“When?”
“Soon,” he answers. His voice is steady, but the edges of it are worn. He looks behind him, toward the world that exists outside his bedroom. “Gavriil won’t come back today. He made his point. Now he waits for mine.”
Relief shouldn’t feel like guilt, but it does.
“What if your points don’t match up?” I whisper. I don’t say the rest—that this all feels like a war I accidentally started.
He smiles with no humor, all hunger. “Then I’ll have to sharpen mine.”
My stomach drops at the sound of that promise.
I sit up. The blanket slips, and I pull it back around myself like armor. Dominik must have covered me with it after I fell asleep. “If I were to even consider what he asked—” I start, before he leaves, walking headfirst into more gunfire.
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear like we’ve done this a hundred times. “Eat. Shower. Rest. If you think of anything your brother might be stupid enough to try, tell me.” His voice goes rough. “I’m leaving you a phone for emergencies, with my number programmed in it already.” He sets it on the nightstand within my reach. “Call me if you need anything and I’ll be here in a heartbeat.”
“I know,” I say, because I do know. God help me, I do.
He nods once, that private, pleased motion he thinks I don’t see. “Good girl,” he says again, softer, and leaves, shutting the door behind him. The words shouldn’t warm every inch of me, but they do.
The city outside the windows is the same. The clock is just louder, and every tick feels like it’s counting down to the moment I have to decide who I’m willing to lose.
26
Dominik
The movingand storage warehouse on West 5thStreet in Bayonne reeks of hot metal and wet concrete. The big bay door is half-open, letting in a slice of afternoon sun that catches on brass, blood, and the torn edges of men who thought leather and patches made them immortal. Shell casings litter the floor like cruel pieces of confetti.
My side throbs once, a reminder that I’m doing this with a hole in me.
The place matches Kyle’s description down to the rusted stair rail he told Renat about—proof the kid didn’t lie about everything.
My guys move with the efficiency of men who have done this too often to make mistakes. Renat’s posted at the top of the stairs that lead to abandoned offices, his eyes seeing everything. Viktor checks crates with a gloved hand and a ledger. Petrov is next to me, his shoulders wide, knuckles split, standing over theonly biker still breathing in this hellhole. A biker who still thinks he has options.
Popeye sits in a chair, his wrists duct-taped to the armrests, ankles cinched tight to the legs with zip ties digging pink into skin. No leather. Petrov cut it off him and tossed it on the ground, an intentional show of disrespect. A line of blood tracks from the hairline at his temple and stops at his cheekbone. His breathing is ragged, the kind that means Petrov has already taken the first round out of him.
I drag a stool across the concrete and plant it in front of him. The sound is unkind, a screeching menace to everyone’s ears. Intentional. “Talk fast,” I say.
Popeye grins with broken teeth; the kind of smile men think looks brave when it’s really just a dog baring its gums. “You first.”
“Dead men don’t need intel,” I assure him, making his face go pale. “Where are the other guns?”
“Don’t know,” Popeye mutters stubbornly.
Petrov doesn’t need instruction. He retrieves the mallet and throws it across the room, just over the man’s head. It hits the cement wall and leaves a crater. Popeye flinches hard enough to scrape skin under tape.
“Try again,” I say.
He sucks air through his teeth when Petrov retrieves the mallet. “They went out on vegetable trucks. A guy named Manny has them down the road on First Street.” He smiles again, teeth bloody. “You knew some of that. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”
“Quantities,” I say. “And who calls the moves?”
“Twenty have left since the other night,” he spits. Blood flecks my boot. “You already know that too.” His eyes gleam. “Question is, do you know why your princess’s brother let you learn it?”
He thinks our intel came from Archer, which is a good thing. Kyle may have a chance of escaping the biker’s wrath. Still, heat climbs my spine at the mention of the traitor. Alina’s face flashes in my mind, the way she looked when she promised she could handle the truth. This is the kind of truth that cracks ribs from the inside. I wish I’d never asked her to be strong enough for it.
“Go on,” I say.
Popeye sits up straighter, like a man told to deliver a eulogy. “You think the two mil was the point? That cash was just a test. Six months ago, Archer said he could get shit for us. Since then, he drew us a map, gave up warehouses you use, the routes your vans take and when they move. He promised he could get us a route directly off the port when the inspectors get lazy. He said he could give us a pipeline. Not a onetime score. A pipeline, once you and your crew were wiped out.”
