Cold Hearted Bastard (Underworld Kings)

“Suit yourself,” Maksim murmured. “I’m hitting up Nino’s then. Those girls are eager to please the right people, if you know what I mean.”

The right people meant Maksim could get free ass because he was associated with the Bratva. If they didn’t recognize him by face alone, as soon as he took off his shirt, they’d see his tattoos and know who he was affiliated with.

The same as me.

A group of really fucking bad men.

But where some of them might have been redeemable… I was a monster who had a first-class ticket straight to hell.

Besides, I had plans tonight, plans that included me going somewhere I shouldn’t, because I wanted to see someone I had no business looking at.

The far-too-innocent brunette who worked at Sal’s all-night diner, a diner that was owned by the Bratva to launder their money. And the latter she’d have no fucking idea about. She probably just saw it as another run-down twenty-four-hour diner that catered to drunks, addicts, and those stumbling in after clubbing all night, looking for piss-poor food after everything else was closed.

I shouldn’t have been thinking about her, not while I was alone and lying in bed, and sure as fuck not while I was hacking up the bastard spread out on the ground.

But fuck, she’d been on my mind for months, and for a man who wasn’t afraid of anything… wanting her terrified the fuck out of me.

3

Galina

If you were lonely enough, it was almost like you were never alone. It was a constant, heavy presence that weighed on you almost like companionship, another person. It was a friend I’d grown very acquainted with as the years dragged on, especially after I moved to Desolation and left Vegas behind.

When I ran. Escaped.

And I’d been living with that dark companion for the last two months. How fitting was it that I’d created a new life in Desolation, NY. A new name. A new background. The lie of my life.

But I couldn’t hate Desolation, especially this shitty part of town, especially Sal’s diner, where I waitressed. It was the only place that hadn’t asked me any questions, didn’t do a background check, and paid me under the table.

I stared at the old, faded industrial-looking clock that hung on the diner wall to my right. I had no doubt if I pulled it down, it would be coated in an inch-thick layer of grime. Same with about anything in this piece-of-shit restaurant.

The time said it was late as hell, or early, depending on how you wanted to look at it. It was a little after three in the morning, and fortunately I only had a couple of hours left on my shift.

I didn’t mind the crappy hours or the depressing aesthetic of Sal’s. They gave me as many hours as I wanted, the tips were decent when I worked the rush hour, first thing in the morning, and being here kept me from having to sit in my hole-in-the-wall apartment alone, wondering if they’d find me, if my past would catch up with me.

I’d heard the backstory of Sal’s from Laura, one of the waitresses who worked the night shift with me. She told me Sal’s had been operating for the last fifty years and had once been owned by a husband and wife, Sicilian immigrants who’d gotten their American dream of owning their own business.

But sadly, when Marianna—the wife—passed away, her husband Sal had followed not long after. And then, surprise, a private organization—AKA no doubt a shady business who was more than likely using this place as a front for money laundering—had swooped in pretty damn fast and taken ownership. I put the latter together myself, given my background with less-than-notable affiliations.

And here I was, two months after running from Henry and his sick plans for me to pay for my father’s debt. I was living the dream, let me tell you, but pushing greasy-as-hell burgers, flat colas, and three-day-old apple pie slices to drug addicts, sex workers, drunks, and anyone else who wanted a place to get off the street since we were open twenty-four hours every day of the year was better than the alternative.

I wasn’t Galina Michone anymore. I was Lina Michaels. The fake ID had been easy enough to get in Vegas, and my life here in Desolation was eerily similar to being back “home,” so I’d assimilated fine.

“Can I get some fucking service over here?”

I exhaled wearily and rubbed my eyes before heading over to the clearly drunk customer who’d just come in. I’d seen him plenty of times before, and he was always obnoxious and demanding—not to mention intoxicated. It was clear he thought women were beneath him by the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes when he addressed the opposite sex. He was like every other asshole I’d come in contact with during my life.