Page 19 of Forever Fake

“You broke my nose!” His garbled wail is swallowed by the night.

“That’s the least of your worries,” I tell him, sliding my knife from its sheath.

“Blake, don’t you think we should?—”

Tugging on his hair, I angle his head back and draw the blade slowly across his exposed throat. In the dim light, his eyes widen with shock and horror—a look I’m quite familiar with by now. Bubbles form in his blood where the oxygen escapes his lungs. In seconds, a wash of crimson soaks his front and his gaze dims.

I watch, feeling only satisfaction that there’s one less fucker like him in this world.

Once his heart stops pumping, I let him go. He falls forward, sprawled on the gritty pavement in a pool of his own blood.

Roman clears his throat. “Don’t you think Kozlov might have wanted to question him?”

I shrug. “Kozlov called me in to deal with the situation.” I glance down at the dead man. “I’ve dealt with it.”

Roman sighs, shaking his head.

I send a quick text on my phone to my clean up contact. He should be here soon.

Glancing up, I mutter, “Speak of the devil.”

Dimitri Kozlov rounds the corner of the building. His steps falter when he spots the mess I’ve made. “Christ!Baron, I wanted the guy alive.”

“You omitted that detail. If you’re not happy with this outcome, that’s on you.”

“I thought it’d be obvious,” he grumbles, slowly approaching us.

“Only idiots think things should be obvious. If you don’t specify, then you get what you get.” Bending down, I search the man until I find his wallet, then toss it to a glowering Kozlov. “Do you know him?”

He checks out the guy’s ID. “Yeah. He’s one of my poker dealers. But he’s not Bratva, so he’s not one of my men, just a club employee.” His shoulders visibly sag with relief. Kozlov’s dealt with enough upheaval in his Bratva over the past year, he doesn’t need any more drama within the brotherhood. The city’s finally settled after all of that—which is the way I like it. Quiet and somewhat predictable. Manageable.

An old Cadillac kills its lights and backs down the alley as we watch.

I shoot a smirk at Kozlov. “Don’t worry, I always clean up after myself.”

Dante, my cleaner, steps out of the car and eyes the company I’m with, taking us in with a sweeping glance. He’s dressed in a dark suit, the greying hair at his temples—the only indication he’s older than me—gives him a distinguished quality. A scar slashes across his cheek to his chin.

“Baron,” he dips his head in my direction, “you called.”

“I have a cleanup job for you. As you can see,” I drawl, motioning toward the spreading puddle of blood.

Dante grunts. “For the hundredth time, I’m a hitman, not a cleaner.”

“Meaning?” I lift a brow.

Roman snorts. Kozlov crosses his arms and watches our exchange with interest.

“Meaning, I eliminate people, I don’t clean up other people’s dead bodies.”

I consider his explanation for a moment. “Yet, you always come when I text and you have no issue taking my money.”

“Then I guess it’s my own damn fault you keep calling me.” With another grunt, he pops the trunk and grabs a sheet of plastic.

“And you say you’re not a cleaner.” I scoff, taking note of the cleaning supplies in his car.

“Well, I do clean up my own messes. Don’t trust anyone else to do a decent job.”

I bark a laugh. “Therein lies my confusion. See? You are a cleaner.”

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