Moving on. Are you still planning to try to kill Declan O’Donnell?”

“Try?” I repeat through gritted teeth.

“That wasn’t an insult. I just need to know where your head’s at.”

I growl, “You have exactly ten seconds before I lose my patience and send you to meet your maker.”

It could be my imagination, but I think this son of a bitch wants to roll his eyes.

“Pakhan recommended you as his replacement.”

I almost fall off the stool.

“Oh, look,” Killian says, amused. “Godzilla is surprised.”

I manage to repeat, “Replacement?”

“Aye, but here’s the rub, Malek. Pakhan isn’t doing what you think he’s doing. That job he’s got? Big boss of the Bratva? That’s for show. What he’s really doing is far more important. Stop squinting at me, it won’t help you understand anything better.”

After a moment, I say, “If this is a fucking joke, I’m not finding it funny.”

I get the condescending smile again. “You do seem to be lacking in the sense of humor department, but no, it’s not a joke.”

We stare at each other. While I decide what to say next, he drinks more of my coffee.

“So you’re the one who told Pakhan about Riley.”

His voice warms. “Ah, yes. Riley. I’d like to meet her. I think she and my wife would really get along. They have a lot in common. Juliet’s the daughter of a man who tried to kill me several times. One of my worst enemies. Oh—you might’ve heard of him. Antonio Moretti? Does that ring any bells? He used to be the head of the Cosa Nostra in New York, but he’s dead now.”

He chuckles. “Dead like I am, I mean.”

The longer this conversation continues, the more liable I am to burst a brain vessel.

“Pakhan was very concerned that he’d misjudged you when he heard you’d kidnapped Riley. He didn’t take you for a rapist. Thought it was out of character. Needless to say, he was relieved to discover the wee lass was not only unmolested, she’d taken quite a shine to you.”

“Unmolested?” I say, astonished. “Shine?”

He waves a hand dismissively.

I’ve seen Riley make the exact same gesture when she thinks I’m being a pain in the ass.

“You saved her life. Your brother’s murderer’s soon-to-be sister-in-law. A man you’d vowed to kill for revenge. It’s all very Shakespearean, don’t you think? Like me and Juliet.”

He smiles again, a thing he seems overly fond of doing. “Don’t you love a good romantic drama?”

Glowering at him, I say, “I love a good murder.”

“Ach. You’re no fun.”

“How do I know any of this is true?”

“Call Pakhan. He’ll fill you in.”

“Why would he want me as his successor? I killed his cousin.”

“The kid was an asshole. Everybody thought so. And you’ve been incredibly loyal and efficient. Plus, you have that do-gooding side. He thinks you’re up for the job.”

“Do-gooding side?”

“Sticking up for your little brother who was getting bullied. Trying to save prostitutes with generous donations of cash. Alina’s knee. Only a few of numerous examples.”

“How the fuck do you know about any of that?”

His smile is smug. “They don’t call me the man who knows everything for no reason.”

With the exception of Declan O’Donnell, I’ve never known anyone I’d like to kill more. “Why didn’t Pakhan just tell me all this himself?”

“I had to vet you.”

“Vet me?”

“Stop repeating everything I say.”

“If you’d make any sense, I wouldn’t have to.”

Killian exhales a short, annoyed breath. “Look. I’m the leader of a multinational organization. A clandestine group of thirteen men who specialize in espionage, geopolitics, guerrilla warfare, and advanced spycraft to thwart global terrorism. We’re the real power behind the thrones. Don’t make that face at me, you bloody grand gobshite.”

“It’s just that this is a fascinating yarn you’re spinning. Please, continue.”

He mutters something in Gaelic. “As I was saying. We’re all working undercover in some capacity, masquerading as mob kings, corrupt politicians, shady business tycoons, you name it.”

“Uh-huh. And the point of all this masquerading?”

“Saving the world.”

Unbelievably, he says that with no trace of self-consciousness or awareness of how ridiculous he sounds. His hubris is staggering.

I decide to play along with his insanity. “What do you call yourselves? The Avengers?”

“The Thirteen.”

I snort. “Sounds like a boy band.”

“Fuck you.”

“Let me guess—you came up with that winner?”

He glares at me, and now I find myself having fun.

“And I suppose you’re Number One, right?”

“You know, I liked you better when you were only making a Broadway production out of pouring yourself a bloody coffee.”

“Who’s Number Two? Because that’s all sorts of awkward. Does everybody giggle during meetings when his name is called?”

I can tell he’s debating whether or not he should go ahead and kill me, and I can’t help but smile.

From across the store, Alina calls my name. “Your order’s ready!”

“That’s my cue, Number One. You realize you’ve nicknamed yourself piss, right? You’re the head urinator.”

“They only say that in the US.”

“No, everybody knows it.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Yes, they do.”

He grinds his teeth for a while, then stands. He shoves his sunglasses back onto his face and props his hands on his hips.

“Obviously, we’re not interested in you for your personality, because it’s shite. You’ve got skills we can use. Weaponry, technology, languages, disguises, critical thinking. It took me a long time to find you, which never happens, so you’re an expert at covering your tracks. You can pilot a plane. You can operate drones. You’re proficient with ingress and egress of locked spaces.”

“You could just say getting in and out. You don’t have to be so pretentious about it.”

The breath he exhales is slow and controlled. I’m making him mad.

My grin could be described as shit-eating.

He decides the pleasantries are finished and pronounces, “If you refuse to join us, you die.”

I lift my brows. “Not exactly a rousing recruiting slogan, is it?”

“That’s not an idle threat.”

“Yes, I can see you’re very serious. Your dimple is winking at me.”

After a pause, he says sourly, “You’re an arrogant prick.”

“I’d say it takes one to know one, but I’m so frightened that you’ll lose your temper and murder me.”

When I flatten my lips together to keep from smiling, he shakes his head in disgust.

“I’ll be in touch again in a few days. In the meantime, talk to Pakhan.”

“Great to meet you, Number One. Have fun back at the asylum.”

Muttering in Gaelic, he walks toward the exit.

I call after him, “Say hi to Number Two for me!”

The door slams behind him, and he’s gone.

I load the groceries into the truck then start the drive back to the cabin. On the way, I call Pakhan. We talk for the entire hour it takes me to get home.

By the time I arrive, Pakhan has confirmed everything Killian told me.

He’s dying of cancer.

He wants me to be his successor.

He and the cocky Irishman with the Jesus complex have been working undercover together for years to infiltrate and eliminate the biggest rats in the nest as it were, along with the other members of the Thirteen, who are definitely not a boy band.

Last but not least, my options are limited: accept the role I’m being offered, or spend the rest of my life dodging bullets from this irritating fucking Killian person and his crew of twelve murderous, highly-trained and well-funded do-gooding disciples.

The bottom line being that no matter what happens next, I can’t keep my little bird caged any longer.

I’ll either be a dead man or the king of the Bratva with a thousand new targets on his back and more secrets than any man should have.

There’s only one way I can protect her now.

Open her cage door, and let her fly away.

A mile from the cabin, I pull off the side of the road and hop out of the truck. Cursing furiously, I unload the magazine of my gun into the nearest tree. I reload and empty another one. Then I get the axe I keep in the toolbox in the bed of the truck and hack up several other trees, until I’m sweating and panting, and my hands are raw.

None of it helps. There’s nothing that will ever help me get this pain out of my system.

I knew this day would come, one way or the other. I’m still not prepared for it. But the fact remains, a girl like Riley doesn’t belong with a man like me. A man with my life and all the horror that comes with it.

Everyone knows the dragon doesn’t get the princess in the end.

The dragon doesn’t save the day.

That’s what white knights are for.

I throw the axe to the ground and blow out a hard breath. I tilt my head back, close my eyes, and stand motionless, just breathing, until I know my voice will sound steady.

Then I fish my cell from my pocket and dial the Lenin Hotel in Moscow. When a woman at the front desk picks up, I tell her to connect me to room number 427.

Then I wait, heartbroken and sick to my stomach, for Spider to answer the phone.