: Chapter 2

I slick my long brown hair, the color du jour, over my shoulder and give myself a small chin lift.

It’s hard to find a decent mirror in these tiny Irish pubs. I miss Moscow. My family in Russia takes their appearances a lot more seriously, and full-length mirrors are everywhere. At least in my apartment here in Dublin—the tiny flat I’m renting because they asked no questions and I could pay in cash—I have my makeup. Here, I’ll make do with what I have.

I swipe on some pink gloss and run my fingers through my long hair. Blonde is my natural color, but disguises are my specialty.

Today, I’m in sleek, comfortable clothes—nothing too restrictive. I always need to be ready to run. The black spandex fabric stretches tight across my ample ass, the tiny tank clinging, an oversized white sweater falling off one shoulder. I have on tiny black flats, the expensive kind that fold into your luggage and let you run if you need to. Gold jewelry finishes the ensemble.

I glance at the time on today’s burner phone.

Oh, Cillian O’Rourke, you’re five minutes late. That will cost you.

I walk to the tiny booth in the back and quickly double-check all the exits. Behind me, an orange exit sign flashes, and I’ve already confirmed it leads to an alleyway.

“Sorry I’m late, lass,” O’Rourke says, but the expression on his face tells me he isn’t sorry at all. Spoiled prick. Cillian is one of the youngest of the McCarthy clan—a cousin or a brother, I can’t keep track. There are too damn many of them. His head is shaved, with Irish mob ink running down the side of his neck and across his shoulders. Even in a sweatshirt and jeans, he can’t hide his bulk.

His gaze skims over me, lingering. I wonder if I imagine that flicker in his eyes. Not business or courtesy, but something I can’t quite identify.

I’m lonely, though. And for one sliver of a moment—just enough to pull at my heartstrings but not long enough to embarrass me—I wish I were a more permanent fixture in the Irish Mafia. I’m told the McCarthy men are brutal, vicious, old-fashioned, and heavy-handed… but they’re loyal. Filthy rich. Protective. And sexy as sin.

But I’m not their type. I only work for them. I’m a hired contractor and not even paid that well because our deal is simple—they get my excellent forgery skills in exchange for their protection.

Some days, the ability to disappear isn’t the superpower it seems. Cillian never asked for more than my work, but I wanted more. Power. Protection. Maybe something like devotion. But if any of them were interested in me, he would’ve made a move a long, long time ago.

“What do you need, lad?” I ask, flipping open the tiniest laptop known to man—barely bigger than a tablet.

With an eye roll at my mockery of his brogue, he shoves a piece of paper over, the details scratched down in ink. In the digital age, we’ve found that paper trails are sometimes easiest. I’ll literally burn it after I’m done. I take a look at the specs and nod.

“Doable. I can have this for you in twenty-four hours.”

Predictably, he frowns, his full lips pulling down at the edges as he leans forward, his eyes boring into mine.

“I don’t have twenty-four hours, luv.”

I blow out a breath, roll my eyes, and shake my head. Of course he doesn’t, but it’s part of my bargaining power.

His expression’s pinched, his jaw tight. He hates having to ask, hates not being the one calling the shots. Ah, well, sucks to be him.

“Buy me a Guinness, and I can do it in four. You’ll have to find me a pizza too.”

It’s always the same. They never have time, never have patience. Everything I do for them needs to be done yesterday.

But they do keep up their end of our deal, so I keep mine. I’ve been under the protection of the McCarthy Clan since I betrayed the Kopolov Bratva and ran for my life.

I pull up a browser and begin working. He takes his leave after securing me a Guinness and a shitty excuse for a pizza, checking in every hour to see how it’s going. If he wasn’t one of the scariest assholes I’d ever met, which comes in handy for a girl like me, I wouldn’t want anything to do with the bastard. But being in the pocket of the Irish Mafia is my ticket to safety.

For now. I mean, a girl has aspirations.

I finally hand him over everything he needs to assume a different identity in South Africa, with a bit of unsolicited advice. “Try to tamp down your accent, Cillian.” I shake my head. No amount of perfect documents will erase his telltale brogue. “Just… pretend you’re mute or develop a sudden vow of silence.”

He grunts and gives me the middle finger. How quaint. He’s practicing.

It’s two o’clock in the morning when I make it back to the little apartment. I pop my sleep meds because I want to fall asleep, face plant, and not wake up until I’ve slept for hours.

My eyes are bleary from lack of sleep, but I still find my way to the bathroom because even a nomad in hiding needs to have a solid skincare routine. It will take a few minutes for the meds to kick in. I clean, exfoliate, and moisturize, then slide off the wig and sigh with relief. It’s kind of like taking a bra off at the end of the day. Under the wig, my blonde hair sits in a messy bun. I tug it free and watch as it falls over my shoulders.

Sigh. That’s better.

I frown at my reflection when something catches the corner of my eye.

Wait a minute.

I may not have a permanent residence, but I have my rituals, and I never put my toothpaste there. What kind of a heathen makes the top face the sink? I look down at the tube and touch it with my fingertip as if expecting it to get up and move on its own.

Was I so distracted this morning that I started putting things in the wrong place?

I’m tired. Dammit, O’Rourke.

I go to open the bathroom door and freeze, my hand on the cold metal doorknob.

Wait.

I don’t hang my towel on the back of the door. I hang it on the rung by the tub so I can grab it when I shower.

The skin on the back of my neck prickles. Was I not paying attention this morning? Or was someone…in here?

I open the door to the bathroom and call out. “Hello? Anyone there?” As if someone’s going to just magically appear out of thin air. Still, I wait for a reply, but when none comes, I don’t know what to do next.

Should I alert Cillian? I could call the McCarthys if things go south—if I’m in real trouble. But what would I even say? Someone moved my toothpaste and my towel? Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but what if I’m not? Still, without better evidence, I can’t cry wolf. Not with that crowd.

I shake my head and walk to my bedroom. I stand in the doorway, narrowing my eyes and assessing it carefully.

Bed is made, cheap, cream-colored duvet straightened. Charging station lit up, ready for my devices, shades pulled evenly three-quarters of the way down. Not even a shoe out of place in here. Orange bottle of prescription sleep meds sitting on my nightstand right where I left them after I took tonight’s.

I strip out of my clothes and grab the sweats on my dresser. My eyes are so heavy. The meds continue to take effect, but something feels off. My eyes are heavier, my limbs like lead. The pills I take to sleep are usually more subtle than this. Right now, it feels as if my world is shifting.

I close my eyes and let sleep take me. But even in sleep, I dream of dark alleys, rain, footsteps… and a deep voice calling my real name.

Anissa Laurent.

No one has called me that in ages.

Anissa.

I crawl into bed and sleep like the dead.

The blaring ring of my phone jolts me awake. My head pounds, and the air smells… off. For a moment, I startle. I sniff the air like a damn dog.

Has someone been in here?

I blink hard, and for a split second, I swear I see a shadow moving across the room.

‘Who’s there?’ I yell into the darkness. But when I blink again, nothing’s there.

Shaking my head, I try to clear the fog as the phone rings on and on. I startle awake when I recognize the ringtone.

It’s The Undertaker’s. If I miss this…

My heart races.

I grab the phone and stab at the screen. I’m sick with nausea, thinking I’m too late.

“Hello?” My tongue feels too thick.

A pause before he says in a low, calm voice that still chills me to the bone. “That was a close one, lass.’ The unmistakable voice of The Undertaker—Keenan McCarthy’s eldest son. I shiver and squeeze my eyes shut, breathing a sigh of relief. If I’d missed a call from him…

‘Yeah, well, your guy had me at the pub until two a.m., and I was finally sleeping.’ I feign nonchalance, but my hands are shaking.

‘I heard about that,’ he says. ‘But you’re needed, lass. We have an urgent job at the wharf. I need you there in three hours. Can you do it?’

On the phone, he makes it sound like a request, but I know the truth. If I don’t go, they’ll drop me. No more protection. I’ll be exposed. If I refuse the job, I’ll have to run.

Again.

‘What’s the job?’ I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing the ache in my skull to stop. I never get headaches. What the hell?

My gaze snaps to the corner of the room—another shadow in my peripheral vision. But when I look again, there’s nothing.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He fills me in. I nod, yawning into the speaker.

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Wear the blonde,’ he says.

“What the fuck—does one of your men have a blonde kink?’

I don’t take direct orders from them.

“Is that a problem?” he asks in that calm way of his that strikes fear in the most hardened of criminals. “Let’s just say you might have been sighted last night. I want to throw them off. And honestly, luv, you know better than to question me. I’ll see you in three hours. More accurately, two hours and forty-eight minutes.’

The line goes dead.

I set a timer on my phone, punch my pillow, and slam my head back down. I’m so fucking tired.

It feels like minutes later when the alarm blares again. ‘My god. I’m taking a vacation, and you guys are paying for it,” I mumble into the void. Thankfully, when I open my eyes this time, the shadows are gone.

What the hell happened to me? I had the craziest, most vivid dreams. I feel worse now than before I fell asleep.

I stumble toward the dresser and open the drawer. I freeze, my hand hovering mid-air.

This is not how I fold my clothes. I’m fastidious, always on the go, so I’ve learned to fold my clothing into neat little packages arranged in a vertical row in my drawer. I fold them that way so I can pack a bag in a matter of seconds. These are horizontal and all out of place. Neat, yes, but not the way I left them.

I lick my lips and turn around to face my room.

“Who’s there?” I yell into the darkness. But just as before, there’s no response.

Someone was in here. I know it. I take a slow, careful breath, my fingers curling into fists by my sides. I didn’t flee the controlled, miserable existence I had in Moscow and the threat of servitude to the Bratva only to trade for another kind. No.

I keep my heartbeat steady, my gaze focused. I’ve trained myself to stay calm under pressure.

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to think. The Irish? No. They need me. They keep me on a tight leash, but they don’t play these kinds of games. If they wanted me dead for whatever reason, I’d already be floating in the Liffey.

Cillian isn’t a man of subtlety. If he wanted me under his thumb, he’d drag me there kicking and screaming. No, this feels like someone else entirely.

Who else could it be? A random break-in? Unlikely. The exits are too well-guarded.

I have to think this through. I’m the one who sees the details no one else sees. I’m the one skilled at crafting new realities. I erase identities. I disappear when I need to.

But this…

A ghost from my past?

My father’s gone, and even if he were here, this wasn’t his style.

The Irish?

Nah. They need me. I shake my head and walk through my apartment. I’ve only been here a few weeks, but I set it up the same everywhere I go.

The living room seems fine, though I wonder if I left those books I was reading on the nightstand or the coffee table? I shake my head and move to the little kitchenette. I open the refrigerator and stare. Looks normal.

I am losing my mind. There’s nothing to see here.

I hit play on the playlist on my phone for some background noise while I go to get ready. I go to the bathroom, when suddenly, my playlist switches from my usual bedtime songs to something… Russian?

Is that a Russian lullaby?

I grab my phone.

What the fuck?

I didn’t add this song to my playlist.

This doesn’t make any sense. Did someone fuck with my playlist? Playlists glitch… right?

God, I’m panicking over literally nothing.

No one’s coming in here to stalk me, change out my towel, and mess with my playlist. I’m not that important. I’m overtired, overworked, and probably need a drink—maybe I should find some random stranger in a pub, give him a fake name, have a good time for myself, and get this out of my fucking system.

Wear the blonde.

I have to get ready. But when I stumble to the closet and sift through everything, my blonde wig is gone. I yank open a drawer with my props and nestled there in front of me are small boxes of white and pink. I stare.

Are those… pregnancy tests next to my pink opal?

What the actual fuck?

Now I’m wide awake, glaring into the closet.

Someone was here.

Last night, I convinced myself I imagined it. But I know.

I do not lose disguises.

I do not put my clothes in the drawer like that.

Oh, you bold little fucker. You want to play with me? You have no idea who you’re fucking around with.

I do not run from shadows. I fuck them up and bury what’s left.

I turn and face the room as if my phantom stalker can see and hear me. I give the room the middle finger.

‘I am going to find out who you are, and when I do, I’m not going to just kill you. I’m going to erase your entire existence from this planet and make an art project out of your bones. So fuck you.”

Of course there’s no response.

I glance at the window, my instincts humming. Really, the irony is rich.

I’m not the one who vanished this time.

Someone has found me. And they’re making damn sure I know it.