Page 117 of The Ripper

It didn’t want to admit it, but I think the monster missed her just as much as I did.

~ I don’t miss her.

~ Sure, you don’t.

I almost laughed.

“Gentlemen,” he tilted his head slightly. “You have work to do,” he said as he stood before us all like a looming shadow.

“You’re not going to join us?” Damiano asked, and I finally lifted my head to look at my father’s face.

It showed the usual range of emotions: boredom, disinterest, arrogance, but also something I wasn’t accustomed to seeing, and it was completely directed at me.

I never thought I would see the day when the great Nikolai Abaddon would publicly show concern for his children, but there it was, written all over his face and sparkling in his eyes…. fucking worry.

“No,” he replied as he took out a cigar and casually lit it. “But in return, I’ll give you something I am not happy to share, though since you’re supposed to step into my shoes one day, I suppose it’s as much yours as it is mine,” he addressed me directly, and I was more confused than ever. “Midnight,” he explained.

Fuck.

I thought Midnight was a story he used to scare his enemies.

Supposedly, Midnight was his personal assassin, specialized in finding people who didn’t want to be found. He was the only person working for my father who no one else ever met, and while I was the assassin he sent when he wanted to deliver a message, stake a claim, or teach a lesson, Midnight was the epitome of death. He was sent to find and kill. No message, no claims, no lesson. Only killing.

He never missed his target, and he never left a trace.

Not even I was so spotless, no matter how hard I tried not to make mistakes, I still forgot things from time to time.

Midnight didn’t.

In and out, like a fucking ghost.

“What’s Midnight?” Damiano asked, and Klaus burst into a morbid laugh.

“Who,” my father corrected.

“Wait, Midnight actually exists?” I asked, dumbfounded, and my father raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he looked at his watch. “Should be arriving any minute now.”

“Spasibo[18],” I thanked him, because for once he actually deserved it.

“Idi k svoyey devushke[19],” he smiled a little, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

I nodded just before another car pulled up next to Damiano’s Maserati, a 1970s Plymouth Hemi ‘Cuda with tinted windows. We couldn’t see the driver yet, but we could hear Evanescence’s Lithium loudly blaring from the speakers.

“Is this Midnight dude playing for the other team, or what the fuck is this music coming out of his car?” Damiano mocked, and my father grinned menacingly.

The music came to a stop and the driver’s door opened.

I was expecting a muscle bag with scars on his face to emerge, but a tiny woman came out from behind the door.

She walked slowly, her high-heeled boots clacking on the concrete as she seemed to scrutinize us one by one. Her hair was cut into a messy bob, and every inch of skin we could see was covered in dark tattoos, while the rest of her was obscured by a tight black T-shirt and tight black leather pants.

Midnight was a woman.

A very small, seemingly easily breakable woman.

CHAPTER 23

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