Page 121 of Devil's Azalea

“Guess we’re not the only ones on the Russians’ radar tonight.” I lift the phone so Enzo can glimpse the messages scrolling by.

He winces. “Fuck. I knew they’d been too quiet lately.”

I hadfelt it too—a coil of dread in my gut all week that something was coming.

After Sergey’s release, I expected swift, reckless retaliation against my brothers and me. When nothing happened, his silence made me uneasy, chipping away at my relative marital bliss.

In a twisted way, I feel a little relieved now that he has finally made his move. At least now we know what we’re dealing with.

As we get into my car and pull away from the club’s curb, a darker thought occurs to me. This could be a trap. Losing that weapons depot is going to set my brothers and me back big time—especially after our shipment deal with Roan last month—but I know it can’t be just that.

My gut tells me this is bigger. More coordinated. I don’t know where exactly my brothers’ territories were hit, but I know it’s somewhere equally vital to us as a group.

The alarm bells ringing in my head are deafening now.

I remember the fucking laptop I left right on my office desk and curse under my breath. Nothing to be done about that now—though, at least it isn't my main laptop; nobody will find anything worth shit on it. Still, it’s careless. Sloppy. Everything I’ve trained myself never to be.

When we arrive at the warehouse, part of the building is still engulfed in flames. Sirens wail as fire trucks swarm the lot, taking over from my men, who’ve been chucking buckets of water at the blaze like medieval peasants.

I adjust my cufflinks and step out. Spray from the hosesdrifts across my shoulders as I walk up to my men, their faces streaked with soot and shame.

They all drop their gazes as I stop in front of them. I do a mental headcount. “No casualties?”

“No,” Noah mumbles from the front line. “We were out for a smoke when we saw the flying machine. At first, we thought it was some sort of strange bird.”

That explains the guilt. They know they broke protocol—the warehouse should never be left empty, not even for five minutes. Doesn’t matter if you’re just outside. That rule exists specifically to prevent situations like this.

Normally I’d flay them alive for it, but their rule-breaking saved their lives tonight, and dead men are harder to replace than weapons.

“How do we know the drone was from the Russians?”

“I have footage.” A small figure steps forward from behind Noah. A kid, maybe sixteen, all gangly limbs and wild curls, with bright blue eyes that practically sparkle with excitement. This is probably the most action he’s ever witnessed in his short life.

Noah’s expression turns even more pained because he knows a fucking minor has no business on these grounds. That’s the second rule they’ve broken tonight.

“My sister got sick yesterday,” Noah rushes to explain, “so she dropped my nephew off for me to watch. I couldn’t find a babysitter on such short notice and–”

“I don’t need babysitters,” the boy interrupts with teenage indignation, making a disgusted face. “I’m not a baby.”

I remember being his age, maybe younger, when I first started running errands for the syndicate. But rules are rules. Still, that can wait. I file away my anger at Noah for later and extend my hand to the teenager.

His eyes light up like I’ve just made his entire year, and heplaces his sweaty palm into mine, shaking my hand vigorously. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Phillip.”

“I think Mr. Moretti wanted the footage you have, Phillip,” Noah whispers, desperation bleeding through his voice.

The boy’s face becomes crestfallen. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

He slips his hand out of mine and takes out his phone. As he unlocks it, my mind starts calculating potential problems. Did this dickhead record anything else? The weapons stockpile inside, maybe? You can never trust kids with phones these days.

He hands me his phone, and I press play, frowning at the dark screen that shows nothing but night sky.

“I like filming the stars,” Phillip explains. “I want to be a nature videographer when I grow up.”

I don’t bother to reply, just wait impatiently for something useful to appear. At around the fifty-second mark, a small red dot materializes against the darkness, growing bigger until a black drone takes shape. And there, clear as day on the side of the machine, is the Russian flag.

Motherfuckers. That was on purpose. They wanted me to know who the attack came from.

My grip tightens on the phone at the same time the men in the video notice the flag and the bomb the drone carries.