“Looking at her like you’re planning something stupid.”
I turned to face him, and whatever he saw in my expression made him sigh.
“Kirill—”
“I know,” I cut him off. “I know what you’re going to say. That this is complicated. That I should focus on my job and let someone else handle Barbara’s problems. That getting involved will only make things worse.”
“Actually,” Drew said, surprising me, “I was going to say that if you’re going to do something stupid, at least be smartabout it. And maybe let the rest of us help before you get yourself killed.”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“She’s Hailey’s friend.” Drew shrugged. “Which makes her Cassandra’s friend. Which makes her our problem, whether we want it to be or not. Besides”—He glanced at Timur, then back to me—“if Sebastian really is Los Zetas connected, then helping Barbara becomes Bratva business anyway.”
Timur caught the last part of the conversation and raised an eyebrow. “Something I should know about?”
“Possibly,” Drew said. “Depends on how much you care about a Davis family drama that might have cartel ties.”
“I care about anything with cartel ties.” Timur’s voice went flat. “Brief me later. All of you.”
It wasn’t a request.
I nodded, already planning what I could and couldn’t share. How to protect Barbara’s secrets while still getting the help we’d need to handle Sebastian.
Because this wasn’t just about me anymore. Wasn’t just about my guilt or my promise to Vladimir or my complicated feelings for a woman I barely knew but couldn’t stop thinking about.
This was bigger. Messier. The situation could explode in all our faces if we weren’t careful.
And I was about to walk straight into the center of it.
“To war,” I said again, softer this time. Speaking to myself more than anyone else.
To the war I was about to start. The one that would either save Barbara Davis or destroy us both.
I just hoped I was ready for the consequences.
Chapter 13 – Barbara
The nausea had been my constant companion for a week.
It started as a vague unease in my stomach, something I’d blamed on stress and too much whiskey. Then it became more insistent, waves of sickness that hit without warning, leaving me dizzy and weak. I’d barely eaten, barely slept, barely functioned beyond the mechanical motions of existing.
Now, standing in this abandoned building on the outskirts of Chicago, clutching a duffel bag full of cash that had cost me everything to gather, I understood that the nausea wasn’t just stress.
It was fear. Pure fear that had taken up residence in my body and wouldn’t let go.
The building was a skeleton of what it used to be, rusted metal beams exposed like bones, concrete crumbling beneath my feet, windows long since shattered. Graffiti covered every surface, layers upon layers of paint that told stories of everyone who’d passed through this forgotten place. The air smelled like decay and old smoke and something chemical that made my eyes water.
Perfect location for a shady meeting.
I hugged the duffel bag closer to my chest, the weight of it making my arms ache. It was heavier than it looked, ten thousand dollars in mixed bills that I’d scraped together by pawning my mother’s jewelry. Pieces I’d sworn I’d never sell, items that were the only tangible proof she’d existed beyond old photographs and fading memories.
But Sebastian didn’t care about sentimental value. He never had.
He was waiting near the back wall, exactly where he’d told me to meet him. His silhouette was backlit by weak sunlight filtering through the broken roof, making him look more shadowthan man. He had a cigarette between his lips, the ember glowing orange in the dim light.
As I approached, he took one last drag, then tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot with deliberate slowness. The gesture felt symbolic. Threatening.
“Right on time, sister.” His voice echoed in the empty space, too loud, too pleased. Like he enjoyed this. Like my compliance gave him some sick satisfaction.
