Roman’s head turns sharply, his gaze finding mine with laser precision. Sometimes I wonder if he can read minds. Maybe he’s like Jordan and can sense the conflict eating away at my stomach.
I brace for the storm he’s about to unleash. Nothing in this room happens by accident, least of all a midnight summons. The package at my side presses heavy, as if whatever’s inside knows what’s coming next.
I step fully into the office, ready to report and face whatever comes next.
A quick scan of the room’s occupants informs me that my mission, my package, and my conflicted feelings about Jordan don’t matter.
Men pack the room like sardines, all watching me with the air of a legion welcoming a scout back from the front lines.
Alarm prickles my skin. What happened to set the very air on edge? What did I miss?
Roman’s office pulses with a tension thick enough to swim through.
Jordan would have a name for this.
A gathering of black auras, negative energies clashing like storm fronts…
Roman sits behind his desk, every inch the king with no hair out of place, not a ripple in his expensive suit, his eyes more frigid than the Siberian wind. His fingers rest on polished wood, and his perfect nails tap a silent, measured rhythm. If the room breathes, it does so on his cue.
Igor Pisarev, our second-in-command, stands steady at Roman’s right shoulder, regarding me with brown eyes that measure, tally, and remember. With Igor, loyalty isn’t up for debate. He’s the one thing you can count on, locked and fixed when everything else in the room shifts, tilts, or gets slippery.
Mikhail Kozlov, Roman’s brother, sits on the left end of the desk. His wavy brown hair, though lighter than his brother’s, grays just the same. Broad shoulders dwarf the chair back.
If Mikhail and Igor are both here, we have aproblem.
On top of that, Kolya Ilyin and Vanya Orlov hover by the windows, a contrasting pair. Kolya’s broad, silent, and olive-skinned, with menace built into every line of him. While Vanya’s pale, slim, and stylish, with his soft brown hair swept back and his face absent of his usual smile.
Both stay stone-still, their faces set as they observe like men who understand that what comes next won’t be pretty.
Max Belov, the family’s real wild card, slumps against the wall, his dark hair hiding his expression as he stares at the floor, disconnected from the tension but still present.
Alexei Kozlov stands across from his father and uncle, the blue of his eyes shining through his curly brown hair. He’s stiff and uncomfortable, his left thumb twisting the wedding band on his finger.
The room holds the disquieting air of a firing squad.
And at the other end of the Pakhan’s desk, isolated like a disease vector, sits the last man of this tense council.
Sasha Pisarev.
Igor’s son. He’s recently started doing jobs on his own. Did fine on his first few, so why’s he acting so grim now? Beneath his shaggy half-buzzed hair, his paper-pale face grimaces with mostly healed bruises. His hands tremble in his pockets and sweat beads on his thin upper lip despite the room’s perfect temperature.
He looks like prey that’s wandered into a den of lions.
I shove the thought away and recalibrate. This has nothing to do with my mission, with Jordan, or with the package still tucked against my side.
This is something else entirely.
I position myself beside Kolya, who glances at me before focusing on Roman again. Another soldier in position, ready to provide backup at a moment’s notice.
I keep my voice low enough that only Kolya can hear. “What the hell is going on?”
His eyes drop to the box, lingering for a heartbeat before he shakes his head. “Nothing good.”
No shit.
Roman cuts us off before anything else can be said, his voice quiet and deadly. “Sasha. Did you meet with a detective?”
The question explodes through the room.
