“Downstairs.”
I nod once and grab my jacket from the back of the chair. The cameras follow as I leave the room, their feeds glowing in the dark like watching eyes. The hallway smells like cedar and rain-wet wool. Lightning flares through the tall windows, turning the world outside into white glass. Misha keeps pace beside me, silent as always, his presence a comfort born from years of standing together against threats.
We find the man in the lower hall near the generator room. He's young, early twenties, maybe, drenched from the rain, mud streaked across his boots. Fear hangs on him like smoke, visible in the way his hands shake and his eyes dart toward the exit that Albert's bulk effectively blocks.
I stop a few feet away, studying him with the detachment I've learned to wear like a scar that never fades. “Name.”
“D-Dylan,” he stammers, the syllables breaking apart in his mouth.
“Do you know who I am, Dylan?”
His Adam's apple bobs violently. “Yes,pakhan.”
“Then you know what happens to men who sell information about my business.”
His knees nearly buckle. Albert's hand on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him upright. “I swear I didn't mean… I just needed the money. My girlfriend's pregnant and we can't?—”
I lift a hand. The word dies on his tongue, choked off by survival instinct.
Misha folds his arms, watching with clinical interest and evaluating whether mercy or brutality serves better in this moment. Albert doesn't move at all, his grip neither tightening nor loosening, just holding the man in place for judgment.
I step closer until the scent of his fear thickens in the air. “You think betrayal always starts with intention? It doesn't. It starts with greed small enough to excuse. A favor. A phone call. A secret whispered to the wrong ear.” I take his phone from Albert and hold it up. The screen is cracked but still glowing with recent messages. “One call. That's what this shows.”
He nods, trembling so hard I can hear his teeth chatter.
“You're lucky the buyer was intercepted,” I continue, my voice dropping lower, forcing him to strain to hear over his own ragged breathing. “Luck is not loyalty, Dylan. And loyalty is what keeps you breathing.”
His eyes widen, hope and terror warring for dominance. “Please, I have a kid coming, I can't?—”
“You'll go home tonight,” I interrupt, studying his face for a lie worth punishing. “You'll tell your family you lost your job. You'll pack a bag and leave Colorado before dawn. If you speak my name again, even to your reflection, Misha will find you. Do you understand?”
He nods violently, relief making him sag against Albert's grip. “Yes,pakhan. Thank you. Thank you.”
I turn away, already done with him, my mind moving past this minor threat to the larger problems waiting in the shadows. “Albert, before you escort him off the property take a finger as a reminder of what will happen if he disobeys me. Then take his phone and burn whatever he left behind.”
“Nooo!” Dylan cries out, his eyes widening in panic. “P-please,pakhan!I’ll do what you said!”
Albert drags him out of the room, tears staining his cheeks as he chokes on his sobs.
When they're gone, Misha raises an eyebrow. “Merciful.”
“Efficient,” I correct, my eyes drifting toward the ceiling where Sage sleeps. “Fear lasts longer when it breathes. Dead men can't spread warnings.”
He smirks, understanding even if he doesn't fully agree with the application. “I'll make sure the others understand as well.”
We walk toward the stairs leading back to the security room. “Any word on Ray?”
“Not yet. But something's moving.” Misha's expression darkens, his instinct recognizing patterns before they fully form. “The rival family he ran to all those years ago have been active again in Nevada. Small shipments. No signatures. Feels like a test.”
“Keep eyes on it,” I tell him, my mind already working through possibilities. “If Ray Bellamy is crawling out of his grave, I'll be there when he surfaces.”
Misha nods, already sending texts from his phone and running through contacts and resources. “You should get some sleep.”
“I'll sleep when I know exactly who she is.” I run a hand through my hair, gripping the ends until the sting clears my head.
Misha doesn't argue. He just leaves me to it, closing the door quietly behind him.
The storm continues to howl around the cabin, shaking the shutters and rattling the glass. The monitors flicker, caught between lightning and darkness. On the main screen, Sage rests on her side on the bed, the lamplight soft against her hair, turning the honey-blonde strands to gold. She looks fragile, small, and vulnerable in my world of violence and suspicion.
