"Show-off," I murmur to Sasha.
He smirks behind his mask. "I learned from the best."
The darkness feels alive now. Predatory. A perfect veil for the storm we’re about to unleash. They know we're coming.
Behind me, Massimo checks a rifle that looks like it fell off the back of a military convoy. Raf cleans his knives with a quiet calm that should terrify any sane person. Stephano stands a few steps ahead—tall, still, focused—his soldiers forming a tight diamond around him.
I'm not mad at him any longer—how can I be when I won?—but we had a small… disagreement a few hours ago. Stephano wanted me behind a computer. He said I was so good at coordinating and directing.
Flatterer.
It didn't get him anywhere because we all knew what he really meant: Safe.
I told him no.
He said my staying back was non-negotiable.
I told him to stop trying to put me in a glass cage.
He told me he wasn’t putting me anywhere; he was keeping me alive.
As if I don’t keep myself alive.
As if I haven’t been keeping Grigori alive since he became Pakhan.
As if someone like me could ever be tucked away behind a screen. But he said it with that quiet desperation that comes from loving someone he knows he could lose. And damn him, it softened me. It still softens me now, standing beside him in the dark as the night holds its breath. That was our compromise, we stay close to each other.
The compound below us is now fully blind.
No lights.
No alarms.
No chatter on radios.
They know we're coming.
We know they know.
Perfect.
We turn our night vision on. The little device sits tightly on my forehead.
"Positions," Massimo murmurs after we all pull out our radios from our Faraday cases.
The Vegas Don is terrifying when he’s serious, and right now, he’s carved from stone. He moves to cover our flank, rifle raised. Raffael is already gone, a shadow slipping into the leaves. Sasha signals with two fingers: path clear ahead. Stephano gives a single nod, jaw tight with resolve.
Then we move.
The descent down the ridge is silent except for the faint scuff of boots and the distant hum of generator backup systems struggling to reboot. My breath fogs in the humidity. The air smells like wet metal and tropical rot. I stay close to Stephano’s left, mercifully quiet as I keep eyes on his blind spot. I’ve seen him fight before—I’ve seen him bloodied, feral, furious.
But tonight? Tonight, he’s something else.
Cold.
Precise.
Silent as a blade sliding out of its sheath.
