Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(28)

Narrowly missing driving head-on into a streetlight, he shouts, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Malek?”

I take it they’re acquainted.

“Bloody hell, Riley! Did he hurt you?”

“No. Please tell me you’re not going to turn around and try to kill him.”

“As if I could! The bastard’s a bloody ghost! He’d have my head on a spike before I knew what hit me!” He stops hollering and looks at me. “Why don’t you want me to kill him?”

A very good question, indeed. I rack my brain for a reasonable answer.

“I don’t want to be around when anybody kills anybody else, okay?”

It must have sounded sensible enough, because Spider turns his attention back to the road. Tense and glowering, he snaps, “Tell me everything he said to you. At the restaurant and just now. Don’t leave out a word. It’s important.”

I do my best to tell him everything I remember. When I’m finished, he’s horrified.

“Christ. He came into the house?”

“Yes.”

“He could’ve killed you, lass. He could’ve strangled you in your sleep!”

I say drily, “Thanks for that. But he didn’t hurt me. And I believed him when he said he wouldn’t.”

“That’s daft!”

His outrage makes me feel defensive. “Daft or not, he was actually quite sweet.”

Spider almost drives off the road again. He thunders, “Sweet? The man’s a bloody assassin! He’s the most ruthless bastard there is!”

I decide this isn’t the time to point out that he’s sweet, too, and he also has murder in his job description. “So you’ve met him before?”

Raking a hand through his hair, Spider huffs in frustration. “No one’s met him before. He’s like the Bogeyman: a nightmare who exists solely by reputation. He’s the right hand of the Moscow Bratva king, and the main reason the man rose to power. Malek’s extremely talented at removing obstacles.”

And by obstacles, he means enemies.

The man who tried to rescue me from a life of prostitution and gently cupped my face in his hand like it was made of porcelain is a Russian assassin of such terrifying reputation, he makes “regular” killers like Spider quake in their boots.

I bury my face into my hands and moan. It makes Spider freak out.

He shouts, “What is it?”

Oh, nothing. I just realized I’m attracted to a killer who walks through locked doors and makes the Terminator look like Britney Spears. This sort of thing happens to me every day. Nothing to see here. No big deal.

“Lass!”

“Please stop shouting at me. I’m having a minor breakdown is all. Last week, I was living my nice quiet life in my nice quiet apartment in San Francisco. Since then, I’ve discovered that my sister is getting married to the head of the Irish Mob, and that I caught the eye of a notorious Russian assassin whose hobbies include stalking, appearing out of thin air, making wildly incorrect assumptions about people based on their wardrobes, and handing out large quantities of cash to strangers in restrooms. He’s also on a mission to kill my future brother-in-law. It’s been an eventful few days.”

Spider blows out a hard breath. He mutters a series of colorful curses. Then he takes a sharp turn off the two-lane road we’re speeding down onto a larger highway.

He’s not headed back to the house.

“Where are we going?”

“The airport.”

“Why?”

He glances at me. His jaw is as hard as his eyes. “When the Hangman discovers where you live, you disappear before he can pay you a visit.” With an oath, he corrects himself. “Another visit.”

He stomps his foot onto the accelerator. We rocket down the highway. He picks up his cell and makes a series of calls, speaking tersely in Gaelic through each one.

While I sit slumped in the passenger seat, replaying everything in my head.

Especially Malek’s nickname: the Hangman.

I try hard not to imagine how he got it.





14





Mal





They arrive at the airport burning rubber and screech to a stop outside a hangar.

The blond guard with the spiderweb neck tattoo pulls Riley out of the SUV and drags her across the tarmac by the hand.

They disappear inside the hangar.

Ten minutes later, the hangar doors open. A large white private jet sits inside. The jet’s engines roar to life.

It doesn’t surprise me they found a pilot on such short notice. The head of the Irish Mob is a powerful man.

Not that his power will be able to protect him.

Nothing on earth can protect him now.

Grinding my teeth, I watch from a distance as the jet pulls out onto the tarmac, turning to head down the main runway and wait for clearance to take off.

I watch it lift into the sky, glinting under the sun as it rises.

I watch it shrink until it’s nothing more than a tiny white dot against a vast sea of blue.

All the while, I force myself to breathe deeply to control the raging wildfire of fury burning inside my chest.

The last time I was this enraged was when I learned of Mikhail’s death.

This is almost worse. This shock comes with a deep sense of betrayal.