Page 152 of Savage Hearts

“Perfect! I can’t believe how good. Years of hobbling everywhere are over like that.” She snaps her fingers. “God favored me when I was moved to the head of the line for that replacement.”

It wasn’t God who moved her forward in the Ministry of Health’s long waiting list, but I don’t mention that.

“I’m glad to hear it. Do you have my order ready?”

“Vanya is putting it together. Only a few minutes more. Sit and have a drink while you wait.”

She gestures to a self-serve coffee bar on the opposite side of the store. Behind it is a wall of glass with a view to the street beyond.

“I’ll do that. Thank you.”

Without looking at the movie star, who’s still lounging against the wall near the restrooms, watching me, I walk to the bar, select a paper cup from a bin, and pour myself a large coffee.

I never take it with cream or sugar, but today I do.

I make an elaborate show of choosing an artificial sweetener, riffling through the colored paper packets in their little metal container as if I’m hoping to find a gold bar. Whistling, I stir the sweetener into the coffee. Then I take a thoughtful sip, shake my head, set the cup onto the wood counter, and add a generous dollop of fresh cream.

I sip again. When I produce a loud, satisfied, “Ah!” a voice from beside me says, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you’re in the wrong line of work. You should’ve gone into acting, mate. That deserved a bloody Oscar.”

His tone is dry. His accent is Irish. I want to plunge a knife into his chest.

He slides onto a metal stool beside me and sets his sunglasses on the counter. That’s when I notice the tattoos on the knuckles of his left hand: stars, flowers, initials, a skull with a dagger through it. A black square that looks like it’s covering something else.

My body falls still.

I know those tats. I’ve seen them before. In that specific order on each finger.

I’ve been staring at them for the past sixteen years.

In Russian, he says quietly, “Pakhan sends his regards.”

This Irishman speaks Russian. He knows Pakhan. He wears the same ink on his skin. He knew where to find me and exactly the time I’d be at this store.

I set my coffee down slowly, taking a moment to center myself.

When I turn and look at him, he’s watching me with an alert expression, possibly a respectful one, but no trace of fear.

“Who are you?”

“A friend. Or an enemy. It all depends on you.”

I recall something Pakhan said to me over dinner, and a lightbulb goes on over my head. “The dead man who knows everything.”

He makes a face. Switching back to English he says, “Ach, is that what they’re calling me now? I sound like a B movie.”

After a moment where I only gaze at him, he gestures to the stool next to me. “Have a seat, mate. I don’t like to crane my neck. You’re a bloody skyscraper.”

I sit on the stool and stare at him. He grins like he’s being interviewed on TV. There’s a dimple in his cheek I’d like to stab a fork into.

“So? Where should I start?”

“Your name.”

“Killian.”

“Last name?”

“You get a last name if we decide we’re not going to kill each other.”