My jaw clenches. “They’re everywhere. Like fucking cockroaches.”
Erik nods, his playful demeanor fading. “D’s not wrong. They’ve got ties to Moscow, New York, and now they’re sniffing around Chicago.”
“Blyat,” Luka mutters. “Any idea what they’re after?”
I grunt, memories of the past two weeks flashing through my mind. Blood. Screams. Broken bodies. “Power. What else?”
“There’s more to it,” Erik says, his knife stilling. “They’re… organized. Disciplined. This isn’t just another street gang.”
My skin crawls. He’s right. These fuckers are different. Dangerous.
“Da,” I grunt. “Just tired of chasing ghosts.”
Luka leans forward, his eyes sharp. “What aren’t you telling us,brat?”
I look away, cursing internally. Perceptive bastard.
“Nothing,” I lie. But my mind betrays me, flashing to wild raven hair and defiant eyes. To soft skin and biting words.
To Wren.
Two weeks without her.
Not that I care, I tell myself.She’s nothing. No one.
“Bullshit,” Luka says softly. “Spill it, D.”
I growl, frustration boiling over. “You want to know? Fine. I think we’re fucked. These Skull Collectors, they’re not just some upstart gang. They’re… something else.”
Erik’s knife stills completely. “What do you mean?”
I run a hand through my hair, struggling to put the feeling into words. “It’s like they’re everywhere and nowhere. I’ve tortured their men, hunted their hideouts. But it’s like trying to grab smoke.”
Luka’s face is grim now, all traces of relaxation gone. “You think we’re dealing with something bigger?”
“Da,” I mutter, jaw clenched tight. “These skull-fuckingmudaksare the same shitheads who hit our vodka factory. I’d bet my left nut on it.”
Erik’s eyes narrow. “You sure about that, big man?”
“Nyet,” I growl, slamming my fist on the table. “But my gut’s screaming it louder than a whore on payday.”
Luka leans in, his tanned mug filling the screen. “Spill it,brat. Every fucking detail.”
I lay out the shitshow at the warehouse. The security breach that shouldn’t have been possible. Yuri’s mangled corpse. That blood-soaked message that makes my trigger finger itch.
Erik jumps in with his tech bullshit, cool as a fucking cucumber. Always the smooth talker.
“Yob tvoyu mat,” Luka spits when we finish. His surfer-boy face has gone whiter than a Siberian winter. “This is a bigger clusterfuck than we thought.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I snarl, teeth bared. “These aren’t some two-bitgopniks. They gutted our system like pros.”
Erik’s knife is dancing again, the show-off prick. “I’ve got ears to the ground. Squeezing every rat and snitch from here to Brighton Beach.”
“Good.” Luka nods. “Dig deeper. We need to know who’s pulling these cocksuckers’ strings.”
I crack my knuckles, blood singing for violence. “Just point me at ‘em. I’ll make ‘em sing like they’re in the fucking choir.”
“Easy, you rabid bear,” Erik says, eyeing me like I’m a bomb about to go off. “We need brains, not just bloodshed.”
