Angel Blood

17- Eye For An Eye

Sinclair

His voice is a dark rumble in my ear. I'm sure it's supposed to sound scary but the effect falls flat with the knowledge my gun will be pressed to his temple at some point tonight.

"Juliet. Что я тебе сказал?"

She pouts. "But I'm eighteen now."

His grip tightens around my collar and the need to play innocent human fades as I grip his wrist and throw it back to his side. No amount of money can ever make me bare my throat to a useless, rich prick like him.

"Enough." I swivel, hands braced at my sides in the case he tries anything else as brainless as taking me by the neck again. "It's not like I've fucked her."

Eyes the color of ice meet mine. They're cold, uncaring, but I can tell a heated rage dwells in their depths. "For your sake, I hope not."

I almost laugh at the threat but think better of it. Goading entitled assholes isn't on my to-do list tonight.

The bubble of tension that surrounds us draws curious eyes. Either that or the fact that Volkov is one of those men that just naturally draws the female gaze without trying. His nose is straight, cheekbones high on his face. His carefully calculated eyes are large and hooded, dark hair slicked back aside from a few stray pieces that flop onto his forehead. Even his stubble is carefully groomed, cut neatly across his jaw in a permanent five-o-clock shadow.

Everything about him is intentionally perfect. It's annoying as fuck but I'm sure it helps in business. Humans tend to trust attractive faces, as idiotic as it is.

He ignores the way his sister frowns at him, face the picture of smooth indifference. If I didn't notice the way his hands clench at his sides he'd probably fool me too.

"Come with me," he says, not bothering to check if I've waddled into line with him like the good little bitch he expects me to be. The way I'm sure everyone else submits to him. "Let's talk."

If not for the surmountable chunk of change on the line, I'd already have my hands to his throat. But unlike Volkov, I haven't always been wealthy, and the urge to snatch every penny presented to me wins over my pride.

We push past bodies until we reach a swinging door. He pushes it open, pausing in the doorway, back straightening with uncharacteristic dread.

I sigh impatiently, expecting someone of importance to stand in front of us. Instead, a girl with messy blonde hair rifles through the fridge, black gown hanging off of her slim body. She tenses at the sound of feet at the doorway, soft brown eyes peeking shyly around the metal door.

"Out," Volkov says, shoulder relaxing as he steps into the kitchen.

She winces, shutting the door but leaving with a large tub of cookie dough pressed to her chest. A nervous apology bubbles past her lips as she scrambles past us, her willowy frame bumping lightly against his side on her way out.

He stiffens at the touch, brushing a hand over his suit to smooth out the imaginary wrinkles. Somehow I can sense that the action is meant to dust any remnants of her presence away.

"I can't tell if you're just a pretentious fucker or if you don't like girls."

He tenses, sending a miffed expression my way. "What I am is none of your business." He continues forward, face settling back into its usual cool indifference as he pushes into the next room.

I snort as I follow closely behind, unable to contain the wry amusement that bubbles to the surface at how such an unfazed man can get so much discomfort from the small, blonde, cookie thief.

If the outside of his mansion isn't a reminder of his wealth, the interior proves just as much. We pass through rooms and hallways until reaching a dimly lit room filled with shelves of books, a large desk, and a fireplace lit with flickering flames.

He shuts the door behind him and I stride over to his desk, grasping the neck of an amber bottle of liquid pushed off to the side and the empty glass that sits next to it.

I have no doubt this room is soundproof, and judging from the way heavy black curtains drawn over the only window behind me, blocked off from prying eyes as well.

Volkov is making this too easy. Here I thought a man his rank would have more brains.

He watches me pour a large glass of alcohol, face blank. "Your arrogance is impressive."

"Or I'm just an alcoholic." I gulp back the fine liquor, smiling as it burns the back of my throat like my own personal hellfire. "But probably that too."

His face mends into a scowl, finally showing the obvious distaste he's meticulously kept at bay. "Stay away from my sister, Black."

The glass freezes at my lips, fingers squeezing the textured glass. I push away the shock that freezes in my chest with a smile. "Ah. You're smarter than little Juliet."

He sighs, looking more irritated than frightened at the fact that the city's most well-known hitman stands in front of him. I'm sure he'll change his tune soon enough.

"Who?" he murmurs, tucking his hands in his pockets.

I gulp another burning sip and then noisily slam the glass onto his desk, watching the liquid slosh out of the top and spill over the fine oak. My other hand reaches for my gun, lazily pulling it from my waistband and letting it hang carelessly at my side. "Sent me?" I huff out a dry laugh. "Will it matter when you're dead?"

He doesn't even glance at the pistol, keeping his hands pushed in his pockets. His icy eyes never stay from my face. "I thought you were smarter than this."

I don't respond as I aim the weapon at his chest, quick to pull the trigger and watch the red leak from the wound, slowly seeping into his white dress shirt like a form of twisted art.

I wait for him to collapse. As rushed as it was, the bullet should have landed in his heart.
Instead, his eyes flicker down to his ruined clothing, than back up at me. I grunt out a strained curse, a new warmth surging into my limbs although my new victim is miles away.

"That fucker," I murmur, keeping my gun raised although my fingers quiver with the need to wrap around Capponi's neck.

Volkov's face hardens as he shrugs off his suit jacket and rolls up his sleeve, revealing a serpent similar to my own wrapped around his forearm. Sometimes I forget that the deceitful nature of demon descendants makes them difficult to single out although it's painfully obvious in hindsight. His gaze catches on the small red line that stretches over my free palm. He smiles, and for the first time in my life, the low thrum of dread tightens my stomach. "An eye for an eye, Black."

I surge forward, hands bared to halt the movement of his arm as he reaches for the gun peeking out from behind his belt, but I already know I haven't fed recently or enough to be quick enough to stop him.

He aims and shoots. I grunt as I feel the sharp cut of his bullet pass through my stomach.