The door to the warehouse hangs crooked, like it’s been kicked too many times, but when I push it open, it swings smoothly. Oiled. Cared for. Typical Kirill again—making disorder look real when in truth, everything is watched, everything is maintained.
The scent hits first—old iron, smoke, and the faint tang of vodka soaked into wood. The kind of smell that tells me a man like Kirill hasn’t changed since the day he walked away from the Bratva.
Kirill leans against a scarred table in the middle of the room, cigarette dangling between his fingers. He’s tall, still broad-shouldered, the kind of man who was clearly handsome once. Time and liquor have softened him—hair thinning, lines carving deep into his face, a beer belly pushing against his shirt. But none of it dulls the edge in his eyes. Those stay sharp, dangerous, amused.
“Boss.” His voice is gravelly, low, and he flicks ash onto the floor. “Good to see you as always.”
I don’t bother with pleasantries. My patience has been thin since Anton slipped through my hands.
“I had Anton,” I say, stepping closer, my shoes echoing on the concrete. “He escaped. Any idea where he might be?”
Kirill exhales smoke, eyes narrowing as if he’s weighing how much to give me. “Not exactly,” he admits, his lips curving into something that isn’t quite a smile. “But he’s moving. Quietly. Gathering men—old loyalists, desperate ones, the kind of dogs who’ll bite for scraps if he throws them.”
My jaw tightens.
Kirill continues, “Word is, Anton believes your wife still has something. A key, to be precise. To the ledger files.” His gaze flicks up to mine, sharp and deliberate. “That’s why he’s hunting, Boss. Not for you. For her.”
The temperature in the warehouse feels like it drops ten degrees.
Noelle.
My blood freezes.
Demyan’s words from a few days ago slam back into my skull—Anton using Noelle’s email, slipping partial Rusnak datadumps to our rivals like breadcrumbs. At the time, it had seemed like nothing more than a desperate play for leverage.
But then, on my nudging, Noelle locked down her accounts. She tightened her security, changed every password, scrubbed her trail clean. Which meant Anton no longer had the door.
But she did.
Even if she didn’t know it, Noelle was holding the only access trail left—the thin, golden thread that could unravel the entire Rusnak vault.
And Anton believed she still had it.
The realization lands like ice water in my veins. Noelle isn’t just in the line of fire—sheisthe line of fire.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, and for a moment, I don’t even hear Kirill’s drag of a cigarette or the muffled city noise outside. All I see is Anton’s face, that smug bastard, already planning his way back into Noelle’s life.
“Find Anton,” I bark at Kirill, my voice cracking like a whip through the warehouse. “You know how to reach me when you do.”
Kirill just nods, the kind of slow, knowing tilt of the head that says he understands more than I want him to. I don’t give him the chance to add anything else. My patience is gone.
I turn on my heel and march out, the echo of my footsteps snapping against concrete. Demyan falls into step behind me, silent, smart enough not to ask. My chest feels tight, lungs caged, every second a reminder that while I’m standing here talking, she’s out there—unguarded, unaware, still in danger.
The drive back blurs. The streets of Chicago flicker past, meaningless. All I can think about is her face, her laugh, the way she curled into me last night when she was shaking from the nightmare. She has no idea she’s standing on a fault line, that Anton is already clawing toward her.
When we reach the house, I don’t wait for Demyan. I slam the door shut behind me and take the stairs two at a time. My pulse is pounding in my ears, my body running ahead of my mind, desperate to see her.
I need to see her. To assure myself she’s okay. To put my hands on her and remind myself she’s still here, still mine to protect.
I push open the bedroom door, heart pounding, but she’s not there. My gaze sweeps the room until I hear the faint rustle of movement from the walk-in.
She’s sitting on the floor of my wardrobe, legs folded beneath her, a photo frame cradled in her hands.
My throat goes dry.
There’s only one frame in here, one I never left out in the open. I already know what she’s holding before I see it—the photograph of me as a baby, wedged between my parents. A moment in time I’ve kept locked away, untouched, because it’s the only proof I have that once, before everything turned to blood and steel, I was theirs.
For a second, I just stand there, watching her. She looks so small with it in her hands, so careful, as if she knows it isn’t something to be handled lightly.
