The compound above was quiet as I climbed the service stairs. Legitimate business meant regular hours now, employees who went home to families instead of soldiers who slept in shifts. The hallway to Alexei's office was carpeted, muffling my footsteps. Through the door, I could hear voices—Ivan's monotone reciting numbers, Alexei's measured responses, Clara's occasional questions.
I stopped before entering, adjusting the tape on my knuckles one more time.
It hurt. Of course it did. Life was suffering.
Thankfully though, I was normally the one causing it.
The surveillance photos covered Alexei's mahogany desk like a murder scene splatter pattern—dozens of glossy prints showingMorozov soldiers where they didn't belong. I recognized faces immediately: Roman Morozov's nephew outside Golden Wok restaurant, two lieutenants at the Brooklyn Marine Terminal, that sadistic fuck Viktor Chenkov browsing through Washington Market like he was shopping for produce instead of calculating protection rates.
"Dmitry," Alexei acknowledged without looking up. His fingers traced patterns across the photos, organizing them geographically. "How was your meeting with Castellano?"
"Educational," I said, taking my position by the window. "He understands our cash flow requirements now."
Clara glanced at my wrapped knuckles, quick enough that most would have missed it. But I caught the flicker of recognition in her eyes—she knew what those bandages meant. Smart girl. Probably smarter than was good for her in this life.
"Seventeen incursions," Ivan reported from his corner, tablet glowing like some digital oracle. The wall screen behind Alexei lit up with a map of the city, red dots bleeding across Brooklyn and lower Manhattan like infected wounds. "All within the last week. They're not collecting, not threatening. Just . . . watching."
Alexei was pakhan, and since Clara had entered his life, there was a rumor going around that our organisation had gone soft. We were having to prove, over and again, that it was not the case.
"Testing," Alexei corrected, but I heard the edge under his controlled tone. "They think our pivot to legitimate business makes us weak."
Clara picked up a photo from the edge of the desk, her entire body going rigid. "This is outside the new shelter location. The one that hasn't even opened yet." She set it down carefully, but I saw her hands shake. "They're following me?"
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Alexei's hand moved to her shoulder, fingers pressing into cream fabric hard enough to leave marks. "When?"
"Yesterday's timestamp," Ivan supplied, enlarging the image on his screen. "3:47 PM. You were inside for the final walkthrough."
I studied the photo over Clara's shoulder. Viktor Chenkov himself, standing across from the shelter with a coffee cup that was obviously just a prop. His eyes were fixed on the entrance, waiting. The kind of waiting that preceded very bad things.
"He's not just watching," I said. "He's timing things. Learning patterns."
"For what purpose?" Alexei's voice could have frozen vodka.
"Could be intelligence gathering," Ivan suggested, but even he didn't sound convinced. "Or they're trying to draw us out, force a response."
I examined the pattern of red dots on Ivan's map, looking for what wasn't there as much as what was. The Morozovs had carefully avoided certain territories—specifically, my personal holdings in Queens. The warehouse where I'd dismembered their last crew still stood empty, a monument to what happened when they crossed certain lines. Six men, returned to Roman Morozov in coolers marked with their names. Clear message: this far, no further.
"They remember Queens," I said, tracing the empty space on the map where red dots feared to tread. "Whatever they're doing, they're not ready for direct confrontation."
"Yet," Alexei added.
Ivan pulled up another screen, intercepted communications scrolling past in Cyrillic. "There's chatter about a theft. Viktor Chenkov reported something stolen from the Grand Meridian Hotel. They're tearing through their usual spots, checking fences, threatening informants."
"What was stolen?" Alexei asked.
"Unclear. But Chenkov is personally involved in the search, which suggests it's either extremely valuable or extremely compromising."
Clara made a dismissive sound that drew everyone's attention. "If they can't handle a simple thief, maybe they're the ones going soft." She picked up another photo, this one showing two Morozov soldiers outside one of our legitimate construction sites. "All this posturing over someone with sticky fingers?"
Clara really was something. Charity fundraiser. Little. Gangland strategist extraordinaire.
"Could be more than simple theft," I suggested. "Chenkov doesn't leave his climate-controlled office for pickpockets. Whatever was taken hurt them."
"Or embarrassed them," Alexei said thoughtfully. "Dmitri Morozov values his reputation above everything. If someone made his organization look weak . . ."
"He'd tear the city apart to fix it," I finished.
The room fell silent except for Ivan's fingers on his tablet, pulling more data. I watched Alexei process the information, saw him weighing options with that chess-player brain of his. In the old days, this would have been simple: they encroach, we respond with overwhelming violence. Clear boundaries written in blood and bone.
