"The Petrovics just made a move. Vesuvio."
My restaurant. One of my favorites—a place I'd built from nothing, where I'd closed deals and celebrated victories and taken women I couldn't remember. A place that mattered.
"How bad?"
"Bad. They hit it an hour ago. Torched the whole building."
"Casualties?"
"Two of our men. Dead. Three more injured. The night manager is in critical condition."
"And the message?"
"'Give us the girl.'" Yegor paused. "Painted on the sidewalk out front. In case anyone missed the point."
No. They weren't being subtle. This was a declaration—a statement that they weren't going to let this go, that they were willing to escalate, that they'd burn everything I had to get what they wanted.
What they couldn't have.
"Double security on the building," I said. "And get Kirill on a plane now. We need to talk."
"Already done."
I hung up and stood in my kitchen, thinking about two dead men and a message painted on concrete. Thinking about Keira, three rooms away, showering and changing, and completely unaware that people were dying because of her.
This was war now. Real war. And it was only going to get worse.
I went to find my wife. She needed to know what we were up against.
Chapter 12 - Keira
I was toweling my hair dry when Rodion knocked on my door.
"Come in."
He entered and closed the door behind him, and I knew immediately something was wrong. His face had that careful blankness I'd come to recognize from our sessions—the mask he wore when he was trying to control his emotions.
"What happened?"
"The Petrovics made a move."
I set down the towel. "What kind of move?"
"They burned one of my restaurants. Killed two of my men. Injured three more." He paused. "They left a message. 'Give us the girl.'"
The words landed like stones in my stomach. Two men dead. Because of me. Because I'd had the audacity to run from a marriage I didn't want, to try to build a life that didn't involve being traded like property.
"Who were they?" I asked. "The men who died."
"Does it matter?"
"Yes. It matters."
He was quiet for a moment. "Alexei Voronov. Twenty-eight. He had a younger sister in Moscow he was sending money to. And Isidor Sobol. Thirty-four. Married, two kids."
Two kids. A wife who would never see her husband again. A sister who would stop receiving the money that kept her afloat. All because of me.
I moved to the window, staring out at the city without seeing it. Somewhere out there, a woman was learning that her husband was dead. Children were being told that their father wasn't coming home. And it was my fault.
