Page 7

Her name was Monroe Ross. She was an American expat, teaching school children in Busan.

She came around the corner of the alley outside Club Gongshi with no idea what she would find. The humidity made her tight curls fan out around her face like a halo. Her eyes were large and striking, every emotion readable in them. She had dark, equally expressive eyebrows, brown skin reminiscent of copper, and a round nose with a short slope.

When she saw what was happening, she froze and her mouth opened in horror. Her lips quivered, forming an O shape that made them look even fuller than they naturally were.

My men dragged her over and dropped her at my feet. Up close, she was even more pitiful and pathetic.

I peered down at her, instantly tempted to squash her like an insect.

I saw myself in the glassy sheen of her eyes, lashes stuck together from tears. Her breath came in fast, shallow bursts as she waited for me to act.

She was so terrified that I could smell the fear on her skin.

Warm. Sweet. Real.

She was a beautiful woman. I won’t pretend otherwise.

But there are many just like her in a city like Busan. WhiteandBlack American women who come to South Korea for the adventure and do so by teaching English in our schools.

I stared down at her, so vulnerable and fragile, so terrified and beautiful, and I wanted to shatter her. Break her piece by piece ’til nothing but fragments remained.

Instead, I spared her.

She was nothing more than a skittish little thing—some expat who took a wrong turn in the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time. More harmless than a fruit fly.

And like most flies, easily scared off.

That’s what the mark was about. It was a warning that she could find herself in real trouble she would never escape should I ever cross her a second time.

If she’s smart, she won’t come near Baekho territory again. She’ll stick to her classroom and books and refrain from stumbling into places she shouldn’t be.

Do-shik wipes the last of the ink and wraps the fresh tattoo in film. He steps back to give me the space to admire his work in the mirror.

Exceptional, as expected.

I’m reaching for my shirt when the door to the private room creaks open behind me.

“Jin,” a voice says. “Sorry to interrupt.”

My gaze meets his in the mirror. It’s Kang Seung-min, one of the new bloods in our crew. Formally known as Hubae, they’re the juniors who have recently been initiated into Baekho.

Seung-min is young but sharp and undyingly loyal. He charged after Monroe tonight in the alley with no hesitation. I see the same hunger in his eyes that I had at his age.

Except Seung-min also has a thirst for attention. For glory.

He has a face that’s squashed like a pug and a body that’s thick and brawny, part of what makes him a viable enforcer.

He bows once. “The Baekho-je wants to see you.”

I finish pulling my shirt over my head, careful not to brush the fresh ink. “Did he say why?”

“Only that it’s urgent.”

Of course it is.

The Baekho-je believes his every thought is an emergency.

I grab my leather jacket, not bothering to put it on, and follow Seung-min out of the room.