“And some just want to survive,” Drew added quietly.
Timur reached for the vodka bottle in the center of the table and poured two shots exactly. No ice. No mixer. Just straight vodka, the way it was meant to be consumed. He downed the first shot in one smooth motion, then immediately reached for the second.
The second glass slammed down on the table hard enough to make the ice in my untouched drink jump. Timur exhaled slowly, deliberately, as the burn settled in his chest. Then he cracked his neck, the sound audible even over the muted club music.
He stared down the table at all of us, his expression going flat and deadly.
“I don’t care if Los Zetas are in one piece or fifty,” he said, his voice dropping to a growl that made something primal in my hindbrain want to back away. “If anyone wears Zetas ink, they’re an enemy. I came to this city to cut every head that dares rise against the Bratva. Every. Single. One.”
The temperature in the booth seemed to drop several degrees. This was Timur Kamarov in his element—not the businessman who smiled at city officials or the brother who protected Illyana. This was the enforcer. The weapon Bratva pointed at its enemies and pulled the trigger.
“Understood,” Andrei said simply. He’d grown up around men like Timur. Knew better than to question or soften the statement.
Drew just nodded, his expression giving nothing away. But I saw the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his hand tightened fractionally on his glass. He was calculating, always calculating. Figuring out how this war with Los Zetas would affect his operations, his people, his carefully constructed life.
I should’ve been doing the same. Should’ve been thinking about how cartel violence would impact my security systems, whether I needed to upgrade protocols for Bratva properties, how to protect the infrastructure I’d built.
Instead, I was thinking about Barbara.
About the fact that Sebastian Davis—her half-brother, not her boyfriend, Jesus Christ—was connected to Los Zetas. About the masked man in the parking lot who’d fought with cartel training and disappeared with cartel tactics. About the danger she’d been living with for five years, while I’d been too stupid to see it.
“Kirill.”
Drew’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. I looked up to find him watching me with concern that he was trying and failing to hide. “You okay? You’ve been really quiet tonight.”
Before I could formulate a response that wouldn’t invite more questions, Damir leaned forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes that I immediately distrusted.
“Kirill’s not the only one being quiet,” he said, his smirk widening. He gestured with his glass toward the bar below. “Barbara’s just as silent down there at the counter. Funny how that works.”
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
Sharp Russian curses spilled from my mouth before I could stop them—words my mother would’ve slapped me for,words that made even Timur’s eyebrows raise slightly. I grabbed my vodka and downed it in one burning gulp, the alcohol doing nothing to cool the rage suddenly flooding my veins.
Damir chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “Hit a nerve, did I?”
“Fuck off,” I bit out.
“Leave it alone,” Drew said, his voice carrying a warning that Damir ignored.
“I’m just saying, it’s interesting.” Damir leaned back in his seat, that insufferable smirk still in place. “The way you two have been circling each other all night. Not looking but always aware. Classic tells.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Right.” Damir drew out the word, making it clear he didn’t believe me for a second. “That’s why you’ve been white-knuckling that glass since we sat down. That’s why you cursed in Russian, which, by the way, even I don’t know all those words, and I’m impressed.”
Timur’s attention shifted from the club below to me, his dark eyes assessing. “This about the Davis girl? The one whose mansion you’re working on?”
“It’s not about anyone,” I lied. “Can we focus on Los Zetas instead of my personal life?”
“You have a personal life?” Damir asked innocently. “That’s news.”
“Fuck you.”
Drew sighed and turned to me, his expression serious despite Damir’s attempts at humor. “Just talk to her,” he said quietly. “Whatever this is between you two, it’s eating you alive. I can see it.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I insisted, even as the lie tasted bitter. “She’s just…she’s a job. Andrew’s daughter. That’s it.”
But inside, it was chaos.
