Chapter 1

Harlee

T here's no gift more exciting than death, tied with crimson ribbons, under the Christmas tree.

My heels click against the perfectly polished marble floor as I walk down the spacious corridor of the museum's entrance hall, the walls lined with beautifully decorated Christmas trees, garlands, and festive lights. Other attendees of the event, hosted each year by one of New York's most notorious Bratva leaders, mingle around the trees, chatting as they admire the beautiful decorations. Their faces are covered by a wide variety of different masks, hiding their identities. Every year this event attracts not only the people who run the underworld, but also high-profile politicians and businessmen. For one night, all differences are put aside as the Bratva hosts not only the biggest Christmas party but also one of the biggest charity events. Year after year, it's proven that even among the most evil humans to walk the earth, you can often find a spark of kindness. Including the Russian Mafia, which donates money to a variety of causes every Christmas.

But despite the occasion, the event is also the perfect playground. Everyone who has made a name for themselves, for better or worse, is here. If you want to network or do business, this is the place to be.

This includes contract killings. Not only is it easy to disappear among the thousands of attendees, everyone is masked to maintain a sense of security. But it's no use. Countless people are found dead during the night every year. And tonight won't be any different. This event must be like the holy grail for professional killers. They are paid to attend one of the most luxurious events, to kill, and to enjoy themselves with their peers.

Once again, I find myself envying the thought of having like-minded people in my life, having someone to talk to about technique, about the feeling it brings, but killing for money has never been an option for me. I'm an artist. I kill for the art of it.

Art. Which has been my entry ticket into the high society of New York City. Four years ago, after leaving London behind, I held my first art exhibition in a small shabby studio and all it took was one man in a deep blue suit wandering in. He took one look at my abstract paintings and within a couple of months I held exhibitions at luxurious studios and sold paintings left and right while being invited to events that most of New York’s society could only dream of.

I owe this man everything. Not only did he kickstart my new life in the States, but he also allowed me to upgrade my color to premium.

My eyes dart around the people still lingering in the lobby. To anyone else, I look like any other guest here tonight: elegant, harmless . But they don’t see what I’ve tucked behind that innocent appearance. There are so many different sources to choose from, but I have my eyes set on one man in particular. He will be my new addition to my color chart.

I raise my hand to my face, making sure my mask is still in place before approaching the tall doors that lead to the festive halls. The two men standing on either side of the door push it open for me, allowing the festive music and chatter of hundreds of people to escape the room and fill the entrance hall. I step through, giving the two men a quick, appreciative smile before my attention lands on the bustling, masked crowd in front of me. Somewhere, among all of them, I will find my victim.

How I choose my next subject to add to my color palette varies. I do not sort the color red by the subtle changes in hue. No, I organize them by the person's personality or... by their crimes. That means, if I'm in need of a bold, deep, and dangerous red, I've got a person that fits my needs. Tonight, I'm in need of a dirty, muddy red that is going to bring out the pain in my painting that all the people this person has tormented felt. His death will bring healing to those who are afraid and help others in need. It will be sold to another criminal and all the profits will go to an organization that helps people escape abusive situations.

I let my gaze wander over the crowd, looking for anything that would give away any sense of familiarity, when suddenly a cold shiver runs down my spine, causing the hairs on my neck to stand up and with a quick look around, I find a man staring back at me.

His gaze is fierce and demanding, cutting through all the guests that separate us. Part of his face is covered by a simple black mask. His short, black hair is slicked back and a perfectly trimmed scruff accentuates his sharp jawline. Broad shoulders, dressed in a perfectly fitting suit with a crimson tie as its highlight. As if he had intentionally chosen to separate himself from the crowd, the man stands alone at the edge of the masses by the tall windows.

A lump crawls up my throat, blocking my airway, as he holds my gaze and raises his glass of what I can only assume is a whiskey to his lips, taking a sip without once breaking eye contact.

The bustling crowd around me begins to fade to a low hum as the room and the air suddenly feel hotter, beads of sweat forming at the back of my neck as my senses erupt with sparks of fire. A familiar warm sensation flares up in my chest and spreads through my body, down my stomach, and to my core. Something about the man seems dangerous, yet mysterious, yet inviting. And for some reason, I’m drawn to him like a moth to light. Maybe I should add some more fun to my wish list for tonight, besides a successful kill; a night full of pleasure with a handsome loner sounds like exactly what I need.

Yet, I'm the first to break eye contact and turn my attention back to the crowd around me. Despite the masks, I recognize familiar features. Men and women I've met over the years, some I call business associates, acquaintances, and others who call themselves my friends. But I would not necessarily call them that. The one I can’t find among them though is the one that will soon meet his demise. Christopher Richmond. A man who thinks he has a clean slate, but I see the stains. The countless women he has used and abused. It's not hard to find these criminals in high society; in fact, they practically present themselves on a silver platter. They wear their crimes on their wrists and think they're invincible, that they're above consequences, that their wealth makes them untouchable. But they're wrong. Their wealth and power may protect them from the law, but not from me.

I let my eyes sweep over the crowd before I let out a sigh. The evening is still young and I will get my chance soon enough. For now, I should give myself the chance to enjoy the event as long as the festive atmosphere lasts.

I head for the small buffet at the other end of the hall, reach for a glass of champagne, and select a plate with a treat— a small pastry with a berry on top. But then, just as I raise the glass to my lips, I feel it, a shift in the energy of the room, subtle but unmistakable. The air thickens, the strong scent of cedar and gunpowder envelops me, and a tingling sensation creeps up the back of my neck.