Page 31

"What do you mean 'Solovyov is handled'? We told you to wait. It wasn't safe to—" Artem began, his voice dangerously quiet.

"It's safe now," I interrupted, leaning back. "He's dead. Everyone knows he was targeting us, and now he isn't."

"How?" Gregor demanded, cards forgotten.

"I tracked the last of his men, brought him in."

"Again," Kostya pressed. "How?"

“The man I killed tonight was a cousin of Solovyov. He thought he didn’t know anything, which turned out to be true. Fortunately the dumbass had Solovyov’s current burner number saved in his phone, so we traced the location.”

"And how do you know his information was reliable?" Gregor's eyes narrowed to slits.

"I called Roman. Had him handle it cleanly. That's what pulled me from Alina in the first place."

Artem stood and paced a few steps away from the table, then returned, leaning forward on rigid arms and pressing his knuckles onto its surface. “You what? We do not call Roman unless there is absolutely no other alternative."

"There wasn't one." I shrugged, though unease began to creep up my spine. "It needed to be done fast and done right. He sent confirmation."

I pulled out my phone, forwarding the message to their burner devices.

The image showed Solovyov appearing almostpeaceful in his bed—if not for the crimson gash across his throat and the blood-soaked sheets.

Beside him lay a young blonde still asleep, unaware of the horror awaiting her waking moments.

"Fuck," Gregor muttered, tossing his phone onto the table.

Artem set his down with deliberate control, inhaling deeply through his nose.

I recognized that expression. The “I'm restraining myself from strangling my brother” look I'd seen countless times.

"Do you understand why we didn't call Roman?" he asked, voice deceptively calm.

"Because his poor excuse for a human being and more than slightly bigoted grandmother believes he's Satan incarnate and not truly an Ivanov since he's only half-Russian?" Damien suggested, attempting to defuse the tension with sarcastic levity.

"No," Artem replied, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Because once he's involved, there's no controlling the situation?" I ventured. "But the job's complete, so?—"

"No," Gregor interrupted, gripping his glass with white knuckles. "Because Solovyov wasn't intelligent enough to orchestrate this campaign against us himself. He lacked the resources to withstand our pressure for this long from that distance. Someone else pulled his strings, and now that trail has gone cold."

My stomach twisted as realization dawned.

"We'll discuss this later," Artem declared, his tone indicating the conversation was far from over. "For now, what's your plan regarding the girl? She’s a loose end.”

I rolled my shoulders, irritation transforming into darker intent. “I’m not going to fucking kill her if that is what you’re asking.”

Damien leaned back in his chair. “Christ, Pavel. We don’t kill women. You should know that.”

I did, but there were exceptions to every rule.

Like when a woman who wasn’t part of our mafia family witnessed a murder and then ran off into the night…with the fucking murder weapon.

I reached for the vodka bottle. It was a small blessing that they didn’t know the gun she took was that particular gun. Or none of them would be sitting around this table playing cards and joking over shots.

This was my mess. I would clean it up.

I'd made a critical error because, yet again, Artem and Gregor had withheld crucial information.