We're surrounded. One shot, and this becomes a massacre. One shot, and none of us walk out.
If I pull this trigger, Lila dies.
If she's not already dead.
No.
She's not. She can’t be. Her scent is too heavy. Too fresh. He saw her recently. The fucking liar. She isn’t gone. And she isn’t dead. If she were, I'd know. I'd feel it. Some part of me would break if she were gone, and it hasn't broken yet.
I stand, forcing myself upright. I force my hand to lower the gun. To holster it.
Every movement feels wrong. Like I'm betraying a part of myself. But I do it anyway.
"This is officially war, Dmitri."
He gasps, clutching his ribs, blood on his lips. "You bet your fucking empire it is."
I turn and walk toward the door. I don't look back because if I do, I'll turn around and finish it.
My men part, letting me through before following behind me in formation.
The night air hits my face. Cold. Damp.
Misha catches up. "Boss. Where are—” He stops when he sees the look in my eyes. Understanding crosses his face before he nods. "What's the plan?"
"Every man we have goes undercover. Every dock Dmitri owns. Every warehouse. Every ship that comes in or goes out. I want eyes everywhere. Round-the-clock surveillance."
"And you?"
"I move alone. In secret. Like the old days before I was Pakhan."
He doesn't argue, knowing better than to question me.
I take a car. Not the Bentley. Something anonymous from the pool we keep for situations like this. Stolen plates. Nothing that screams Petrov. Nothing that stands out.
I drive toward the docks, windows down, as if I could track her scent in the night air.
It's past midnight now. The city has that empty feeling. The hour when good people are asleep and bad people are working. My people.
The water comes into view. Dark and vast. Smells like industry and fish. No sign of jasmine or amber. Boats creak against moorings. Shipping containers sit stacked like metal mountains.
I park away from the streetlights in the darkness between two warehouses. I cut the engine, wait for my eyes to adjust, and I watch.
Guard rotation first. How many men. How often they change. What patterns they follow. Whether they're alert or bored.
Most are bored. That's good. Bored guards miss things.
I count ships. Note which ones are Dmitri's—subtle markers but there if you know what to look for. Which ones belong to allies. Which ones are neutral ground.
My phone buzzes.
It’s a text from the jeweler. A late-night text because I pay him enough that late-night texts are acceptable.
Your mother's diamond, reset as requested.
I stare at the message.
The ring. The one I had him remake. My mother's diamond from the car bomb. The one thing that survived when she didn't. Three carats. Flawless.
