I tap my fingers lightly against the armrest. “Then someone wants the war.”
Sergei nods once. “That’s what I think too.”
Outside, neon signs streak across the window glass in blurred colors.
Bars.
Gas stations.
Cheap motels.
The city pretends to be civilized.
But like every other city in the world, its real business happens in the shadows.
“Petrov believes the Volkovs are lying,” Sergei continues. “He’s mobilizing his men.”
“How many?”
“Twenty confirmed. Maybe more.”
I consider that quietly.
Twenty men is not retaliation.
Twenty men is a message.
“And the Volkov response?”
“Waiting.”
“Smart.”
Sergei shifts gears as we pass under a bridge. “They’re waiting for you.”
That almost makes me smile.
Of course they are.
As a negotiator, for the last five years, I’ve been the man crime families call when they want bloodshed to stop without losing face.
Negotiation is a delicate art.
Criminals rarely trust peace.
But they trust power.
And they trust results.
Sergei glances back again. “You’re meeting them tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“You think you can stop this?”
“Yes.”
Because this feud isn’t about revenge.
