The gunshot cracks through the warehouse like punctuation at the end of a sentence.
The man's body jerks once. Then falls forward, face hitting concrete with a sound like meat dropped on a counter. Dead before his brain fully processes the bullet.
I turn to see Alexei lowering his weapon, expression calm and almost bored.
"He wasn't going to tell us anything useful now anyway," Alexei says with a shrug, sliding the gun back into his shoulder holster. "And his howling was hurting my ears."
Alexei nudges the body with his foot, rolling it face-up. The movement causes the man's shirt to fall open, revealing his chest. And there, right above his heart, is a tattoo that makes all three of us go still.
A wolf's head, fangs dripping blood, holding a dagger, rendered in black ink that's still sharp and clean.
The symbol of the Valkov Bratva.
A mark we thought we'd never see again, not after we exterminated every man loyal to Ivan Valkov more than a decade ago.
The three of us carried that same tattoo once, in that exact spot.
But this man is too young to have been one of Valkov's soldiers. The tattoo doesn't make sense. And things that don't make sense are dangerous.
"We're done here," I say, my voice carrying the finality of verdict. "Call the cleanup team. Get rid of the body. Make it disappear completely. No trace, no evidence."
I look at Zakhar, who's wiping blood from his knife with methodical precision. "Whoever this man was working for will notice his disappearance. We need to be on alert. Increased security at all locations. Eyes everywhere. Double the guards at the house."
"Already on it," Zakhar confirms, his tactical mind already three steps ahead.
I retrieve my cufflinks from the table. Slip them back through my cuffs, restoring order to my appearance despite the blood on my shirt and the swelling in my knuckles. The ritual of reassembly after violence. Putting the mask back on.
We leave the warehouse together, footsteps echoing in the vast space. Behind us, I hear Alexei making calls, his voice low and efficient as he summons the team that specializes in making problems vanish.
The air outside smells cleaner than the blood-soaked space we're abandoning. The lake wind carries moisture that feels good against my heated skin. The SUVs idle at the curb, drivers patient and silent, trained not to ask questions about blood or timing or the bodies we sometimes leave behind.
I slide into the back seat. Close my eyes as the vehicle pulls away from the docks.
The SUV carries me through Chicago's night streets, past shuttered businesses and empty intersections, through a city that never fully sleeps.
And for the first time since I watched my parents die, since I felt my hands break and my future shatter, I consider the possibility that power doesn't only come from isolation.
That maybe the strongest thing I could do is let someone in.
The warehouse comes into view, lit from within, waiting. And I realize that whoever is coming for us, whoever sent that man to steal and threaten and insult, they've made a critical miscalculation.
We protect what's ours with ruthless, absolute, terrifying efficiency.
Let them come.
We'll be ready.
14
ALEXEI
Morning always tastes like memory.
The promise that surviving the night means you get another chance at living.
I stand in the kitchen, coffee going cold in my hand, thinking about the wolf's head tattoo we found inked into dead flesh last night. The symbol we thought we'd erased from the world more than a decade ago, emerging like a ghost with fresh ink and younger skin.
Doesn't make sense. The man was too young to have been one of Valkov's original soldiers. Would have been barely a teenager when we brought that empire down in blood and Moscow winter.
