Page 3 of Vasily the Hammer

The nurse takes a picture and shows it to me. She’s cropped it enough it’s hard to tell where it’s located or even the size. It’s a simple drawing, a fancy V with a smaller B in the middle.

“Maybe it’s my initials? Maybe I’m a Veronica? Or a Bar-Bo-Ber-Beatrice?” I hate every B name that flies through my brain, so hopefully I’m a Veronica. Or Vivian. That’s a fun name.

The glances the doctor and the nurse exchange before looking back at my naked-from-the-waist-down self tells me they doubt this.

“Aww man, I really didn’t think I’d be the type to tattoo my boyfriend’s initials there.”

Another doubtful look. The nurse coughs politely. “Do you mind if I send this photo to one of our experts? He’s discreet, I promise. This may be gang related.”

“I’m not in a gang,” I whine, but I agree to it. And by the time the exam is finished, her phone is already ringing. A couple of words, the nurse explaining I have amnesia so I genuinely don’t know how I ended up with that tattoo, and then the phone is thrust at me.

“Vy govori´te po-ru´sski?”

I blink a couple times, trying to make it make sense. There’s a warmth in me at the sound, a fluttering in me like I’ve heard this before, but I have no idea what it is. “What?”

The man on the other end curses, mutters about it being worth a try, and then asks, “Does the name Vasily Baranov mean anything to you?”

Chapter 2

Vasily

I’m going to die in Flagstaff.

I don’t hear voices anymore. Not since I got the fuck out of Flagstaff. Or maybe the migraine medication silenced it.

But I still feel it in my bones. Right down to my soul. The pull of doom. The pull of mortality. The pull of this fucking curse that’s breathing down my neck. The pull of the goddamn nightmare that is Flagstaff.

I try to shake it, staring out the thirty-seventh floor window separating me from the Los Angeles skyline with such determination that my eyes start to water. If Benedetti asks, I’m just focused on fucking her as hard as possible, but she’s used to getting lies from me.

Maria Benedetti. A Mediterranean complexion, sleek black curls, and lipstick and eyeliner straight out of my Russiandedushka’sancient contraband pin-up mags. She had Mafia scum written all over her when she first showed up in my office in a curve-hugging black suit and cherry-red heels, peddling her services as a specialty 3D printer.

It was Janson, my security adviser, who convinced me to hear Benedetti out. She immediately told me that she moved to Arizona from Italy as a child— something I have firsthand experience with as Russian diaspora— that her family was deeply enmeshed in the Mafia there, and that she was a cousin to and in business with Tony Lombardo. Not exactly a glowing endorsement, as Tony the Bitch has been the dog shit stuck to the heel of my shoe for the last six years. But Benedetti made it clear that her priority is to herself first, last, and always, and fuck the old men’s club that is the Mafia. She’s not the first woman I’ve known who’s shared that sentiment, so I believed her on that account if nothing else.

Nothing else.Her background looked exactly how she said it would, but that six months she spent in Jacksonville learning the ins and outs of specialty 3D printing? Funny how she was only an hour away from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives training facility.

Janson was right about Benedetti as an asset, as right as he was about her being an undercover ATF agent. When she first showed up, I’d just gambled everything I had on ghost guns and made my first million, and now I’m thepakhanof the entire Southwest. I am untouchable because of her. Because the ATF apparently approves of how I handle things. For now, at any rate. I’ve been keeping more secrets from her than usual lately, and if she finds out, she’s going to have to turn against either me or the ATF.

I don’t know who Benedetti is loyal to at the end of the day, but it’s not to Tony. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, andyour enemy’s enemy who may or may not also be your enemy on your cock. Or however the expression goes.

“Did you take out another piercing?” Benedetti asks when I get so irritated with my scattered thoughts that I stop, reset myself, and slide back into her cunt more slowly.

“Not your fucking business,” I growl at her, my voice raw from exertion. Shit, I’m not even having a good time. Fucking Benedetti has become just another in a string of mindless chores, like I’m married to her instead of mixing business and pleasure.

Because there’s no pleasure anymore. There hasn’t been for a long time.

To Benedetti’s credit, she manages to roll herself over in the meager space she has between my body and the desk she’s bent over. She lifts her right leg, snags her foot on the left side of my waist, and levers her whole body around to flop onto her back, sending half the contents of my desk flying across my cavernous C-Suite office.

While the tip of my cock is still inside her.

I groan as the rapid swirl whites out my vision and I have to lean down and brace my hands on either side of her. She wraps both legs around my waist and squeezes, forcing me to fill her.

“Last I checked, this is the only pussy your dick has touched in ages, so yeah, it is my fucking business,” she declares brazenly, and I respect her for that.

I fucking hate her. I hate that she’s Mafia. I hate that she’s ATF. I hate that she looks like the ghosts of all the women from my past, so much so that I try to only fuck her from behind when I can get away with it.

I hate that she’s really fucking clever, too, she takes what she wants and uses everything she has to grab it and she’s completely shameless with it.

But I respect her. And her athleticism. Fucking hell.

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