“What’s the name?”
“Mikhail Antonov.”
His pause is thoughtful. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“He’s the head of the local Bratva.”
Silence. After he wraps his head around what I’m up to, he warns, “That’s a big bite to chew, lad.”
“Aye.”
“It’ll attract a lot of attention.”
“Exactly.”
“And it’ll be expensive.”
“It always is.” I open the door to the confessional. “Thank you, Father.”
“Leave your donation in the usual place, son.”
“I will.”
Buttoning my jacket, I exit the church the same way I entered it: damned. Then I head to the home address of the second name on Grayson’s list. This one’s much more personal than the one I gave Father O’Toole, and I want to take care of it myself.
“An eye for an eye” is a crude concept, but so effective in my line of work.
TWENTY-EIGHT
SLOANE
I’m putting dishes into the dishwasher when a low voice from behind me says, “Making yourself at home, I see.”
I turn to find Declan standing at the corner of the kitchen. He’s been gone all day without leaving a note or texting me where he was going or when he’d be back, and I’m annoyed with myself for wishing that he would have.
Or is that normal? I don’t know. I’ve never visited Emotionville before. So far, it’s quite confusing.
I wish I had a map.
“You left the bedroom door unlocked, so I figured I was allowed to venture out. Was I wrong?”
Working at the knot in his tie, he lets his gaze drift over my body. I’m wearing yoga pants and a sleeveless stretchy crop top, and my feet are bare. By the hungry look in his eyes, you’d think I was stark naked.
“It wasn’t wrong,” he says, voice husky. “But don’t get too comfortable here. We’re moving.”
That surprises me. “Moving? Why? Where?”
He steps closer, pulling the tie off. When he drops it on the counter and opens the top two buttons on the collar of his white dress shirt, I get distracted from the moving bomb he just dropped.
Alarmed, I say, “Is that blood on your collar?”
“Aye.”
“Is it yours?”
“No.”
His expression is closed off. Or it could be simply calm, I can’t tell.