**
Three months out of Mama Liba's house and I was already bored of being free.
Freedom is funny.
When you grow up in chains, you think freedom means no rules.
Turns out freedom just means nobody tells you when to eat, when to sleep, when to kill.
So I made my own rules.
Rule one: only take jobs that pay seven figures.
Rule two: never leave witnesses.
Rule three: never feel anything.
First job came quick.
Some Miami millionaire wanted his partner erased.
Half a million up front.
I flew down the same day, checked into a roach motel, watched the target for three days.
Fat guy.
Always in white suits.
Two bodyguards who laughed like hyenas.
Night four I walked into his penthouse wearing a Domino's cap and carrying a cold pizza box.
First guard opened the door smiling.
I put a silenced round through his eye before the smile dropped.
Second guard reached inside his jacket.
I shot him twice in the throat.
Fat man was on the couch, pants already wet.
He started begging real fast.
"I got kids, man! I'll pay triple! Ten million!"
I smiled.
First real smile since I was eight.
"Too late."
One bullet.
Center of the forehead.
Brains on the white leather.
I took a picture with his dead face, sent it, collected the second half million before the sun came up.
That was easy.
Next jobs rolled in like waves.
- Politician in New York who liked little girls.
I made it look like suicide.
Hung him with his own tie.
- Drug queen in Mexico.
Pretty.
Thought her cartel boys could protect her.
I walked through them like paper.
Left her in the pool with her throat opened ear to ear.
- Crypto kid in LA who scammed the wrong Russians.
I pushed him off his own balcony.
Thirty-two floors.
Splat.
Money stacked fast.
Ten million.
Twenty.
Fifty.
I bought a blacked-out G-Wagon, a penthouse in Manhattan I never slept in, and clothes that cost more than Mama Liba's old house.
But something was missing.
Every night I took Richard's pinky ring out, rubbed the dried blood with my thumb, and promised the dark,
"Soon."
Then one night the black card buzzed.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Deep voice.
Light Russian accent.
"Invincible.
We have a job.
Biggest you'll ever see.
Two point seven billion on the line.
You in or you out?"
My heart actually kicked.
2.7 billion.
"Talk."
"Private crypto transfer.
Hardware wallet.
Secluded beach outside Lisbon.
Midnight tomorrow.
Twelve armed escorts.
You take the wallet.
We clean the rest.
Half up front.
Half on delivery."
Half of 200 million is 100 million dollars.
I didn't even ask who the client was.
"Send coordinates."
Thirty seconds later: money hit my offshore account.
100 million dollars.
More than some state have in their treasury.
I stared at the numbers until the screen went black.
I was twenty-two years old and already one of the richest killers alive.
I booked the jet that same hour.
Twenty-four hours later I'm standing on a dark Portuguese beach.
Moon is a thin blade.
Waves whisper.
Air tastes like salt and gunpowder.
I count fourteen men, not twelve.
AKs, night vision, body armor.
One idiot smoking a cigarette like he's on vacation.
Two speedboats cut through the water.
One carries the seller.
One carries the buyer.
Between them: a metal briefcase glowing blue from the wallet screen inside.
I move.
First guard drops with my knife in his spine.
Second gets a bullet through the temple before his cigarette hits the sand.
Third sees me.
Opens his mouth to scream.
I shoot him in the teeth.
Fourteen becomes zero in eighty-four seconds.
Only one man still breathing.
He's on his knees in the sand.
Gut shot.
Hands trying to keep his insides inside.
I walk up slow.
He looks up.
Scar from eye to mouth.
My blood turns to ice.
Scar Man.
The same bastard who laughed while Richard burned.
He recognizes me too.
His bloody lips split into a grin.
"Little prince… you grew up pretty."
I press the silencer to his forehead.
He coughs blood and laughs harder.
"Waiting for your boss, kid.
Tell him Volkov sends his love."
I pull the trigger.
His head explodes like a watermelon.
I stand there too long.
Boss?
What boss?
I call the number that hired me.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Nothing.
I grab the hardware wallet.
Cold.
Heavy.
2.7 billion dollars now belongs to a ghost.
I should be celebrating.
Instead my brand burns like it's fresh.
I fly back commercial this time.
Hood up.
Cap low.
Nobody looks at me twice.
Next morning I'm in a random diner in New Jersey.
Burnt coffee.
Greasy eggs.
TV above the counter switches to breaking news.
"Massacre in underground Brooklyn club.
Twenty-seven dead.
All known associates of fixer Viktor Polnin.
Execution style.
Like a hurricane walked through."
They show Viktor's body.
Half his face gone.
It was easy to guess they gave me the contract cause the info on the news that the police had confirmed is connected to a crypto issue.
Every single person who knew about the Lisbon job is dead.
It was easy to guess they gave me the contract cause the info on the news that the police had confirmed is connected to a crypto issue.
Except me.
I look at the wallet hidden inside my jacket.
2.7 billion dollars.
Untraceable.
Mine.
The waitress asks if I want more coffee.
I pay and walk out.
Cold air hits my face.
For the first time in fourteen years, I feel something sharp in my chest.
Not fear.
Not even anger.
It's hunger.
Volkov.
The family that killed Richard.
They just handed me their whole fortune on a silver platter.
And they have no idea the little prince is all grown up.
I slide Richard's pinky ring around my finger.
Time to go home, old man.
Time to make them all burn.