Page 70 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Wesley

The sounds of the lamest birthday party I’ve ever been to follow me out of the library.

It’s not even Dimitri’s actual birthday…

not that I’d ever call him out on what he clearly wants to keep quiet.

Plus, everyone is having a good time, and moments like these are bright spots in an otherwise dark existence.

I can hear the conversations echo across the hallway, the intermingling of four distinct voices and accents.

As I shut the door of my study, muffling the sounds of two couples and their easy camaraderie, I have to swallow down a rush of sharp, uncomfortable emotions.

I’m not really jealous—they all deserve whatever fleeting happiness they can get in this life—but it feels a hell of a lot like it.

It never occurred to me before Mac brought Eleanor back home one night that any of us might pursue a romantic relationship while doing what we do.

Most women wouldn’t fit into this life of death and violence, nor would they want to.

I assumed Dimitri felt the same way I did, but then he found Nicole and forced that square peg into a round hole, as is his way.

And I’ve come to think of both those women as an extension to this strange little family we’ve built, but…

it’s not a good life. Just because Eleanor turned out to be nearly as crazy as Mac, and Nicole puts up with it for now, that doesn’t mean any other woman would.

Or should. It’s dangerous—Eleanor was nearly shot, Nicole was kidnapped—and it forces you to leave behind who you were before .

I never let myself imagine having what they all have. A woman. A partner in the house, here with me. Someone to soften the edges that this job hones. Someone to give myself to, to lean on, to support, to tell anything…

Right. I don’t tell anyone everything. Not even the men I kill people with—and I willingly put my life in their hands every day.

I sit at my desk and reopen the various windows I obsessively close every time I leave the room.

The last requires a tertiary password and brings up the few bugs I secretly installed within the house.

I know it’s a gross invasion of privacy, but they’re focused solely on my own hallway, and I only use them to ensure that I won’t be interrupted.

It’s far less conspicuous than a locked door.

And in a house where we’re all on top of each other, someone will assume I’m having a wank and I’ll never hear the end of it.

Once I’m certain, I unlock the middle desk drawer with the unmarked key on my chain and pull out the battered, black Moleskine notebook. The page I want opens automatically from the overworked crease.

Jacob Rossi, arms dealer

Kevin Anderson, corrupt—involved? maybe looking the other way?

Dr. Oliver Pinsk—running synthetic drug lab?

Julia Dennison—counterfeit ring? forgery/elite/lone wolf possibly

Wearing a grim expression, I place a single strike through the next line.

Viktor Volkevich, Russian Mob

There are a few more names, but surrounded by question marks, doubtful notes, and erasure.

Felix Cruz—cleaner? Motives? Well-connected, possible source

John Mariano—Italians… lost turf war with Russians, hobbled but not out?

Alfano Cartel—drugs, distribution… coyotes? Smuggling? Human trafficking? No sophistication, do esn’t fit

Adrian Chekhov—up and coming Bratva, too young/on the radar yet? VIP gambling probably, small ops

That’s the end of the list. Every other name is crossed out with a single neat line, scratched out in anger or frustration, or erased. I flip through the familiar pages that follow, taking care with the paper that’s worn down from all the handling.

I skim the disjointed, scribbled notes that contain dozens of unanswered questions, like: Why Ulysses? What’s the connection? What is the growth source and potential? How did they evade notice for so long? Someone on the inside?

With a long exhale, I amble over to the mini-fridge I installed and crack open a new can of energy. There’s a message blinking on the screen when I settle back at my desk.

mermaidav: I was just sitting here thinking today felt incomplete. Then I realized I hadn’t talked to you yet.

A grin forms on my face before I even finish reading the greeting. My fingers are on the keys in an instant, typing out my response to her— my favorite spider, and quickly becoming my favorite person . Full stop.

SpyderMan: Good thing the night is young.