Chapter 38: The living dead

Asher’s POV

The sun was shining brighter today, almost too bright. It felt like it was smiling down at me, daring me to admit I was in a good mood. Maybe I was.

Lately, things have felt different. Lighter. Ever since that dinner with Camila.

Though she's still stiff, still keeping me at arm’s length, but I could see it in her eyes... something was softening. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for me to breathe a little easier. And to think that that dinner would never have happened without Samantha’s meddling.

“Can you cook?” She’d asked me out of nowhere.

I remember frowning at her like she’d just asked me if I could fly. “Umm… not so good. I mean, I can cook. If the taste of my food counts as—”

“Yes or no?” she snapped, slapping her forehead as if I’d failed basic math.

“Yes."

“Good. She likes when someone makes the effort. Especially if they claim to like her. Cooking will get you further than flowers or pretty words.”

Camila likes food that much? Interesting.

I felt my chest tighten with something dangerously close to excitement. Samantha noticed and waved a hand in front of my face.

“Hello? Still here?”

“Yeah, I heard you,” I replied, clearing my throat.

“Good.”

Samantha is the opposite of Camila. Loud where Camila is quiet. Blunt where Camila is cautious. But she was right about one thing: Camila had changed. She wasn’t the girl I once knew. She was tougher now, harder, less emotional. And maybe I had something to do with that.

The car pulled to a stop.

“We’re here, sir,” my driver said.

I nodded, stepping out. He stared at me like I’d grown horns. Probably because I smiled. Ridiculous.

I pushed it aside and walked straight into the building. One thing was certain: no one—least of all Rajeever Malhotra—was going to tear down what I’d started rebuilding with Camila.

“Good morning, Mr Asher.” Brooklyn rose from her desk with her usual professional smile.

“Follow me.” I didn’t slow down.

Inside my office, I sat and gestured for her to come closer. “Send a message to Rajeever’s PA—or whoever cleans up his messes. Tell him I’ll meet him alone. Camila isn’t coming.”

Yeah, she’s not. I’ll deal with him myself. Whatever game he’s playing, whatever scandal he thinks he has—fine. I won’t let Camila be dragged into it again. Not by him.

Brooklyn hesitated. That alone was enough to put me on edge.

“Sir,” she said carefully, “about that… We might have a problem.”

She stepped forward and handed me her iPad.

The headline on the screen slammed the wind out of me: “Popular businessman Rajeever Malhotra found dead—body recovered near the Truckee River below his penthouse.”

“What the hell is this?”

\----

Maverick's POV

“Why did it take so long to report back?” Edward’s voice pinned me like a hawk watching its prey.

“Sorry, sir,” was all I could manage.

He leaned lazily in that high-backed leather chair, glass of scotch in one hand, cigarette in the other. “Well? How did it go?”

I let a slow smile creep across my face. “It’s done, sir.”

Technically not a lie. Most of it was done. Ninety-five per cent, give or take a bleeding Indian who refused to die on schedule.

“And Rajeever?”

“Dead.” The word rolled off my tongue like a shot of cheap vodka. Quick, dirty, and convincing if you didn’t sniff too hard. “Took a bullet in the head. No way he crawled out of that one.”

Edward tapped ash into the tray, satisfied. “Good. He would know better in the spirit world to never tamper with me in his next life. You’ve done well, Maverick.”

I gave him a short nod. “Always, boss.”

“Keep it that way.” He raised his glass, and the conversation was over. I was dismissed.

I left his house with that same smug grin plastered on my face, but inside? My gut twisted tighter than a hangman’s knot.

Because here’s the truth Edward didn’t need to hear:

Rajeever wasn’t dead. Or maybe he was.

How would I know?

\-----

The night replayed in my head as I walked the driveway. The job had started clean—too clean. His men, Rajeever’s guards, fell like dominoes in a shooting gallery. My crew and I picked them off one by one. Easy shots. No fuss.

We stormed Rajeever’s penthouse by the Truckee River—a glass fortress pretending to be untouchable. It wasn't.

The first two guards at the door went down fast. I swear one of them squealed like a pig before he dropped. The others inside didn’t fare much better—blood on the walls, bullets through the air, chaos ripping the silence apart.

And then there he was.

Rajeever.

Huddled beside his bed like a scarred cat, his silk shirt ruined by sweat and panic.

I remember laughing the second I saw him… as pride and stupidity was painted all over his face.

He tried to run. Of course he did. They all run, like rats when the trap snaps shut.

I raised my gun, aimed for his chest, and fired.

Bang. Straight to his chest.

He staggered, clutching at the wound, his eyes wide like he couldn’t believe I’d actually done it. Like betrayal tasted worse than the lead lodged in his ribs.

“You…” He gasped, blood bubbling up from his mouth with each desperate breath. “You think you'll be safe… after this?”

I chuckled. Dark humour’s my thing… It keeps the job from getting too damn boring. “Nah. Think of yourself first, zaddy.”

He spat blood. “I know he put you up to this… Edward… will burn.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get in line. Plenty of folks got that on their to-do list.”

Another shot rang out, catching his shoulder this time. He went down hard, crashing against a glass divider, gasping like a fish out of water.

That’s when it should’ve ended. Right there. A clean shot to the head, lights out, job done.

But Rajeever didn’t play fair.

The bastard rolled, faster than a man with two holes in him had any right to. He smashed through a back window, shards of glass flying like diamonds in the moonlight.

“Shit!” I cursed, sprinting after him.

By the time I cleared the window, he was stumbling down toward the river, blood painting his path like some twisted breadcrumb trail. I fired again. The bullet clipped his leg, and he tumbled, arms flailing—straight into the icy black water.

The river swallowed him whole.

Gone. Just like that.

I stood on the bank and watched for minutes, waiting for his body to bob up.

It never did.

\-----

Whatever the media were saying about his death, there was more to the story than they printed.

I lit a cigarette as I walked away from the mansion. If Rajeever crawled out of that river, he’d come back furious. Very furious.

“Whatever. I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” I chuckled, shaking my head. “And if that time comes, Edward’s going to wish I’d lied better more than I just did.”

Smoke curled up into the sky. Maybe Rajeever was still breathing out there, plotting his way back. Maybe he wasn’t.

Either way, my mind was already on the next job.

Because in Edward’s world, you don’t get paid to tell the truth. You get paid to kill it.