Before I can respond, the doors swing open.
Two men confidently stride in, and their presence cuts through the room with brutal efficiency. Conversations falter, and people turn to watch the men.
In an instant, they grab a politician and haul him to his feet. I recognize the man from charity galas and campaign posters, and haul him to his feet.
“Please,” he stammers, “just give me more time.”
The punch lands with a crack that echoes off the walls.
Chaos erupts.
Chairs scrape. Someone screams. Glass shatters. Blood sprays from a broken nose as the second man slams him into a table. The smell of iron fills the air.
Devin grabs my arm. “Aly.”
We try to move, but the crowd surges, bodies colliding, panic spreading fast. A glass flies past my head and shatters against the wall. Someone stumbles into me, nearly knocking me over.Devin and I duck, crouched half-behind the bar. I squint through the dim light to try and see the men, and it’s obvious to me right away that they aren’t Russian; aren’t Bratva.
Their features are softer and they’re leaner, shorter but more compact, like they’re springs coiled and ready for destruction.Not our men.
The doors swing open again.
Silence crashes down.
Kazimir Baranov stands in the doorway, fury radiating off him in palpable waves, his gaze locking on the destruction with lethal focus.
And when his eyes find me, everything stops.
Chapter 17
Kazimir
In one smooth motion, the gun is in my hand, its weight familiar, arm extended. When I squeeze the trigger, the pressure is satisfying, and I fire a shot into the brick wall over the bar top.
The Foundry is in an old building, but the brick only splinters and cascades to the floor. It’s not a clear shot through. The sharp pop is so loud that for a few moments my ears feel like they are stuffed with cotton and ringing. It’s a dizzying sensation, but I brace against it and stand firm.
Everyone stops.
The politician on the floor is moaning. The men who were previously bent over beating the shit out of him scramble for the side door, and for some fucking reason the bouncer lets them through.
I step further into the room and let my trigger finger rest on the barrel, but I don’t put the safety on. My eyes sweep the room again, moving over countless bodies crouched, men who have pissed themselves or are just completely still in terror. Topless women trembling or in shock.
To Aly again. She’s still half-behind the bar with Devin. Her eyes are wide; the curve of her throat and shoulder barely visiblearound the corner. “Kaz?” Her lips form my name, but I can’t hear her, not yet.
The blood is still roaring through my ears.
Jak is a hunched shadow at my side, his eyes moving restlessly over the room, hair disheveled. “Mr. Baranov. I apologize, I didn’t know?—”
Before he can finish, the side door opens again. Nika steps in, dragging one of the men who escaped. Even in the dim light of The Foundry’s bar, his skin is pale and waxy, and his eyes are angry and roving.
“Here.”
Nika obeys the order and drags him across the room to where I stand just inside the main door. The patrons closest to Jak and I scatter further back like rabbits hyperaware that there are predators in their midst.
The man is forced to his knees, and Nika’s gun is pressed to the nape of his neck.
“Who do you work for?”I ask.
There’s nervous movement in the big room, but my gaze has narrowed, honing in and focused. Nothing will distract me.Thisis who I am. Cold fury.
