And my brain, traitorous and fast, grabs the first thing it can, the office at the club.
Maksim’s desk.
That violent sound, metal and plastic and a sharp crack as his laptop hit the floor.
I remember the way he barely reacted. His mouth and hands still on me.
A broken computer is a broken computer.
Which means it gets tossed.
Which means it ends up in trash that leaves the building.
And Gabriel… Gabriel has men for that. Men who can follow a route, pay off a driver, dig through black bags with gloved hands like it’s nothing. Men who can pull a shattered machine out of garbage and hand it to someone who knows how to peel secrets out of dead things.
My stomach twists.
Because the thought feels disgusting. It feels like betrayal even if it’s scraps, even if it’s nothing. Maksim’s face flashes in my mind—cold, sharp, unreadable, and guilt hits so hard it makes my vision blur.
But then Ricky again.
Gabrielwillkill him.
My friends don’t deserve to bleed because I couldn’t come up with a sentence.
I inhale, lungs shaking, and force my thumbs to move.
I don’t have meetings or names. But I saw his laptop break in the office at Exile. If it gets replaced, the old one will be discarded. Your men can retrieve it from trash pickup and see what’s salvageable.
I hold my breath.
The message comes soon after.
Gabriel
It better be good.
Chapter 31
Maksim
Beda’s already up here when I turn, wind in her hair, city lights behind her like a crown she didn’t earn.
The skirt I bought her sits on her hips like a dare.
Black. Short. Mean.
Fishnets climb her thighs in a pattern that makes my mind go dark on instinct, and the boots—heavy, ruthless, make her look like she could kick a man to death and laugh while she does it. The purple streaks threaded through her hair catch the street lights when she shifts, violet bruising in the brown, and I want to fist it just to see if she’d whimper or bite.
My gaze drags down her body slowly, deliberately, so she knows exactly what I’m doing.
Because I already said it.
Because she already heard me.
Mine.
Not a question. Not a wish. A fact.
