DAMIEN RAPHAËL POV
I sat alone in the study, the only light in the room coming from the antique lamp perched on the corner of my desk. Shadows crept along the walls, dancing lazily with the crackle of the fire behind me.
My mind was elsewhere, dangerous territory.
I stared at the black folder on the table, it was half open and revealing a printed photo of my target, Martín.
There were at least a dozen ways I could take him out.
Poison slipped into a drink. A clean sniper shot from across the rooftop. Blade through the ribs in a club restroom. Or the old-fashioned way, corner him in the alley or railway and break every bone in his body before putting a bullet between his eyes.
Each thought came with a flash of adrenaline, a calm sort of bloodlust.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t question it. This was the part I was good at. The part I didn’t talk about. The part that never left my bones, even after I tried to clean my hands with newer ventures.
I leaned back in the leather c
