Reinaldo

The fucking car smelled like fast-food and body odor. It wasn’t a good combination. I tried to remember Jasmine’s honeysuckle scent as I stared through the windshield of the inconspicuous sedan. This was the fifth night of surveillance outside Myshkin’s club in the bratva territory. At nearly two in the morning, we were no closer to going back to Bella than we’d been when we stepped off the fucking boat deck.

“I need to piss,” Diego said, opening the car ...