A flicker of madness crosses his features. His eyes ice over. "For as long as he survives," he states flatly.
I roll my eyes. "You can’t kill every man who talks to your wife."
He raises a brow, calm as a glacier. "Watch me."
I huff out a laugh. "Psychopath."
He inclines his head proudly. "Family trait."
"So," I say, leaning back, "whatdo you know?"
"Rumors," he drops his voice. "We think Viktor had a son."
"He had a lot of sons… and daughters," I interrupt with a chuckle.
He turns those glacial blue eyes on me, sharp, controlled, terrifying.
A death promise. People claim he’s emotionless. They’re wrong. His emotions are just… weaponized.
"This son is different," he continues. "Viktor had a wife. A Venezuelan wife."
I go still. Completely. "Fuck."
"Yeah," Grigori agrees. "Blyad."
"So the son is in Venezuela?"
"Allegedly."
He reaches for his coffee. I notice his finger tapping against the cup—exactly twice every five seconds. His tell. He’s ready to kill something. "I’ll send?—"
"No." I stop him immediately. "Stephano and I are going. We have loose ends there anyway. We’ll find Viktor’s son."
Before he can argue, sunlight flashes off something metallic behind him.
A gun.
Years of training snap into place. My chair slams backward as I stand, gun already in my hand. I launch over the table—over Grigori—shouting, "Gun!"
We hit the pavement together, him rolling instantly to shield me even though I’m already firing.
Screaming erupts. Chairs topple. People run.
Five men appear from behind planters and lampposts. All armed. Moving with precision.
"Friends of yours?" I call out over the gunfire.
"I don’t socialize with Venezuelans," Grigori spits, shooting the first man in the throat.
"Good," I mutter, dropping another with a bullet to the knee, then the head. "I’d be concerned."
Bystanders scatter in every direction. A stroller rolls into the fountain. Someone cries. Someone prays. Someone records with their phone—idiot.
Three shots whistle past my ear. I duck behind an overturned table. We kill four in under fifteen seconds. The fifth lies on the pavement, bleeding from his shoulder. Not dead enough, apparently.
Grigori stalks toward him like a wolf. Calm. Certain. Terrifying.
He grinds his boot onto the man’s throat. "Who sentyou?"
