Markko rolled over, pulling out of the whore beneath him, her pitiful whimper the only indication she was conscious. It was her own fault. He’d flashed some bills and she’d followed him to a room, eager to score some quick cash. She was in no position to complain—he’d paid her price. It was more than she deserved. No amount of his coaxing had convinced her to rise to the challenge. Oh, she’d pleaded and begged, and finally screamed so he had to push her face into a pillow to keep from drawing attention; but there was no real fight in her. The fatal flaw in whores; they were already resigned to their fate.

The pathetic bitch whimpered again as she started to rise. Boredom and disappointment pushed him to shove her the rest of the way off the bed. He longed for home and the freedom to do as he pleased.

He swung his long body over the edge of the bed, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. He flipped open the lighter and ignited the paper and tobacco. Soft cries echoed through the dark as the whore collected her clothes.

Pathetic.

A deep drag and a satisfying rush of nicotine hit him. It was enough to keep him on the bed. Barely. He couldn’t risk the attention a dead prostitute would generate. He’d learned that lesson in San Francisco.

He took another drag, lazily blowing smoke into the darkness. Back home he’d have kept his hands wrapped around her neck as he’d pistoned in and out of her. He would have gloried in knowing the last thing she ever felt was his absolute ownership. Or, if the mood struck, he could have toyed with her for hours, days, if he had the time and patience. The terror of impending death could be almost as stimulating as the vicious fight for life. His dick began filling again just thinking about the possibilities.

Out of the corner of his eye, he tracked the whore’s movements. Her hands shook as she pulled her shirt over her head, wincing as it brushed against skin. She clutched her shoes to her chest, scanning the room warily for her purse and hesitated when she spotted it on the nightstand.

If she came back to the bed, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

She left the bag and escaped into the parking lot. Apparently she thought her life was worth more than the five twenties she left behind. Not likely. But just as well—he wasn’t here for her. He lit a new cigarette with the embers of the old one. He wanted the bitch that killed his brother; wanted her on all fours, begging and pleading. Wanted her badly enough to defy his father. His father who’d ordered him to forget about Ivan, abandon his revenge.

The old bastard still believes he controls me. He barely controls the pack.

His father’s authority no longer went unquestioned. The Bolvek name no longer held the same power. Inspired the same fear. The raids on their territories and the continuing interference in their businesses over the last decade had destroyed far more than wealth and numbers.

Power was shifting. Even now, whispers of his father’s strength grew and traveled. Instigating doubt. Inviting challenge. Three assassination attempts in the last eighteen months. All failures. The most recent he’d dispatched himself.

He stamped out his cigarette against the headboard. His father’s time wasn’t at an end. Not yet.

Not until I’m ready.

Soon enough he’d step in. Terminate his father’s reign. It was the cycle of things. Natural for the younger to supplant the elder. The strong to dispatch the weak. He knew it. His father knew it. In time, Markko would wage war against his father’s rule. Restore the fear of the Bolvek name.

But not yet. First, he had a score to settle. He’d have the bitch responsible for Ivan’s death. With patience and skill, he’d reduce her to little more than a mindless animal. Only then would he allow her to die.

An eye for an eye, bitch.