My brother’s raised brow doesn’t leech anything from this high. We prowl through the docks, and my pulse soars.
“Stay down, Iosif. I mean it. We’re just doing recon.”
“I know. I got it.”
But I can’t deny this feels good, being in the thick of it. There’s an element of danger that thrills me. It burns all the pent-up energy inside me, like running off calories.
“Good,” he mouths, his nod directing me to take the left path. We already went over the blueprints in the car. We have a plan. There’s just no planning for all variables. That’s the nature of our lifestyle.
We split up, and I stay low. Keeping an ear out for the telltale sound of a thick-soled tread.
The Genovese mafia runs a tight ship. Every movement is calculated, timed, and necessary. It’s worthy of admiration. And fury, when I hear Leonid curse minutes later.
I break into a run.
He’s on the ground—and has come out on top, bashing in a guard’s head with the butt of his gun. He catches me on the periphery. I waggle my brows, “Who isn’t subtle now, bitch?”
Leo snorts and flips me off, landing a final punch before he’s back on his feet.
“They’ll have fucking heard that. Get over here,” he says.
I’ve got his six in a heartbeat.
We don’t make it ten feet before all hell breaks loose.
Bedlam pours in from every direction. A small army thunders against concrete, closing in on us like they are wolves and we are prey. This is where we should make a run for it. Findcover, get our asses out of here. That would be the smart thing to do.
When the fuck did I claim to be smart?
“Two o’clock,” I hiss, taking a shot over Leonid’s shoulder.
I’m already moving before the body hits the ground.
My knife is in my hand. Two more guards are rounding the corner. Muscle memory takes over every limb. I bury the blade in one’s shoulder, and his gun drops from his hand when I twist it. I’m already yanking it out and burying it in the side of the other’s neck.
“Iosif!” Leonid shouts, planting his fist in another man’s jaw.
Panic has woven its way through his words. I feel electric. This is what I was made for. What I’m good at. Where I thrive.
We’re running again, with Leonid cursing a blue streak in Russian. I laugh when he bitches about how Trifon is going to have our asses for being this dumb.
But I catch his eye, and he grins at me. The thrill is in him, too.
I point left. He nods. We can hear them gathering from the right and back, trying to flank us.
We burst into the warehouse. There are crates piled all the way up to the ceiling. “Fuck yes,” I say, and start climbing the nearest stack.
“Are you fucking insane?” Leonid demands.
Yet he follows suit. I’ve lived this long, haven’t I?
He sees my point when we’re at the top of our manufactured mountain. It’s one hell of a vantage point. Theheight and visibility will give us an element of surprise. They can pour in from the right, left, front, and back. But they can’t come at us from the top.
They gather like ants on a hill.
We’re outnumbered. I still keep my gun in one hand and dagger in the other.
Eventually, a voice, presumably the one in charge, barks orders in Italian. I don’t speak it often, but I can translate it well enough.
