CHAPTER 202

STEFAN MCCOY

The cracked ridges in my wide open mouth tore when I relaxed the shit-eating grin on my face, flipping between the crisp photos of Alexander and the pale woman leaving the station.

“Is this everything Markov?” I growled, glancing at the barrel-chested assassin standing before me with his hands crossed and his eyes hidden behind the dark rims of the windbreaker sunglasses he had plastered to his forehead.

“Yes sir, everything is going according to plan, Alexander blackmailed the blonde man, like you had said he would.” Markov gritted, the humongous ball of his forehead scrunching with ridges when he frowned.

I took a moment to look him over, noting how his black suit rose a little above his wrist, tight on his bulky biceps.

Markov looked like the human equivalent of a large, black fridge. It was why I used him for most of my hits.

“Keep an eye on the little brother, you may leave,” I growled, watching him bow low before turning to leave the statuesque room and letting his