“I know she’s scared. We’re all scared. But suggesting I die isn’t a solution.”
“She’s not thinking clearly. The Petrovs are active again and she’s remembering what happened six years ago. She watched you kill Dmitri. Watched the violence. Now her sons are targets because of it.”
“Oursons.”
“Your sons. And she’s terrified of losing them.”
“So am I. But I’m not asking anyone to die for it.”
“No. You’re just planning to kill every Petrov in the city.”
He’s not wrong.
I set down my glass. “What’s the update on surveillance?”
“Three more sightings today. Different locations. They’re expanding their coverage.”
“Looking for patterns.”
“And weaknesses. They know you visit the Vance estate regularly now. Know the boys live there. Know the security setup.”
“How much do they know?”
“Enough to be dangerous. Not enough to move yet.”
“When do you think they’ll strike?”
“Soon. They’ve been patient for six years but the surveillance suggests they’re in the planning phase. Weeks, maybe. Not months.”
I walk to my desk and pull up the security feeds. Multiple angles of the Vance estate. Cars passing by. People walking. Nothing obvious, but I know they’re out there somewhere. Watching. Waiting.
“Double the perimeter guards,” I say. “I want eyes on every approach. And get me aerial surveillance. Drones if we have to. I want to see anyone coming before they get close.”
“That’s going to be expensive.”
“I don’t care what it costs.”
“And if Aurelia finds out you’re running drones over the estate?”
“She’ll be angry. But she’ll be alive to be angry.”
Declan doesn’t argue. Just says he’ll make it happen and hangs up.
I sit at my desk and pull up the file we’ve been building on the Petrovs. Leadership structure. Known associates. Properties they own or control. Patterns of operation.
Dmitri’s uncle took over after his death. Viktor Petrov. More ruthless than Dmitri was. Less interested in making noise and more interested in making examples. If he’s planning revenge, it won’t be quick. It’ll be calculated. Personal. Designed to hurt as much as possible before the killing blow.
My phone rings again. Unknown number.
I almost don’t answer. Then instinct makes me pick up.
“Cassian Rourke.”
“Mr. Rourke.” The voice is male, accented, unfamiliar. “We need to talk.”
“Who is this?”
“Someone who knows what you did six years ago. And who wants to discuss repayment.”
