Page 55 of Vengeful King

What the fuck?

My mind races. I can’t think of a single way that this could be possible. There’s no explanation. No man can come back from the dead.

“You did good,” I tell Katrina once he’s gone. I don’t say anything more; I just pull back from the edge of the roof of the building I’m on.

I disassemble my rifle in a few swift moves, tucking it into its case and carrying it toward the fire ladder I came up. As I descend, it feels like my mind is spinning. Every answer I come up with isn’t good enough. There’s no human way to survive what Vasiliev went through.

I thought I was thorough. It’s putting me on edge to realize that maybe I wasn’t thorough enough.

Katrina is still standing frozen in the parking lot by the time I reach her. Vasiliev’s car is long gone, and there’s no risk of being seen. I gesture for her to follow me; we turn the corner and walk a few blocks to my waiting car.

Someone from the family will deal with her car. Someone will come back and comb for any little clues Vasiliev may have left behind, though I doubt they’ll find any.

But I can’t leave any stone unturned. Not when a man came back from the dead.

Katrina gets into the car and I can tell she’s keyed up. Her hands are clenched on her lap, but she flexes them often, like she’s forcing herself to relax and forgetting just as fast.

It takes a few minutes for her to work up the question she wants to ask. She looks over at me, hesitant. I wonder if she’ll think better of saying something, if maybe she’ll second-guess herself and shut up.

But she doesn’t. She lets the words come out, as uncertain as they might be.

“Who is Mr. V?”

I glance at her. There’s no lie in her gray eyes; she’s not asking to check if I know something. Even though she said she didn’t know Mr. V, some part of me still harbored doubt. Looking at her now, I know she didn’t know. She still doesn’t know.

I don’t have to tell her, but I can’t see why it matters. She can’t use the information anyway. And maybe knowing more will mean I’ll be able to use her help with this the way I just did.

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and think about where to start. It’s hard to untangle the memories; it’s been a while since I even thought about the man. Thinking about him now feels strange, like an old ghost has resurfaced.

“When my family—the O’Reilly family—was first getting established in Boston, Yuri Vasiliev was a frequent ally.”

Katrina’s brows furrow. “How long ago was that?”

“One generation, officially.”

I shake my head. I can hear my father’s voice in my ear, explaining all of this. It wasn’t long ago that he was still alive, still able to steer the family. I valued his advice so much, and I thought I’d have decades still to turn to him for support.

And then there was no more time left.

“Vasiliev was a Russian criminal. He worked for himself; he wasn’t tied to any big organization,” I explain. I can see the man’s face in my mind as I speak. “He went where the money was. And he allied with the O’Reilly family, right up until he betrayed us. Tried to stab us in the back.”

I grip the steering wheel tighter, the leather creaking under my palms. I can remember every detail of the night things went to shit.

Yuri had been a constant presence in the family; he was around, even if he wasn’t involved in our family dinners. He’d always had a rangy look about him, a sharp smirk and disaffected gaze. He’d never seem dangerous to a fool. If you were smart enough, you knew he was smarter than he looked.

Yuri’s existence was built on being useful. Being quick. He could get in and out of a place in five minutes, case even the hardest joint in ten. He had a silver tongue and a slow way of talking that made you think he wasn’t in a hurry to screw you over.

And somehow, even being as cautious as we were, he still managed to try to fuck us over.

“I was on a job with him,” I finally say. I can remember it—a small detail, nothing complicated. “He tried to take me out and take all the money for himself.”

Katrina’s eyes widen. I can see her mind is spinning; she’s probably thinking about whether I was hurt. I know she doesn’t know much about the mafia. Maybe she’s imagining me dangling from a cliff, or maybe facing off with a dozen armed men.

In reality, it was messy and fast—so fast that I didn’t have time to do anything but react.

We were on a bridge. That was the backup plan—take the goods, run like hell a few blocks and over the bridge, and get into safe territory. Let the crew pick us up. It was risky, but it was our backup.

I’d felt when things went wrong, it was too wrong. Almost perfect in the way it failed. I felt like it was a double-cross, or at least sabotage. But I’d stowed the thought when the alarms were going off, thinking I’d figure it out back in O’Reilly territory.

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