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The bartender doesn’t hesitate.

His eyes go wide—toowide. His hands tremble as he looks at me.

I nod and roll up my own sleeve.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, making the sign of the cross.

Then he slams his towel onto the counter and nods once.

"Clear the room."

It reminds me of the time I cleared the bar for Anissa, only this won’t be as sexy.

Men abandon their games. Drinks are left untouched. Laughter dies in their throats. The smarter ones don’t look back as they hurry for the exit.

The dumber ones hesitate.

They want to see if it's worth finishing their drink.

Rodion sighs and winks at me before drawing his gun. He cocks it, aims at the ceiling, and fires.

Bang.

The last stragglers run, pushing and shoving like rats in a flooding tunnel.

I narrow my eyes at Anissa’s attacker. “Not. You.”

Within seconds, only one man remains.

Yaroslav Solov.

The fucker barely looks up from his drink.

He’s about fifty years old. His bald head gleams under the single beer-stained overhead light. So heavy he has no neck, his beady eyes set deep in his thick, doughy face.

This is the bastard who hurt my woman.

And this is the fucker whose life is going to end tonight.

"What the fuck is this?" he sneers, rolling his shoulders, affecting an air of authority he doesn’t have. "Do you know who I am?"

I approach slowly, rolling my wrists and stretching my fingers. A man about to get to work.

"I know exactly who you are."

He scowls. "Then you know you just made a fucking mistake."

I grin, laughing darkly. "That’s what you think."

I tilt my head, my voice quiet and deadly.

"Anissa Laurent."

He freezes.

A beat of silence.

Somewhere behind the walls, I hear mice slithering and squeaking.