The surviving men are dragged into one of the side rooms—small, enclosed, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Blood on the floor. Dust in the air. The aftermath of a fight they already lost hanging heavy around them.
I step in last.
They look at me the moment I enter.
Not defiant. Not angry.
They already know.
There’s no need for theatrics. No need for threats. That part is over.
I stop in front of the nearest one, crouching just enough to meet his eye level. His breathing is uneven, pain written all over his face, but he holds my gaze anyway.
Good.
That makes this faster.
“Where is he?” I ask.
No raised voice. No aggression.
Just certainty.
The man hesitates—out of instinct, not courage.
I tilt my head slightly.
“You’ve already lost this location,” I continue, quieter now. “So don’t waste what little time you have left pretending you still have leverage.”
His jaw tightens. Then loosens.
Because he knows I’m right.
Behind me, I can feel Misha watching closely. The others silent, waiting. The entire room holding its breath for what comes next.
The man swallows hard.
“He’s not here,” he mutters.
“I know,” I reply. “Where did he go?”
This time, the hesitation is shorter.
More fragile.
“He’s not here at all,” he answers, his breathing labored.
The room stills.
I don’t move.
“Explain,” I say quietly.
He swallows hard, pain tightening his face.
“Anton Petrov…he’s not in New York yet,” he continues. “He’s still in Moscow. Finalizing things before he comes.”
My gaze sharpens. “When?”
