Chapter 114
Evelyn's POV
Julian had been gone for two days when I killed the first one.
Evander Carver died in a Brighton Beach alley on Monday night, his blood pooling between cracked asphalt and discarded cigarette butts while I stood over him with steady hands.
The knife work was clean, efficient—exactly what Kholod's instructors had drilled into us until it became muscle memory. No hesitation. No mercy. Just the cold satisfaction of watching the light fade from the eyes of a man who'd broken my mother's fingers one by one while she begged him to stop.
I'd waited five years for this moment. Five years of being molded into a weapon, of learning to kill without hesitation, of surviving in a world where mercy was a fatal weakness. And through it all, one thought had sustained me through the worst of it: someday, I would make them pay for what they did to my mother.
The list was short. Three names, burned into my memory alongside the image of her brutalized body in that dingy room. Three men who had thought themselves untouchable, protected by money and influence. Three men who were about to learn that debts always came due, even if it took years.
Axel Lennox was next. Tuesday midnight found me in his Chinatown pawn shop, the garrote tight around his neck while he clawed uselessly at the wire. Ninety-three seconds—that's how long it took for him to stop struggling. I counted each one, watching his reflection in the darkened computer screen as his face turned purple, as his movements grew weaker. This death was slower than Carver's, more methodical, and when I finally released him and let his body slump forward onto the desk, I felt nothing but hollow vindication.
Two down. One to go.
By Thursday evening, I was running on caffeine and adrenaline, my body moving through the familiar motions of preparation with mechanical precision. Black tactical gear retrieved from the hidden compartment in my closet. Glock 19 with suppressor already attached. Combat knife strapped to my thigh. And in my pocket, a small vial of succinylcholine—colorless, odorless, nearly undetectable in autopsy if administered correctly.
Thomas Reeves was the last name on my list. The lawyer who'd drafted the loan documents that trapped my mother, who'd advised his boss that "accidents" were sometimes necessary to maintain order in his business empire. Webb's surveillance indicated he lived alone in a brownstone in the West Village, his wife having left him years ago after discovering his taste for young prostitutes.
I was checking my weapons one final time when my phone buzzed with a text from Julian.
Julian: Miss you, sweetheart. Can't wait to get back.
My hands stilled on the gun. The message was routine—he'd sent similar ones the past four nights, brief check-ins between meetings that reminded me he was thinking of me even while handling Titan business in Dubai or Singapore.
He wasn't supposed to be back until Friday. I'd timed everything carefully—three nights while he was gone, three kills spread out enough to avoid obvious patterns, and then I'd be done. Clean. Free.
I stared at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of me wanted to tell him to stay away, to extend his trip, to give me the time I needed to finish this. But that would raise questions I couldn't answer.
I typed out a quick response.
Me: Miss you too. Be safe.
Short. Simple. Nothing that would make him suspicious.
---
I left my apartment at eight PM, moving through Manhattan's evening crowds with the ghost-like silence that had earned me my codename. The tactical gear was hidden beneath a long black coat, my hair pulled back in a severe bun that would leave no loose strands behind. To anyone passing by, I was just another woman heading home after a long day, unremarkable and forgettable.
Reeves' brownstone was dark when I arrived, the security camera angled wrong—pointed at the street rather than the door. My Vorkuta training screamed warnings, every instinct I'd honed over five years telling me something was off. But the rage was a living thing inside me now, drowning out reason, demanding blood.
I was halfway up the front steps when I heard a voice behind me.
"Going somewhere, sweetheart?"
I spun around, my hand already moving toward the gun beneath my coat, and froze.
Julian stood at the base of the steps, dressed casually in dark jeans and a leather jacket, his hands in his pockets and his expression carefully neutral.
But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes tracked my every movement with the focus of a predator who'd found his prey.
My mind raced, calculating exits, assessing whether I could make it past him before he realized I was armed. But even as I ran through the scenarios, I knew it was futile.
Julian had access to Titan's surveillance network, to intelligence resources that rivaled what Kholod could provide. If he was here, if he'd found me—
"You're supposed to be in Singapore," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system.
"Business wrapped up early." He took a step closer, and I fought the urge to retreat. "Thought I'd surprise you. Came back to your apartment with flowers and takeout from that Thai place you like." Another step, his eyes never leaving mine. "Imagine my surprise when you weren't there."
The flowers. The takeout. He'd been planning something sweet, something normal, while I'd been out here dressed for murder.
"I couldn't sleep," I said, the lie coming automatically. "Decided to go for a walk."
"A walk." His eyes dropped to where my coat had shifted, revealing the edge of my tactical gear underneath. "In full combat gear. At a stranger's address."
He pulled out his phone, and I saw my own apartment building's security footage on the screen—me leaving, checking my weapons, the cold focus in my eyes that had nothing to do with insomnia. "Want to try again?"