In the meantime, I need to study the other side. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my parents, it’s to always be prepared.
Whether this truce proves to be lucrative or not doesn’t matter. The Chicago Bratva will always be a thorn in ourside for as long as I live, just like they’ve been in Dad’s and the Pakhans’ who ruled before him.
As much as I loathe this whole charade, I can’t deny that it’s realistically my only chance to get close to them and study their tactics.
While the house manager explains the facilities, I keep my attention on their men through the doors. All dressed in full-black combat gear, not suits like our side. While everyone is carrying precision rifles, theirs seem more sophisticated.
I need to figure out their weapon supplier.
The bald-headed one with a scorpion tattooed on the side of his head seems to be the leader, considering how the others stand behind him.
Hmm.
I tilt my head to the side to watch him closely. Blond beard, taller than average. Bulky, too. Scarred hands. Army background? No. Prison?
How do I find out more about him without garnering suspicion? Should I ask a guard to spy on them?
Dad specifically told me not to go into investigative mode and just enjoy this camp, but that’s simply impossible.
However, the guards are under clear orders from Dad and won’t listen to my instructions if I choose to infiltrate the other side.
I need to figure out a different method?—
My feet still when a black ball rolls into view, stopping dead in the middle of the invisible line dividing our side from the Chicago Bratva’s. The patrolling guards freeze mid-step, rifles snapping up, barrels tracking the harmless-looking object as it rocks lazily on the dirt.
Bang!
The blast rips through the stillness, echoing off the wooden walls, rattling the air. I move before thought can catch up, striding toward the balcony, my hand sliding to the familiar weight at my waistband. My fingers graze cold steel, but I stop short of drawing.
I shove open the balcony door and am met with a burst of laughter—raw, unbothered, and out of place in the charged quiet that follows an explosion. A guy about my age darts out from behind a massive oak, a small wired device clutched in his hand.
His white sleeveless shirt, smudged with dirt and torn at the edges, has a ragged hole in the side, and his jeans are ripped at the knees. His dark hair is a mess of waves falling over his forehead, and his skin is marred with lacerations—on his elbow, his cheek, his hands. Like he rolled down the mountain. Or fought a bear and half won.
“Yulik!” The bark comes from the bald-headed leader.
A nerve twitches in his temple, the skin flushing red as his glare locks on the guy he called by the diminutive of his name.
Yulik.
Yulian Dimitriev.
I’ve heard the stories about the infamous son of Yaroslav Dimitriev. Didn’t expect him to look like the human embodiment of a migraine.
“Sick new device, right?” His laugh—split by a busted lip—cuts through the air, sounding unfazed by the rifles still aimed in his general direction. “I came up with it. Cy helped a little.”
“A lot.” Another guy leans against the tree, lazily chewing a toothpick.
I narrow my gaze.
I didn’t hear anything about a Cy or even a Cyrus joining this camp. He wasn’t on any list from their side. Which makes him something I don’t like?—
A variable.
Scorpion Tattoo Man’s voice hardens, dripping with irritation. “We were seconds away from shooting at each other. Do you realize how reckless that was?”
My thoughts match his word for word. In a place that’s strung tight over a fragile truce, his stunt wasn’t just reckless—it was a spark in a room full of gunpowder. All it would’ve taken was one twitch of a finger, and we’d be stacking bodies.
“Nah.” Yulian shrugs, his voice light, almost mocking. “No one’s stupid enough to be the first to pull the trigger and blow up this peace.” His grin widens as he calls out, “Cy! Looks hot as fuck!”
