Not in this life.
Not when I left Brighton Beach. Not when I put a bullet through a man’s teeth at sixteen. Not when I got my first kill order. Not even when my mother was dying and I left her to bleed in a hospital bed while I cleaned up someone else’s mess.
Be careful? That’s not something you say to the Reaper.
It’s something you say when you don’t want someone to disappear.
I shift my jaw, but the clench won’t ease. The warehouse feels smaller now. Like the walls moved in without permission. Like something’s circling just outside the line of sight, waiting for a slip.
I lock the screen and shove the phone into the inside pocket of my coat.
Focus.
Back to the room.
Something’s off. My gut twists, a knife-sharp instinct screaming trouble, but I can’t pin it down. A deal going south? A tail we missed? Something’s breathing down my neck, and I’m blind to it.
My fingers flex, itching for the weight of my gun, but I keep still, every muscle coiled, ready to move. I’m the Reaper, not prey, but this feeling— Fuck, it’s like the air’s too thick, pressing in.
I roll my shoulders. Breathe once. Then go still.
A low rumble breaks the silence outside.
Tires.
I move toward the windows on the west wall, peel back one of the boarded slots we carved years ago for lines of sight.
Two SUVs slow as they approach the gate. Clean black, armored, lights off. No logos. No plates.
They pull up to the entrance like they’ve done this a hundred times—which they have. We’ve used this place for cleanups, interrogations, shit we bury deep. Only the inner circle knows it exists.
The gate stays shut until Dima confirms the licenses via radio. It grinds open, heavy and slow, and the vehicles roll through.
My back straightens.
Lev moves closer to the side wall, hand sliding toward the rifle on his back, eyes sharp now.
The vehicles stop, engines humming low, cutting through the warehouse’s stale air.
Doors swing open. Bodyguards step out first, heavy builds, Slavic, ex-military, boots crunching gravel. They scan the perimeter, hands near holsters, and one opens the back door of the lead SUV. Igor steps out, black wool coat, red-lined, cashmere, custom. His scarf’s tight, movements deliberate like always.
But it’s the third figure stepping out behind him that shifts the air in my lungs.
Timofey.
Perfect coat. Impeccable shoes. Hair swept back with too much product. And a fucking smile on his face like this is a holiday dinner.
“That fuckingsuka,” Lev mutters under his breath, glancing at me. “Guess he’s got thePakhan’sballs in a drawer.”
He doesn’t laugh.
Neither do I. Because now the clock’s ticking.
Timofey being here wasn’t part of the plan. Which means he’s either inserting himself into something he knows… or something he’s afraid of.
Either way, the weight of this just doubled.
I glance toward the evidence table. The ledgers. The Cayman trail. Volkov Holdings LLC—his name, even if buried.
