"No drinking. You're on pain meds, and we need clear heads." Stephano runs his hand through his hair, looking so exasperated, it's cute. He reaches for his phone, thumbs running commands with the ease of a man who moves millions for breakfast. "I can ping a pass in a couple of hours. Drones tonight—quiet—and a full sweep at dawn with thermal overlay."
"Good," I say. "Drones tonight will tell us heat and activity. Satellite at first light will give us context. If the satellite sees diesel generators or fresh heat signatures in ruins, we go hard. If it’s silent, we'll move Ramón’s runners."
Ramón leans in, taps a cluster of structures near a dry wash. "There’s an abandoned hacienda here with a chapel. The priest will take in a wounded man for money. And here," he taps at another location, "is an old captain’s cottage near the mine, with thick walls."
"We'll check those too," Steph nods and taps on his phone, while I do the same, connecting with Grigori's satellite dish. He won't be happy, but what is the saying about asking permission and apologizing later?
Ramón takes out a cigarillo and flicks his lighter, a small flash in the heat, then the scent of tobacco fills the air. "I know the men who keep their houses full. For the right price, they'll start walking, and we’ll have eyes tonight."
Ettoro tosses a water bottle to Ramón; he catches it with a grin.
"Oksana and I will check out Creel, any objections?" Steph asks, looking from one to another.
The canopy flaps lift with a breath of desert wind. The sun is a hard coin above the ridge. Ettoro stays underneath while Steph indicates for me to follow him to one of the Hummers. I raise an eyebrow, "Way to stay under the radar."
"Take mine," Ramón offers, pointing at an old, beat-up VW bug. I can't suppress my grin when I watch Stephano fold his six-foot frame inside. But the grin evaporates quickly once I have to do the same, and my side is screaming at me. Which only gets worse once he puts the VW on the dirtroad.
The roadto Creel is a bad joke. Our borrowed VW finds every pothole like it owes them money; the suspension died sometime in the nineties, and no one told the shocks. Oksana stares out the window and pretends she isn’t gritting her teeth. She’s pale under the desert glare—too pale, making her fading bruises stand out more—and every jolt hits the same place in my chest. To make matters worse, the AC isn't working, and with the windows rolled down, we're choking on the desert dust.
"Almost there," I lie.
"Good," she says, and doesn’t look at me.
After what seems like an eternity, Creel finally rises out of the hills with the tired face of a town that’s seen too many secrets. I park two blocks off the plaza and walk Oksana into a small hotel with tile floors and a desk clerk who knows exactly when not to ask questions. I sign us inunder a name I haven’t used in years and tip enough to rent discretion.
The room is clean, but not the kind of clean that comes from pride, more like someone fought a losing battle with grime and decidedgood enoughwas a victory. The walls are cracked near the ceiling, and the paint is flaking in the corners. A fan hums overhead, halfhearted, moving hot air from one side of the room to the other.
The bed looks like it’s seen more sins than confessions.
I stop just inside the door and take it in. "Charming," I say. "I wouldn’t let my dog sleep in that bed."
Oksana drops onto the bed; the frame groans like it remembers better days. She smirks over her shoulder. "Not quite up to the Mafia prince’s taste?"
I glance at the sagging mattress. "I’m a simple man,Zhena.I just prefer thread counts that don’t look like they’ve been through a war."
She laughs, it's short and throaty and does things to my dick I don't really want to acknowledge. "Spoiled much?"
I shrug. "Why rough it when you have the money not to?"
She sits back, testing the mattress. The springs protest.
"You seem right at home," I say.
"I’ve slept in worse," she answers without missing a beat. She’s not joking, and that realization sits in my chest like a weight. I study her, dust on her boots and shirt, but hereyes are sharp even when she’s dead on her feet. There’s something about her that keeps knocking the air out of me, something that shouldn’t fit in my world but does anyway. And that’s the dangerous part.
I’ve spent my life cataloging threats—men, money, borders, loyalties—learning where lines harden and where they break. I know what the Bratva is. I know how they move: patient, layered, cold as winter steel. They don’t bluster like Italians. They don’t posture. They endure, outlast, and then they collect.
And she carries that in her bones.
Not openly. Not like a flag. But in the way she conserves motion, the way her eyes never quite stop counting exits, the way she treats rest as a temporary ceasefire instead of a right. Whatever she ran from—or through—didn’t leave her soft. It honed her.
That should bother me more than it does.
Because if the Bratva is a storm on the horizon, then she’s the quiet before it. And I can’t tell yet whether she’s shelter… or the thing that teaches me how badly a man can bleed and still stand.
"Maybe one day you’ll tell me," I say.
She looks up, a grin playing with the corner of her mouth. "Maybe one day I will."
