He sighs. “He wants to see you tonight.”
“Tell him to fuck off.”
“I’m not telling him that,” he mutters. “You can tell him yourself. Or show up. Your call.”
He leaves like he always does—without waiting for a goodbye.
The silence settles. Heavy.
I exhale through my nose and stare down at the lone brick Santi brought in. One brick. That’s all I have to work with this month.
Not enough to flip and stash. Not enough to survive.
I head to the far side of the warehouse where the space is partitioned off with old metal dividers and broken filing cabinets. My crew’s makeshift planning room.
My crew.
I push through the metal dividers, three people wait for me inside. Ricky leans against the wall, tattooed arms crossed, cigarette dangling from his lips even though I’ve told him a thousand times not to smoke in here. He sees me and grins—that crooked, trouble-seeking grin that got us through more shit than I can count. Met him in high school before he dropped out. He was the one who noticed the bruises when no one else did.
“Bout time, boss,” he says.
I hate when he calls me that. Makes me feel like Gabriel.
Beside him, Kay sits on an overturned crate, legs swinging, her dyed-red hair catching what little light filters through the grimy windows. She’s small, barely nineteen, but she’s got hands faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. Can pick a lock in under thirty seconds. Disable an alarm in forty-five. Santi brought her to me before his fucked up brother could sell her off after he scooped her off the street.
And then there’s Jace. Big, quiet, standing in the corner like he’s part of the furniture. Outgrew the foster system, got into gangs, was a runner for the Irish in Vancouver until he settled here. Found him digging through the trash a two years ago outside the diner. A secret between the both of us.
Because of our little operation we’ve all got little nest eggs to get us where we want to go.
But today?Today we’re fucked.
“We got a problem,” I say, crossing my arms.
Ricky straightens. “Russians?”
“Russians,” I confirm. “They hit the shipment. We only got one brick.”
Kay whistles low. “That’s not gonna cut it for the month.”
“No shit.”
I pace, mind racing through options, discarding each one as fast as it comes. We can’t hit another of Gabriel’s shipments this soon—too risky. Can’t approach the Russians directly—they’d kill us on sight or worse.
“What about the Italians?” Jace asks, voice like gravel.
I stop. Turn to face him. “What about them?”
“They’re aligned with Korsakov now, right? Maybe they got supply we could—”
“No,” I cut him off. “Absolutely fucking not. The Italians are off-limits.”
Ricky raises a brow. “Why? They got better product anyway.”
“Because,” I snap, “you all seem to forget they have Scythe. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to keep my tongue.”
The room goes quiet.
Kay picks at her nails. “So what do we do?”
