***
The Kamarov mansion buzzed with wealth, plenty of it. The security system was top-notch, at least by Chicago standards. Which meant it was probably five years outdated compared to what I could build in my sleep.
Timur met me at the door, all six-foot-two of him radiating the kind of danger that made smart people cross the street. Dark eyes, scarred knuckles, the build of someone who’d spent more time breaking bones than sitting behind desks. He was an enforcer through and through, recently transferred from New York, and his reputation had preceded him.
“Petrov.” He clasped my hand in a grip that would’ve broken fingers if I’d been anyone else. “Heard good things about your work.”
“Heard you left a pile of bodies in New York,” I replied, matching his grip. “Guess Chicago needed the cleanup crew.”
His grin was all teeth. “Something like that. Come on. I’ll show you the setup.”
He led me through the mansion, marble floors, vaulted ceilings, the kind of space that echoed with emptiness despite the expensive furniture. But it was the control room that made me stop and actually appreciate the effort someone had put in.
Six monitors, decent encryption, motion sensors on every entry point. Not bad. Not great, but not bad.
“Illyana’s around here somewhere,” Timur said, already moving toward the door. “She’ll fill you in on what we need. I’ve got business to handle.”
Before I could respond, he was gone, leaving me alone in a room full of blinking screens and the low hum of electronics. The kind of environment where I actually felt comfortable.
“You must be the tech guy.”
I turned to find a woman leaning against the doorframe, all lean muscle and sharp edges. Ash-blonde hair pulled back, ice-blue eyes that assessed me the way a sniper assessed a target. She was young, maybe nineteen, but there was nothing soft about her.
Illyana Kamarov. Timur’s sister. The princess of the Bratva world who’d probably killed more people than I’d had hot meals.
“Kirill,” I said, offering my hand.
She took it with a grip that surprised me. Strong. Confident. “Illyana. Welcome to Chicago, I guess.” Her tone suggested she found the welcome anything but pleasant.
I gestured to the monitors. “Your brother said you needed something?”
“The mansion next door.” She moved into the room, arms crossed. “Had a break-in last night. Their cameras caught nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
My attention sharpened. “Nothing?”
“Not a shadow. Not a flicker. Like whoever did it was a fucking ghost.” She shrugged, but there was tension in her shoulders. “Should piss them off, right? All that money spent on security, and someone just waltzes in.”
I studied the monitors, my mind already working through possibilities. “How does someone get in without triggering a single motion sensor? Either they knew exactly where the blind spots were, or—”
“Or there’s something wrong with their system,” Illyana finished, one eyebrow raised. “That’s what I figured.”
“Your system ever malfunction?” I asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear her say it.
She laughed, sharp and humorless. “Timur would lose his shit if we had a malfunction. But I’m asking about yours. Your systems ever fail?”
Pride flared in my chest, the same pride that came from knowing I was the best at what I did. “My tech could catch an intruder even if he drank a potion of invisibility. I don’t do malfunctions.”
Her lips curved into something that might’ve been a smile if it had reached her eyes. “Confident. I like that.”
I turned back to the monitors, already cataloging what needed to be upgraded, what could be exploited, what I’d do differently if this were my setup. “You don’t seem thrilled to be here. Chicago not treating you well?”
The smile vanished. “Chicago’s fine. It’s the reason we’re here that’s shit.”
“And that reason is?”
“Los Zetas.” She said the name like a curse. “Getting bolder. Pushing into Bratva territory. Timur got sent here to remind them why that’s a bad idea.”
Los Zetas. The cartel splinter group that had been causing problems up and down the East Coast. Violent, unpredictable, willing to cross lines that even other cartels wouldn’t touch. If they were making moves in Chicago, things were about to get bloody.
