My heart stutters so hard, I think it might stop altogether.
Having no choice, I reluctantly rise, dragging Yulia with me and tucking her firmly against my side. My arms shield her small frame even as my knees wobble beneath me.
Behind him, the cafe is a war zone.
Glass and splintered wood litter the floor. The pastry display case is a shattered mess, its contents destroyed. A man lies slumped over the counter, his head at a grotesque angle, blood pooling beneath him in a slow, horrifying bloom.
The other patrons are still pressed flat against the floor, though some of them are lying unnaturally still.
I pull Yulia tighter against me.
“Where are you taking us?” I manage to say.
He doesn’t answer. He just turns and begins walking toward the back of the cafe, past the complete chaos that’s been left of it. He moves with the confidence of a man who’s used to being obeyed, a man who expects fear to be enough of a tactic to get him what he wants.
I’m too afraid not to do as he says, because what else can I do?
I carry Yulia as I make my way over to where he’s paused at the open back doorway. We follow him through the ruined kitchen, past pans and trays knocked from the counters, through a door that slams behind us as we exit into the alley so loudly that we both flinch.
A black SUV idles there, parked halfway into the narrow alleyway. Its tinted windows reflect the gray sky above and the devastation we’ve just escaped. The engine hums softly, far too calm in contrast to the panic still thundering in my chest.
A woman stands by the rear passenger door, dressed almost identically. She holds the door open as we approach, her expression pinching for a quick moment before falling into something unreadable.
I stop in my tracks. “We’re not going anywhere with you.”
The man who led us out turns back toward me. There’s no surprise in his expression, just a sharp exhale through his nose. “This isn’t up for negotiation. Get in the car.”
My voice rises despite the panic rattling in my chest. “No. You don’t get to order us around. You don’t explain anything, and now you expect us to just follow you after what just happened in there?”
“We just saved your life,” he says simply. “You can thank us later. Now get in the fucking car.”
7
MAKSIM
The call comes in just as Lev and I step out of the warehouse.
My boots crunch over gravel as we cross the uneven lot, the metallic stench of blood and gun residue still clinging to my skin, making my nose wrinkle. Behind us, the large rolling door at the back of the building slides shut with a groaning finality, sealing the echoes of what just transpired inside.
We’d just finished giving a very pointed reminder to one of our more reckless business contacts about why rerouting shipments without clearing it through me isn’t just frowned upon. It’s punished.
Vanya Evgeni, a local idiot. A twitchy little bastard whose arrogance is only outdone by his talent for screwing up perfectly simple instructions. Rerouting shipments, pocketing side cuts, playing games with inventory that doesn’t belong to him because he thinks the Bratva is just a brand name to slap on his own hustle.
I don’t usually get my hands dirty like this anymore. That’s what lieutenants are for. Men like Roman who typically handles things old-school and methodically. Or Katya when she’s in the mood and wants to cause a little controlled chaos.
Delegation has always been the smarter play. Cleaner and quicker. One command down the chain and the problem vanishes like it never existed.
But lately, “cleaner” hasn’t been cutting it.
Too many hands have grown shaky. Too many ears have stopped listening. There’s a difference between fear and respect, and if you don’t enforce both with equal weight, you lose them altogether.
So I handled Vanya myself.
Lev wipes a smear of blood off his knuckle with a handkerchief as we reach the car. “Should’ve taken him out, you know. He’s bound to fuck up again.”
“Maybe next time,” I mutter.
He grunts, tucking the cloth into his coat pocket.
