“Me? No. I’m right here with you.” I flash him a cold smile, and his eyes brim with horror before I even finish the threat. “But a buddy of mine lives out that way. You want me to give him a call and ask how traffic is right now?”
His resolve splinters like thin ice. “Lockup in Gary. Industrial park off Highway 12. Unit 44B. Code is 5591.” Helicks his lips. “The Falcones paid me five grand just to tell them when the shipment was in transit. That’s it. I swear.”
“See?” Vanya’s smile widens, his teeth flashing white in the sunlight. “Problem solved. Easy.”
I retreat a few paces, giving Ronnie room to breathe. Relief washes over his face. He mistakenly believes our meeting is over.
Max, who’s been silent the entire time, moves with liquid speed. He grabs the heavy-duty flashlight from Ronnie’s own belt loop. With a short, brutal swing, he shatters the man’s kneecap.
A strangled gasp follows.
Ronnie collapses against the truck’s fuel tank, clutching his leg and panting in pain.
Vitaly’s eyes sparkle, like witnessing the crushing of a man’s kneecap is his favorite form of entertainment. “You could have avoided all of this if you hadn’t tried to steal from us.”
Max tosses the flashlight onto the ground next to Ronnie’s crumpled form. His face never changes expression. No anger, satisfaction, or regret. Nothing. “You should be more careful climbing down from your rig. Next time, it might be your skull that breaks.”
Ronnie quietly sobs on the ground, still clutching his mangled knee.
I crouch beside him.
“Before you think about selling us out again, remember this pain. Remember what we know about your family. Remember that we let you live, which is more mercy than the Falcones would show.” I pause so my words can sink in. “And remember, if there is a next time, that we won’t be so generous. You know, childhood injuries can last a lifetime. Poor little Jake doesn’t deserve to feel the same pain.”
With that, I grab his hand, as if to help him up. He grimaces, clinging to the support.
Instead of assisting him, though, I snap his index finger, eliciting a shriek of pain. “To remind you. In case you ever get an offer from someone else again, just look at this,” I pat the broken bone, causing it to grind inside the muscles, “and think about how much worse it can get.”
Ronnie sways, his face draining of color.
Vitaly ignores him. “We should get moving if we want to hit that lockup before the Falcones figure out we’re onto them.”
I straighten, nodding to the others. We weave through the semis until we reach the vehicles we parked at the far end of the lot. The midday sun is merciless, heat rising in waves from the asphalt. Behind us, Ronnie’s muffled sobs fade into the background hum of the highway.
“That went well.” Vanya stretches his arms above his head, cracking his knuckles. “We got what we needed, emphasized our point, and he might even heal up and be useful in the future.”
“Still a mess to clean up.” Vitaly checks his watch. “Someone will find him soon. We need to be long gone by then.”
Max says nothing, just walks silently beside us, scanning our surroundings. Always alert, always ready.
How I should strive to be. Max would never hesitate just because the person he’s questioning is exhausted. Or bubbly. Or lights up a room with her smile.
Or because he can’t stop dreaming of kissing her again.
“You didn’t have to threaten the kid.” Vitaly side-eyes me. “He would’ve broken eventually.”
“We don’t have time for eventually.” Truthfully, I want this over with so I can get back to my loft and resume interrogating Aurora. “Roman wants those GPUs back before they hit the black market.”
Vitaly snorts. “Since when do you care what Roman wants? Skipped his job last night, didn’t you?”
“Speaking of last night,” Vanya changes the subject with practiced ease, “what did you do with that girl? The witness?”
I freeze, one hand on the car door. Memories of Aurora—her defiant eyes, the trembling voice that belied her brave front, and the way the morning light kissed her cheeks as she slept on my couch—flash through my mind.
I meet Vanya’s gaze. “I questioned her. Like I said I would.”
Trevor Pulaski, who’d been hanging back while we had our little chat with Ronnie, steps forward. “Wait, witness?” His blue-gray eyes narrow. “The woman from your loft?”
I want to slap a piece of duct tape over his mouth. “Hmm?” I don’t even know why Trevor’s here. Yes, he knows what we do, but he’s not bratva himself. Whoever brought him needs a swift kick in the ass.
