Forty-eight hours.That gives us less than two days before Sage vanishes into the Bratva’s shadows beyond our reach. It’s not much to work with.
With that info in hand, Bastian has already lost himself in the logistics of what must be done, when, and how.
But I’m not done yet with what all thismeans.
“You knew people would get hurt,” I say, leaning forward until I can smell the fear-sweat radiating off Frank in waves. “You fuckingknew.”
Frank makes a whimper like a wounded animal. “I told you, I didn’t have a choice?—”
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” I spit. “Your daughter’s safety doesn’t erase what you did. Guilt is just the tax you pay after cashing the check, Frank. You still picked your sides.”
I hear the creak of vinyl as he shrinks in place. This man who probably outweighs me by eighty pounds, who’s spent his career hauling lumber and swinging hammers and erecting skyscrapers, is folding in on himself like wet cardboard under the weight of my words.
Bastian stays silent beside me, watching. I can feel his attention split between Frank’s collapse and me. I wonder what he sees.
I wonder if he realizes that this is a part of me thathebrought to life.
“But if you want absolution, you came to the wrong damn confessional,” I continue. “You helped a monster terrorize a sixteen-year-old kid in a wheelchair. You sabotaged a building that could have collapsed on innocent workers. And you did it all while telling yourself you had no choice, because that’s the simpering little lie that cowards like you tell themselves so they can sleep at night.”
Frank’s breath hitches. I hear liquid sloshing—he’s gripping his beer bottle so hard it’s shaking.
“You want to make things right?” I press on. “Then do it. Help us get Sage back. But don’t you dare sit there and ask me to tell you you’re a good person, because we both know that’s fucking bullshit.”
Silence. I’m quiet, Frank’s quiet, Bastian’s quiet. Even Megan Thee Stallion pauses for breath.
“We’re done here,” Bastian says finally, sliding out of the booth. He pulls me up with him.
Behind us, Frank doesn’t make any move to follow. He just sits, miserable, there marinating in the mess he’s made of his own life.
I hope he fucking chokes on it.
18
BASTIAN
brigade system /bri'gad 'sist?m/: noun
1: the kitchen hierarchy developed by Escoffier.
2: assembling your army from the wreckage of the people you've hurt.
I pull out of the Saints & Skinners parking lot and merge onto the highway. The strip club’s garish neon signage fades to a pink smear in the rearview. The last thing I see isGIRLS GIRLS GIRLSbefore the evening clouds sink low enough to hide it from sight.
Eliana sits stiffly in the passenger seat, her hand resting over her stomach in that protective gesture I’ve noticed her doing more and more. She probably doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
But I notice.Ifucking notice.
“So what’s the plan?” Eliana asks, tapping her nails on the center console. “We have forty-eight hours before they move Sage. That’s not a lot of time to scope out a Bratva safe house andfigure out how to rescue a kid in a wheelchair without getting everyone killed.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Well, do it faster.”
I squeeze the steering wheel. “I need to do recon on the Karlov building tonight. I won’t be able to decide on a game plan until I see what we’re working with.”
“And where does that leave me? Sitting in that moldy motel room twiddling my thumbs?”
“Somewhere safe and isolated.”
