Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

Sloane gets someone to take over her classes for her at the
yoga studio, and she and Stavros sail the Mediterranean. The
news coverage of the shooting dies down. I’m dying to
discover what the police know about that night at the
restaurant, but the only information I can get is from the local
paper. It isn’t much.
One thing that’s odd is that none of the four men who were
shot were able to be identified. They didn’t carry any ID, and
their fingerprints and faces weren’t found in any police
database, in the US or abroad. The guns they carried were
unregistered. Forensic dental examinations didn’t turn up a
match.
Even before they died, all four were ghosts.
I wonder if Kage is a ghost, too, existing only by
reputation. The dreaded Kazimir Portnov, able to strike fear in
the hearts of hardened killers merely by the mention of his
name.
I try not to think of all the terrible things he must’ve done
to earn his reputation.
I try not to wonder what a man like him would see in a girl
like me. What he thinks a small-town schoolteacher can give
him that he can’t get anywhere else.
And despite all my worry, by the time Christmas Eve
arrives, Detective Brown hasn’t knocked on my door again.
I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one.
Feeling a little sorry for myself that I’m alone on
Christmas Eve, I make a nice dinner. Roast chicken with red
potatoes, a salad with champagne vinaigrette. The chicken is
my mom’s recipe—the one Kage somehow knew is my
favorite—and it tastes delicious.
It also makes me feel worse, sitting there at my kitchen
table with only Mojo for company.
Picturing myself five years in the future doing exactly this
same thing as Kage traipses all over the globe—who knows
where, doing who knows what—I get so depressed, I open a
bottle of wine and finish it.