His next inhale stutters, hitching somewhere in his chest before releasing in a broken wheeze. His shoulders pull inward as if he could retreat into himself, but there is nowhere left to go. The dirt offers no escape. Vega watches without blinking.
I pull the trigger. The sound breaks through the barn in one sharp echo that reverberates off the rafters and fades into the night. His body falls limp, his muscles releasing all at once as gravity claims him. Dust drifts in a soft burst around him, tiny particles reflecting what little moonlight filters through the gaps in the boards.
I wipe the barrel of the gun against the dead man's jacket, the fabric smearing the last of the blood across his back in dark streaks. The silence that follows is cold and clean. It always is in the moments where truth and consequence meet. There is a clarity in finality that nothing else provides.
Vega moves back to my side and brushes against my knee, his warmth seeping through the fabric of my pants. His dark eyes track my face, reading everything I do not let my voice reveal. He knows me better than most people ever will.
“We are finished,” I murmur, pressing my palm briefly to his head before turning away. His fur is thick and soft under my touch.
Albert steps forward from the shadows. I give him a brief nod. “Take the body and clean the room. Nothing remains.”
The barn door groans as I push it open, the hinges protesting with a metallic shriek. The cold air burns my lungs on the firstinhale, but I welcome the sensation. It clears my head and strips away the lingering smell of sweat and death that clings to the inside of the barn.
I cross the yard with Vega at my heel, his paws leaving shallow prints in the thin layer of snow covering the ground. Smoke from the cabin chimney lifts into the sky in thin twisting ribbons, gray against the black above. The warmth waiting inside pulls at a dull place in my chest, a place I refuse to name or examine too closely. I have learned not to soften toward comforts that can be taken away.
Inside, the air greets me with heat and the familiar scents of cedar and coffee. The smell wraps around us as I close the door behind me, shutting out the cold. Vega shakes off a sprinkling of snow that has gathered on his coat and trots deeper into the cabin, heading instinctively for the bedroom where he knows Sage is resting. His nails click against the stairs in an even rhythm.
I head for the bathroom down the hall, the one with the narrow sink and harsh overhead light. Blood stains cling stubbornly to my hands, streaks of dark red caught beneath my nails. I turn on the faucet and watch the cold water rush over my skin before I begin scrubbing. The color thins to pink and slips into the drain in slow spirals. I focus on each finger, the spaces between them, and the creases of my palms where the blood settled the deepest.
I brace my palms on the counter for several seconds after the water runs clear, keeping my breathing even, and letting the quiet settle back into me. The porcelain is cool under my hands. I focus on that sensation until my pulse slows to its normal rhythm. The bathroom feels too small and bright, so I step into the hall and move toward the kitchen.
Boots hit the porch with a heavy, familiar thud. Nikolay pushes open the front door without knocking, the cold trailing in behind him like an uninvited guest. His dark hair is dusted with snow, the white flakes melting down the collar of his coat and leaving wet trails on the fabric. His eyes move quickly through the room, noting details he has learned to read from years of watching how I operate. Anya steps in behind him, closing the door with more care than her twin ever bothers with. Her posture remains elegant and composed, shoulders back and chin level, but her eyes lock on the blood still clinging to my cuff despite my attempts to clean myself.
Nikolay lifts an eyebrow, his mouth pulling into an expression caught between amusement and resignation. “You are bleeding into the floorboards again. This place was meant to be calm, if I recall correctly.”
“Calm does not keep enemies afraid,” I reply as I pull a towel from the counter and dry my hands slowly. “Report.”
Anya steps forward and pulls a folder from inside her coat, laying it on the table. Her fingers remain sure even though her eyes hold more worry than she wants to reveal. The folder is thick, stuffed with papers and photographs. She doesn’t open it yet, waiting for my full attention.
“We tracked the hijacking through three suppliers,” she informs me, her voice quiet but firm. “Two are suddenly unavailable. The third pretends he does not understand Russian or English.”
Nikolay snorts softly, the sound colored with derision. “He must want to lose a few fingers.”
Anya shoots him a look that could cut marble, her green eyes narrowing in warning. “The suppliers are nervous because theItalians are spreading whispers that the Barinovs have grown soft. They are using the attack as proof.”
My jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath the skin. I feel the tension gathering at the base of my skull and travel down my spine. Rumors kill faster than bullets. They reach ears long before truth finds its footing, slithering through networks of gossip and fear until everyone believes the lie. The wrong whisper can turn loyal men into opportunists overnight, convincing them that betrayal carries less risk than allegiance.
Nikolay taps two fingers against the map pinned to the wall, his movements quick and impatient. Spokane is circled with a thick red marker, the color bleeding slightly into the paper. “If people think we are slipping, more roads will burn.”
“Let them believe it,” I reply, turning toward the map. I study the routes marked in various colors, the shipping lanes that form the arteries of our operation. “Let them relax into the fantasy. The moment they breathe too deeply, I will close their windpipe.”
Anya studies my face carefully, her expression softening with concern. Her worry is subtle, embedded in the slight furrow between her brows and the way her lips press together. But it grows each time her eyes drift toward the stairs leading to Sage's room, as if she can see through walls to assess the woman sleeping beyond them.
She pulls another paper from the folder, this one a single sheet with typed text. “Hope's trail disappears near Spokane. The Italians are feeding a rumor that she is leverage. They refer to her as the little bird.”
Vega, who has settled beside the fireplace after checking on Sage, lifts his head at the mention of Sage's sister. His earstwitch forward and his eyes dart toward the hallway, as if he expects Hope to materialize from the shadows. The protective instinct runs deep in him, extending to anyone connected to Sage.
“They are not subtle,” I answer, keeping my voice low. “Hurting her sister is the same as hurting Sage, and they know it.”
Nikolay steps closer to the table, his posture rolling with tension that has nowhere to go. His hands curl at his sides, his fingers flexing as if reaching for a weapon that is not there. “We hit them back. Hard enough to break their teeth. A single warehouse. Something small but loud.”
I consider it, turning the idea over in my mind and examining it from multiple angles. Violence is rarely messy when used with intent. It becomes a tool like any other, effective when applied with precision. Retaliation must leave an echo that travels farther than the initial act, a reminder that certain lines cannot be crossed without consequence. “Burn a secondary facility. The one off Elliott Avenue. Make sure they understand whose city they bruise.”
“And if they do not,” Nikolay asks quietly, his hands curling tighter until his knuckles blanch white.
“Then I will remind them in person.”
He nods once with satisfaction, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He already knows what that reminder will look like and has witnessed it enough times to understand the impact behind the promise.
