“I hear you.”
I lean my forehead against hers. “Good. Because I’m not walking away. Not now. Not ever. You’re stuck with me.”
The tension in her shoulders melts. She tucks herself under my chin again, and I rest my hand over that phoenix tattoo.
She’s mine.
And I’ll burn the world down before I let anything touch her.
Three weeks later,the Russians still haven’t backed off.
If anything, they’ve dug in deeper.
We thought cutting supply lines would scare them. Thought torching a stash house would send a message. Instead, they keep resurfacing. New faces. New safe houses. New money trails Riot didn’t see coming.
They were embedded in Jackson deeper than any of us realized.
I’m at Iron Reapers Customs, under a ’68 Chevelle that’s stripped down to the frame. Black-on-black build. We’re dropping a 454 into it next week. Right now it’s just steel and attitude.
Blade leans against the workbench nursing stale coffee. Rev’s at the parts washer, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing grease off his forearms.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Oil stains map the concrete like old war wounds.
I slide out from under the car, wipe my hands on a rag that’s more black than red, and stand.
“These motherfuckers don’t quit,” Blade mutters.
Rev shakes water off his hands. “Every time we shut one door, another opens.”
He’s not wrong.
We keep fixing this Chevelle like it’s therapy. Like if we can rebuild something clean and perfect, the rest of this mess will sort itself out.
Bullshit.
I light a cigarette and ignore the no-smoking sign bolted to the wall.
“Fuck planning,” I say. “Fuck waiting for the perfect window. We’ve been dancing around these assholes for months and they’re still breathing.”
Blade’s eyes flick to me.
I take a long drag and let the smoke out slow.
“We stop snipping at the tail. We grab the head.”
Rev’s jaw tightens. He already knows.
“Sergei Volkov.”
Silence settles heavy in the shop.
Sharp suit. Ice-blue eyes. Fortified penthouse. Ex-Spetsnaz on payroll. The kind of man who thinks he’s untouchable.
“We don’t breach his fortress,” I continue. “We make him come to us. Hit something he can’t ignore. Torch a major warehouse. Leak proof he’s skimming from his own people. Make it loud. Make it personal. His ego’ll drag him straight into the open.”
Blade studies me. “And then?”
“Pick the ground,” I say. “Abandoned dock warehouse. Back road off 17. Somewhere we control every exit. Let him roll up heavy in that G-Wagon convoy thinking he’s about to make an example out of us.”
