This neighborhood is mostly undeveloped, which is why the city handed the contract to Kozlov’s construction company in the first place. They’re banking on this shopping center being the first domino. More businesses. More contracts. More legitimate money flowing into Bratva pockets.
Not anymore.
Luca moves beside me, a sledgehammer balanced on his shoulder like he’s heading to a pickup baseball game instead of afelony. Five soldiers fan out behind us, each carrying their own hammer.
“Spread out,” I keep my voice quiet even though the nearest occupied building is half a mile away. “Maximum damage. Minimum time.”
Luca grins at me in the darkness, teeth white against the shadows. “Race you to see who can cause more destruction?”
“This isn’t a game.”
“Everything’s a game, Matteo. Some just have higher stakes.”
He takes off before I can respond, sledgehammer already swinging at a stack of drywall. The crash echoes through the empty lot, and some of the tension bleeds out of my shoulders. There’s comfort in destruction when it’s all you know.
I find my own target. A row of windows waiting to be installed, still wrapped in protective plastic. The first swing shatters glass with a sound like breaking ice. The second. The third. Each impact travels up my arms, rattles my teeth, reminds me that I’m good at this. Breaking things. Destroying what other people build.
The thought sours in my stomach, but I push it down and keep swinging.
Around me, chaos erupts in controlled bursts. One of the soldiers found a jackhammer and goes to work on the foundation, concrete cracking and splitting under the assault. The noise is tremendous, which is why I posted Marco as lookout near the road. If the cops show up, this gets messy. But luck’s on our side tonight.
Luca lets out a whoop that sounds almost feral, and I turn to see him climbing into a bulldozer. The keys are still in the ignition because some idiot got lazy, and that laziness is about to cost Kozlov millions.
The engine roars to life. Luca guns it toward the steel framing, and the screech of metal on metal drowns out everything else.
I watch him work, efficient despite his apparent recklessness. The framing comes down in sections, crashing to the ground in clouds of dust and debris. He’s enjoying this too much, but I can’t blame him. It feels good to finally stick it to those Russian bastards.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it, but my mind goes to Sierra anyway. She’s at work right now, behind the bar at the Happy High Roller. Safe. Public. Surrounded by people.
I made her drive tonight because my place is too far for walking, and the thought of her alone on dark streets makes my jaw clench. She argued about it, of course. Called me overprotective. Smiled that smile that makes me want things I’ve got no business wanting.
Things I almost took last night. Her back arched against my handlebars, her thighs shaking, begging me for more. I can still taste her on my tongue.
I kept my distance today. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t let myself get close. Not because I don’t want to finish what we started. I want that more than my next breath. But I need space to get my head right.
What happened in that garage can’t happen again. She’s in danger because of me, depending on me to keep her safe. I won’t be the kind of man who takes advantage of that.
I swing my sledgehammer into a generator, and the crash brings me back to the task at hand. Focus. Finish the job. Get home.
When we’re done, the site looks like a bomb went off. Kozlov’s going to lose the contract for this. The city won’t give him another chance.
Good.
We slip out the way we came, leaving the destruction behind us like a message written in broken glass and shattered concrete.
In my truck, Luca is quieter. The manic energy from earlier has drained out of him, leaving something heavier in its place. I pull onto the main road and head toward his penthouse downtown.
“You seemed to have a good time back there,” I say.
Luca doesn’t look at me. His eyes stay fixed on the passing streetlights, face shadowed. “I’m just glad I could do something useful. Contribute to the war effort, you know?”
There’s an edge to his voice that doesn’t match his easy words.
“This about Joey?”
His jaw tightens. That’s answer enough.
The name sits heavy between us. I was there when Joey died. Watched him convulse on the floor of Alessio’s strip club. Someone forced enough Lightning into his system to stop his heart. He’d been undercover for weeks, getting close to the Bratva’s operation. Learned who created the drug. They silenced him before he could talk.
