Page 133 of King of My Heart

He lets out a barely audible laugh. “Asking for God’s help in both your religions, Lik? Let’s hope that doesn’t turn against us.”

And we go in.

I’m not truly religious. I’m too attached to both my mom’s and my dad’s cultures and religions to pick one. Though it wouldn’t hurt to give a quick prayer, would it?

At first, there’s nothing but darkness. Dust tickles my nose as we move forward blindly. My palms feel sweaty, holding my gun so tightly I’m scared it’ll slip out of my hands the second I try to use it. In front of me, Sam is a calming presence. I see the outline of his body moving with precision and sharpness. With a confidence I can’t seem to match.

I grew up surrounded by violence. Xi was still young when he enrolled with the North Shore Crew; I was even younger. Our dad was alive, clueless as to what we were doing. Our mom could only pray we wouldn’t end up like the other kids on the block. We did.

They weren’t naïve. They were just too busy trying to put food on the table. It wasn’t an easy life for them to move from North Africa. They never made a place for themselves. In fact, some people on the North Shore had never seen anyone from Algeria or Morocco when my parents showed up there. Most of the families that grew up in America’s white poverty were racists, unaware of our beautiful cultures and religions. They treated my mom like she was stupid because she struggled with English—Arabic and French were the only languages she spoke. They had only heard of us through war and the Western eye.

We grew up discriminated against. We grew up poor. We grew up with a need to defend ourselves constantly.

Violence. That’s what made my brother and I who we are today. I lived through it and still live for it. I forged my personality through the gangs on the North Shore. It was the only way to fit in. I hurt, I killed, I almost got killed too many times to count.

So today, in this New York City townhouse, I am not scared for myself. But fuck, if I’m scared for the man I love, dragging us into the Wolves’ den. Literally.

The Wolves aren’t a petty gang. Their war doesn’t consist of turf fights and who will sell the most to the impoverished population of the North Shore, who survives on heroin and stolen moments of escapism. No, they’re a criminal organization. The Russian Bratva. They’re skilled, dangerous. They’re established and would never hide in a shitty townhouse waiting for us to close in on them.

So why does Sam think this is not going to be the end of us?

A noise resounds upstairs just as we reach the steps. Sam turns to me, putting a finger against his lips, telling me to keep quiet. We walk up as discreetly as possible, slowing down when old steps creak under our weights. On the upstairs landing, light comes through a curtainless window.

The place is old, with broken furniture and layers of dust that only proves no one lives here. Especially not the Wolves.

The small noise comes up again, a muffled cry followed by sniffling. I make sure my gun is loaded and the safety is off before following Sam into a room.

Light from the landing falls right onto the body of someone zip tied to a chair. Hands to the armrests, ankles to the legs. A very dead body. His head has fallen back, a bullet hole right between his eyes. The man is naked and covered in blood, knife wounds covering his skin. A piece of paper is stapled to his chest. Sam is already reading it, and I come beside him to check it myself.

Keep looking if you wish, English man.

You’ll only find me when I decide so.

And that’ll be when I come to collect what’s mine.

Aka, Rose.

40

LIK

Love Overdose– Daniel Di Angelo

Now close enough, I can see the dead man is wearing the necklace that had the tracker inside. The replica of the Faberge egg glints from the little light coming into the room.

“Who’s that?” I ask Sam.

“Mattia,” he huffs with no surprise in his voice whatsoever.

“Did you know we were going to find him here?” I finally understand he never thought we were going to find the Volkov brothers here in the first place.

“When we got the text, I thought we would find the body of Aaron Williams. They would never hide in New York, and I assumed they had killed the man who attempted to bring them a message from us.”

“But?”

“But then Mattia didn’t pick up…” He runs his knuckles along his jaw. Something’s bothering him.

“So, you did know he was going to turn up dead here? You knew you weren’t leading us straight to the Wolves? Straight to death?” I double-check.

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