"He got us out of his father's house when we were walking into an ambush. That counts for leverage." I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers. "And he clearly has issues with Ramiz. Maybe issues we can exploit."
"Or maybe he's playing a longer game."
"Maybe." I acknowledge the possibility. "But right now, we need information. And he's our best source for understanding what the Albanians are planning."
Zakhar nods slowly. Accepting the logic even if he doesn't like the risk.
"Meanwhile," I continue, "we increase security across all operations. Legitimate and otherwise. I want armed guards at every Éclat location. Extra patrols at the warehouses. Eyes on every property we own."
"Already started," Zakhar confirms.
"And we find whoever did this." My voice drops lower. Colder. "We can't be perceived as weak. Can't let anyone think they can attack us without consequence."
"Agreed."
We're discussing specifics, deployment schedules and contact protocols, when Zakhar's phone rings. He glances at the screen, then at me.
"Alexei," he says, answering and putting it on speaker in one smooth motion. "What do you have?"
"I talked to the security guard." Alexei's voice comes through clear. "Right before they took him into surgery. He was conscious for a few minutes."
"And?" I lean forward, every sense sharpening.
"He heard one of the attackers talking. Right before they shot him." There's a pause. "The guy said they were taking Eryan Nis's cut."
The words land like a physical blow.
I go completely still. My mind races through implications, connections, patterns that suddenly shift into new configurations.
"That doesn't make sense," Zakhar says, voicing what I'm thinking. "Eryan Nis hits illegal operations. Dirty money. He's never touched legitimate businesses. Never used violence."
"I know," Alexei replies. "But the guard was clear. That's what he heard. Eryan Nis."
"Could he have misheard?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"He was certain. Repeated it twice before they sedated him for surgery."
I stand. Move to the window. Look out at Chicago spread beneath us. A city we've claimed as ours through blood and strategy and careful cultivation of power.
This is escalation. This is declaration of war.
"The guard," I say. "What's his prognosis?"
"Touch and go," Alexei answers. "Next twenty-four hours are critical. But he's young. Strong. The doctors are cautiously optimistic."
"Keep me updated. Every hour." I turn back to Zakhar. "And make sure his family wants for nothing. Whatever they need."
"Already arranged," Zakhar confirms.
"Good." I return to my desk. Rest my hands on the polished wood surface. Feel the cool solidity beneath my palms.
The morning's earlier thoughts about Victoria, about permanence, about building beyond just survival, they feeldistant now. Naive. A luxury I can't afford when everything I've built is under attack.
War has rules. War has logic. I understand war.
What I don't understand is who's waging it against us and why.
"We need to find Eryan Nis," I say quietly. Each word precise. Measured. "Whoever he is. Wherever he's hiding. We find him, and we end this."
