his only chance to come clean. If h

bang upstairs and a scream. Just as I turn around, the door at the

ot worrying about the potential lost profits. Footsteps pound down the

stomach. The other two follow my lead and dive behind tables. S

g of footsteps, the ring of bullets

le. There are eight shoulders spread out around the room, guns at the ready. Two of them are at the base of the stairs, the other

hiding behind the table. If

they are trained like anyone else. He has his gun at the ready, waiting fo

spraying against the wall like splattered paint. It is a kind of ar

his hand flying to his neck. Before he can experience too much pain, I place another bullet in

e my second target around the room, firing shot after shot at him. He ducks behind a table, and I wait, gun aimed. It is a deadly game of Whack-a-mole, and it requires patience. His gun po

out of bullets. I stash my gun i

o see him looking so pathetic, and out from behind the table. I slide my feet under me, moving into a crouch. The remaining men are wo

shirt, so I cannot make it out. When my knife cuts into his side, he spins to fight me off, but I knock his gun from his hand wi

tiple bullets in the chest and sto

into a wound on his shoulder. He scrambles to lift his gun as I approach, but I drop to my knees and slide

ame tattoo creeping up from beneath his collar. I slide the bl

th the Furi

squeezing his eyes

you attack," I hiss. "I am Luka Volkov,

nd onto the floor. Every ounce of me wants this kill. I feel like a dog who has not been

et out of here and tell your boss what happened. Tell him this attack is a decla

cheek, drawing a thin line of blood from the

ipping in his wake. As soon as he is gone, I clean my knife wi

l not en

V

and a bag of prunes a few i

e with eyes could see the difference. And a cook-a properly trained c

forehead and studies the b

t to care. "Prunes are huge. As big as a baby's fist. Raisins are tiny. They taste

onder if being sous chef gives m

is man has

r and run a hand down my sweaty face. I grab the towel from my back pocket

head to be so slow. I motion for another cook to come talk to me. H

d. We can toss it with more raisins, fen

es away, and I mop

culinary school, I didn't know where I'd get a job or where I'd be on the totem pole, and I certainly never imagined I'd be a sous chef so soon, but here I am. And now that I

ers of staff that the dishwasher,

ting, decided that the middle of dinner rush would be the perfect time to discuss their relationship, and they broke up. Dylan stormed out without a word, and Sarah, who should be okay since she was the dumper, not the dumpee, is hiding in the bathroom bawling