Page 96 of 10 Days to Ruin

Much to the dismay of my tattered paper targets, I burn through two more magazines before a text buzzes at my hip.

I holster the Beretta, already knowing it’s her. She’s been texting all day—photos of her work laptop, her lunch, a shot of her big toe mid-pedicure captionedPutting warpaint on.

This time, it’s an address in Queens. Followed by:

Change of plans tonight. Pick me up from my mom’s place. 7 PM. Don’t be late, Dracula.

P.S. If you’re thinking of bringing flowers, I’d suggest bourbon instead. She’s not a nun.

Feliks peers over my shoulder to snoop. “Uh-oh. Meeting Mama Makris? Better wear your good knuckle dusters.”

“Shut up.”

“Bring a fruit basket,” he suggests. “Old ladies love pears. Shows you’ve got a sensitive side.”

“I’ll show you sensitivity.” I shove the phone back in my pocket and nod at the mangled targets. “Clean this up. And tell the boys there’s another shipment coming in tonight. I want the team ready to receive it.”

He salutes with two fingers. “Aye-aye, Casanova.”

From the outside, Belle Ward is no different than any of her neighbors. Her little house in Queens is quaint, small, humble. Bent gutter, stuffed with withered leaves. Bushes out front that have seen better days. It’s all utterly forgettable.

I stand on the stoop at 6:58 P.M., adjusting my cuffs. I brought neither flowers nor bourbon. Just a Swiss Army knife in my pocket and the crushing sense that this is a terrible fucking idea.

Then the door creaks open, and Ariel’s face appears in the gap.

“You’re early,” she says.

“You’re filthy.”

She swipes hair from her cheekbone, leaving a grease streak. “Mom’s sink pipe burst last week. She just now told me. I’ve been telling her to let me fix the valve, but she’s stubborn, and?—”

I shoulder her out of the way and stride into the kitchen. Both of the cabinet doors beneath the sink have been propped open. When I kneel down, I see copper pipes gleaming dully under my phone’s flashlight. The problem jumps out at me immediately.

“It’s the gasket.”

“How do you—Ow!”

She barely manages to catch the phone I tossed to her. Not my fault she’s slow. “Hold the light.”

For ten minutes, the only sounds are our breathing and the occasional curse as freezing water sprays my wrists.

Ariel’s knee brushes my shoulder. “Why are you helping?”

“So you’re not dripping sewage on my loafers.”

“A gentleman as always,” she mutters. She cranes her neck to check a clock on the far wall. “Hm. Weird. Mom was supposed to be back by now. She said she had to run to the grocery store.”

The pipes groan as I twist the final coupling. “Try the water now.”

She scrambles to turn on the faucet. After a brief belch, a healthy gush streams into her cupped hands. “Holy shit. You’re like a Russian Bob Vila.”

“Who?”

“He’s a— Never mind.” She hesitates. “Thanks, Sasha.”

Before I can respond,the front door clicks.

“Ari? You still here? You didn’t drown underneath the sink, did you? Goodness, the checkout aisle was—” Belle freezes, grocery bags dangling. Her eyes—which are Ariel’s eyes, but weathered by older storms—dart between us.

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