I hit send.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter.
My thumb hovers over the call button, waiting, hoping.Nothing.
Maybe he ain’t got service, maybe he’s busy. Or maybe he’s dead in a fucking ditch.
“Fuck it,” I mutter. If he doesn’t see the message, I’ll deal with the shitstorm when it hits.
It’s just me, then. Wren fucking Davis against the fucking Skull Collectors.
47
Dimitri
“Mudak, you nearly killed the clue I worked so hard to find,” Erik grumbles, shouldering past me into the attached bathroom.
I follow, my hands sticky with drying blood. The bathroom’s all sleek chrome and white tile, spotless as an operating room. Fucking freezing, too. My boots echo on the hard floor as I join Erik at the oversized sink.
“Idi na khuy,” I mutter, cranking the hot water. Steam rises as I scrub my hands raw. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
Erik snorts, lathering up with some fancy-smelling soap. “Barely. A few more seconds and we’d be fishing information out of atrup.”
I glance up, catching my reflection in the massive mirror. My eyes are wild, pupils blown. There’s a spray of blood across my cheek. I look like a fuckingzhivotnoe.
Good.
“He’ll live,” I growl, splashing water on my face. “Unfortunately.”
Erik dries his hands on a plush towel, eyeing me. “You gonna be able to keep it together? We’ve got company waiting upstairs.”
I bare my teeth in something that might pass for a grin. “I’m the picture of fucking calm,blyad’.”
“Right,” Erik drawls. He tosses me the towel. “Clean yourself up. You look like you’ve been rolling around in askotoboynya.”
I wipe my face, tossing the now-bloodied towel in the trash. “Vot. Beautiful as always.”
Erik rolls his eyes, leading the way out of the bathroom. We pass the main torture room, the smell of blood and piss still hanging thick in the air. My fists clench, that familiar itch for violence crawling under my skin.
The elevator ride back up is silent. I can feel Erik watching me, probably wondering if I’m about to snap.Yob tvoyu mat. I’m fine.
The doors slide open, revealing two men waiting in Erik’s office. I recognize them immediately: Oleg “Frost” Arsenyev and Saveliy “Vortex” Kozlov. Our top-tier muscle, the kind you call in when shit’s about to get realzasranny.
Oleg stands ramrod straight, his icy blue eyes scanning us as we step out. He’s built like a tank, all muscle and hard edges. Next to him, Saveliy lounges against Erik’s desk, deceptively relaxed. I know better—the man’s a coiled spring, ready to unleashadat a moment’s notice.
“Gentlemen,” Erik says smoothly. “I trust you have news?”
Oleg nods curtly. “We’ve located a warehouse. It’s heavily guarded, but our intel suggests it’s a major hub for their operations.”
“Any chance of getting inside?” I ask, already itching for a fight.
Saveliy shakes his head, his long black hair swaying. “Not without raising every alarm in the city. They’re paranoidubljudki, watching their own shadows.”
I grunt, pacing the length of the office. My skin feels too tight, that bloodlust from earlier still simmering beneath the surface.
“There’s more,” Oleg says, his voice as cold as his nickname. “We spotted Zimniy heading an operation downtown. They hit three high-end jewelry stores in broad daylight.”
My head snaps up. “Chto za khuynya? Thosepizdyhave more money than God.”
