Page 105 of Savage Hearts

He glares at me. Judging by the way his eyes bulge, his head will explode any second.

Instead, he stalks off the porch and into the trees. I don’t see him again until the next morning.

THIRTY

MAL

I never would have taken her if I’d known she’d be this much trouble.

She’s upended everything. My entire life has been turned upside down by a tiny demon waif with a mouth as big as her balls.

She isn’t afraid of me. She thinks I’m her friend.

She thanks me for everything, when she should be screaming at me in rage or terror.

I don’t understand any of it.

I stare down at her sleeping form. She’s curled up in bed on her side with her hands folded under her cheek, looking deceptively angelic.

I know that’s a ruse. That sweet, innocent exterior hides a six-hundred-pound gorilla with an iron will.

With the exception of my snub nose Beretta, I’ve never known anything so small that was also so fierce.

I walk silently out of the bedroom and close the door, resisting the urge to leave a note for her telling her when I’ll be back.

Three hours later, I’m at the Lenin Hotel in Moscow, watching Spider at the bar.

He’s staring down into his drink, ignoring the buxom woman to his left who keeps trying to get his attention. Several other women at nearby tables keep glancing in his direction as well, but he seems oblivious to them all.

He’s preoccupied. Swirling his whiskey. Lost in thought. I know what he’s thinking about.

Rather, who.

The demon waif has an annoying way of holding a man’s attention hostage.

I take the stool to his right. He glances at me, does a double take, then jolts to his feet, snarling.

“Pull the trigger, and you’ll never find her,” I say calmly to the gun he thrusts in my face.

The woman to his left screams and stumbles off her barstool. The other patrons follow her as she runs out. Then it’s only me, Spider, and the bartender, who pours me a double vodka.

He sets it in front of me and shakes his head at the two security guards who are just coming in, alerted to trouble by the swift exodus of the crowd.

They take one look at me and turn around and walk back out.

Sometimes it’s good to be a gangster.

“Have a seat, Spider.”

Livid, he shouts, “Where the fuck is she?”

“Someplace safe. Have a seat.”

I see the instant he decides to shoot me in the leg instead of the face. Before he can, I’m on my feet with the barrel of my gun shoved under his chin.

Unfortunately, his reflexes are good. He doesn’t drop his weapon, stumble back, or make any other tactical error.

He simply responds in kind, shoving the muzzle of his Glock under my jaw.