Page 34 of Claimed By the Boss

“They’ve said nothing useful so far,” he says as I step inside.

“That’s okay,” I say with a widening grin. “I’ve been itching to let out some frustration.”

I circle the first man, unhurried. I pull off the hood and crouch in front of him.

He squints against the light. When his eyes adjust, recognition hits his face.

He knows who I am.

Good.

“You were told not to touch my business,” I say, calm and even. “You ignored that.”

He doesn’t speak.

I tilt my head. “That makes this simple.”

He opens his mouth, but I don’t give him the chance. My fist connects with his jaw in one clean punch. His head snaps to the side, and he drops to the ground like dead weight. He’s not unconscious, but he doesn’t fight back. He probably doesn’t have the energy.

I move to the second man. He flinches before I even reach him. I kneel, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at me.

“You tell Rurik this,” I say. “If he sends anyone else into my city, touches one more dollar of mine, I will burn everything he has to the ground. He thinks I’m tied to my suits and skyscrapers. He thinks I’ve gone soft.”

I lean in closer.

“He’s wrong.”

I let go and stand.

Alek steps forward. “What do you want done with them?”

“Leave one in the alley. Make sure he’s found. The other…”

I look down at the first one, who’s still groaning softly, blood trailing from his nose.

“Send him back. He has a message to deliver.”

He doesn’t need further instructions.

I walk out without looking back. Some lessons have to be repeated. Loudly. Visibly.

I’m still outside the warehouse when I hear the shot.

My gun’s in my hand before the sound finishes echoing. Alek reacts just as fast, moving with me toward the eastern loading dock. Radimir was posted there with two men, watching the perimeter while I dealt with the problem inside. We don’t have confirmation yet, but I know what I heard.

Another shot. Louder this time. Closer.

We round the corner just as chaos breaks open.

One of the Vasiliev men is lying on the concrete, blood already spreading across his chest. One of mine, Gregor, returns fire from behind the rusted-out frame of a box truck, ducked low and swearing under his breath.

Radimir’s the only one exposed.

He’s crouched behind a steel barrel, breathing hard, his jacket sleeve soaked in red.

“Give me a status,” I bark, moving to cover.

“There are two shooters on the rooftop, west side,” Gregor yells. “Radimir’s hit.”