I kick his wrist. Bone cracks. He screams and the gun goes flying. I catch the pistol mid-air, spin it around, and jam the barrel under his chin. “Gde je Dragan?”
His eyes go wide at the Serbian coming from my tongue. He probably thinks he’s seeing a f*****g boogeyman. All things considered, he’s not so far off.
The shot paints the wall. Then—silence.
Blood drips from my fingertips. It’s a mess, a bloodbath at the foot of these stairs, but I’ve done the world a service. Three fewer Vukovic men is a good thing.
My shoulder screams and my knuckles are split, but f**k it—it feels good to be a monster again.
A crash echoes from the alley. Distant shouts—female, strangely enough. I frown. But that’s Kosti’s problem. Surely he can handle one Frenchwoman.
I take the stairs two at a time. Th
