Page 49 of Dark King Daddy

Nikita rarely appeared rushed. Even under pressure, he preferred to look as though events had arranged themselves for his convenience.

Now he crossed the wet grass with his phone in his hand and no attention to appearances.

“Daniil.”

Daniil turned.

Nikita looked at Anton, then at me, then at the surrounding mourners.

“Not here,” he said.

Daniil led us between two rows of parked cars. Arkady followed. Uncle Kostya remained near Anton. Kiryl, Yelena, and Sal stayed with the family vehicles.

The cars blocked us from most of the cemetery.

“What happened?” Daniil asked.

“A joint convoy was hit beneath the Hamilton Avenue overpass.”

The cold reached somewhere beneath my coat.

“When?” Anton asked.

“Twenty-three minutes ago. A stolen municipal truck blocked the lead vehicle. Masked gunmen opened fire from both sides.”

“Casualties?”

Nikita’s eyes met Anton’s.

“One Orlov escort dead. Two drivers wounded. One Sokolov, one Orlov. Both alive. The trailers were set on fire before the shooters withdrew.”

“What cargo?” I asked.

“Imports from Orlov Marine. Scheduled for Sokolov distribution.”

The same shared line we had sworn to keep moving.

Daniil’s face went still in a different way. Not grief now. Calculation.

“Who has the scene?” he asked.

“Our men and Anton’s. Police response is being managed.”

Arkady looked back toward Lev’s open grave.

“They did it today?”

“Yes,” Nikita said.

The dirt over Lev’s coffin was still wet and loose.

The Voronins had not waited for the funeral to end. They had chosen the hours when both organizations were occupied, leadership gathered, security divided.

More than that, they had chosen a joint convoy.

A visible artery connecting both families.

“They think we’re weak,” I said.