The men exchange wary glances, but none argue. Orders are already being whispered down the line, phones pressed to ears, cars sent flying toward safehouses.
I walk further into the wreckage. A crate lies split open, its contents ruined, soaked in fuel. I crouch, lift a piece of burned wood, drop it again. My hands itch for violence. Whoever did this didn’t just want the product. They wanted to humiliate me. To remind me I can bleed.
“They were efficient,” Dimitri says. He toes one of the discarded magazines, empty. “Quick. No time to fight back.”
“Military.”
“Or trained like it.”
I narrow my eyes against the smoke. “Who profits?”
“Rivals in Brighton, maybe. Or someone inside with debts too heavy to pay.”
My teeth clench. “Find out which. I want names by nightfall.”
Dimitri nods once, pulling his phone again.
I glance back at the men lingering near the cars. They stand silent, eyes down, waiting for a cue. Their fear hangs thick, heavier than the smoke.
I flick the cigarette to the gravel, grind it under my heel. “Listen carefully,” I say, my voice carrying over the wind. Every head lifts. “This wasn’t business. This wasn’t theft. This was betrayal.”
The word sinks in, and I smile.
“They thought they could carve us open and leave us bleeding,” I continue. “They thought they could send me a message.” I pause, scanning their faces, letting the silence drag until it cuts. “So here is my message. We do not break. We do notscatter. We do not forget. We find them. We gut them, and when I’m finished, there won’t be enough left to bury.”
The men nod, some murmuring assent, others crossing themselves quickly.
I turn back to Dimitri. “Burn the rest,” I order. “Nothing leaves here but ash.”
He signals two of the men, who move to douse what remains in fuel. Flames roar to life again, crackling over ruined steel, black smoke clawing at the morning sky.
I stand with my hands behind my back, watching the fire consume everything. Millions lost. Twelve men gone. Routes compromised. My circle pierced.
Not just a loss. A declaration.
When the blaze grows high, I light another cigarette from it, the paper catching instantly. Smoke fills my lungs, bitter and sharp, steadying the rage boiling under my skin.
“They wanted war,” I murmur.
Dimitri hears me. “We’ll give it to them.”
“No,” I correct softly, eyes fixed on the flames. “We’ll give them something worse.”
The fire crackles, devouring what’s left of my convoy. The sun finally breaks the horizon, pale and cold against the smoke.
I exhale hard, my voice a promise to the ash and to the men who dared betray me.
“This doesn’t end until I have the traitor’s head in my hands.”
The estate feels too quiet when we return. Not the usual quiet of stone walls and heavy carpets, but the hollow kind, the kind that makes footsteps sound louder, breaths feel stolen. Word has spread; men move like shadows through the hallways,heads low, voices clipped. Everyone knows what happened at the convoy. Everyone knows what it means.
I don’t go to my rooms. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I head straight for the council chamber and order a meeting.
By the time I sit at the head of the long oak table, the others are already there. Captains, lieutenants, enforcers: men who usually laugh, smoke, whisper while waiting. Tonight, they are silent. The only sound is the scrape of chairs against the floor as they settle.
Dimitri stands at my right. Vivienne sits lower down, a leather-bound notebook open, pen poised. She plays her role with care: the sharp lawyer keeping meticulous records, the professional too disciplined to betray emotion. Her hair is pinned back, her expression calm, her eyes moving across the room with quiet calculation.
I say nothing.
