The call woke me at 2:47 AM. My hand found my phone before my eyes fully opened—years of training meant I went from sleep to full alertness in seconds. Mila stirred beside me, a soft sound of confusion, and I gentled my voice when I answered.
“Yes.”
“Boss.” Dimitri’s voice was clipped, urgent. “The north warehouse. It’s burning.”
Fuck!
I was already out of bed, moving toward the closet with the efficiency of a man who’d done this countless times before. “Casualties?”
“Two guards, both alive but injured. Fire department’s on scene, but it’s bad. And boss—” Dimitri paused in a way that made my jaw tighten. “There’s a body. Hanging from the loading dock gate.”
Not just a warning, then. A message.
“Moretti?”
“His calling card was nailed to the man’s chest.”
“Of course it was,” I uttered. “I’m on my way. Keep things under control.”
I dressed quickly—tactical clothing, not a suit. This wasn’t a negotiation.
Behind me, Mila sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist, her hair a tangle of silk in the dim light.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice was sleep-rough but alert.
“Business.” I strapped on my shoulder holster and checked my weapon with automatic precision. “Stay inside. My men will be outside the door.”
“Alexei—”
I crossed back to the bed, cupped her face with one hand, and kissed her hard and fast. Not gentle. Not reassuring. Just claiming, the way a man marked what was his before walking into potential death. “I’ll be back. I promise.”
Then I was out of the room, my mind already shifting into the cold, tactical space where emotion became a liability and violence became mathematics.
**********
The warehouse was a blazing inferno when I arrived, flames licking fifty feet into the night sky and painting everything in shades of orange and red. Fire trucks surrounded the building, their hoses fighting a losing battle against the accelerant-fed blaze. I could smell it from the street—gasoline, maybe kerosene. This wasn’t an accident. This was arson, professional and thorough.
And expensive.
Dimitri met me at the perimeter, his eyes reflecting the flames.
“Status,” I demanded.
“Fire’s too hot to contain. We’ll lose the whole structure,” he divulged, gesturing towards the loading dock, where something dark swayed in the superheated air. “Body’s stillup. Fire department won’t let us take it down until the area’s secure.”
My gaze locked on the silhouette. Even from this distance, even through the smoke and flames, I could make out the shape of a man hanging by his neck, arms bound behind his back. The calling card Dimitri mentioned was practically visible too—a piece of white paper that stood out starkly against the dark clothing.
I didn’t need to see it up close to know what it would say. Moretti had a signature style: a single sentence in Italian, always the same.Il sangue richiede sangue. Blood demands blood.
“The guards who survived,” I said, my voice flat and emotionless. “Where are they?”
“Hospital. One has third-degree burns, the other took a bullet to the shoulder. Both are talking.”
“And what are they saying?”
Kirill stepped forward, his expression grim. “Four men. Professionals. They hit fast—cut the power, took out communications, then set the charges. The hanging came first, though. They wanted the guards to see it. To run and spread the word.”
Psychological warfare. Enzo was trying to destabilize them, make their people question whether the Lobanovs could protect them. I would have admitted that it was effective had I not trained my men better than that.
