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“Warehouse district. South Boston. Corner of Greeley and Wain. It’s one of Stillwell’s clean shell corps on paper—‘McAllen Freight.’ Never had a real shipment logged.”

Maxim glanced over. “Security?”

“Light. They’re not expecting company.”

Aleksei leaned against the wall, spinning the knife slowly. “So, we go in quiet.”

Ivan didn’t look up. “As quietly as we can, anyway.”

He tapped a final file open, his voice colder now.

“I’ve got what we need.”

The screen lit up with a bank transaction chain: numbers, names, a paper trail masked in false charities and redirected consulting fees. But it was what sat at the end of that string that mattered: Stillwell’s signature, a shipping manifest, and a digital photo from a private escort catalog cross-referenced with a missing person file from Virginia.

She couldn’t have been more than fifteen.

Ivan looked at me, his voice sharp like a weapon.

“Stillwell didn’t just authorize the trafficking, he financed it. And now we have the proof.”

“Leak it,” I said.

“Drip or flood?”

“Flood.”

He didn’t ask twice.

With one command, Ivan launched the file. The data went straight to the inboxes of six journalists with competing allegiances. One loyal to my brother. One loyal to her father. One who’d been investigating trafficking on the downlow for years.One just hungry enough for blood to run it live. The other two? Insurance.

Within minutes, it would spread. Stillwell was going to burn, but not before I took back what he stole.

Sergei locked eyes with me. “How do you want to enter?”

“South approach,” I said. “No vehicles. Black gear. Three points: rooftop, side door, and freight. Quiet. No bodies unless necessary.”

Aleksei chuckled darkly. “Necessary’s such a flexible word.”

Maxim checked his watch. “We’re ten minutes out.”

I nodded once and stepped away from the table.

“Stillwell’s mine. He made a mistake touching what belongs to me and he’s going to pay for it.”

My brothers knew better than to say anything at all.

The air outside the warehouse tasted like metal.

We moved in silence, wearing black gear, hoods up, radios off. No chatter. Nothing. The city was quiet in this corner, but it wasn’t the calm of peace.

It was the calm before an execution.

The warehouse sat along the edges of South Boston, three stories of forgotten freight and rusted siding.

Maxim and Sergei took the south wall, sneaking inside through a broken window. Aleksei slipped around toward the freight loading dock, knife drawn, face unreadable. I went straight up the side with Ivan behind me, climbing the rusted stairwell of the building for a roof entry.

Every second she was still inside that place tightened something in my chest I didn’t know how to loosen anymore.