Page 4 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter four

Espresso And Deceit

Echo

C offee. Every morning.

Espresso...black, bitter, unforgiving.

No sugar. No cream.

The kind of drink that leaves an aftertaste, sharp and lingering, much like the woman who sips it.

She’s disciplined, that much is clear. Every calorie accounted for, every indulgence denied.

She eats just enough to stay upright, never enough to be noticed.

Not too thin to draw concern, not too full to be criticized.

It's a delicate balance, one she’s learned to master.

Because in her world, attention is a weapon. And being a target? Fatal.

Two men trail her movements, always nearby but never directly beside her. Well-dressed shadows playing the role of disinterested bystander, though their eyes scan every corner, every face that dares come too close. They’re protection, of course, but also a warning.

Katya Romanov is never alone.

She sits bundled outside the café, despite the rising heat of summer, her body cocooned in oversized layers. A thick wool coat despite the sun. Dark designer shades hide her eyes, and her inky black hair is pulled back in a sleek knot. Her skin is pale, untouched by light, porcelain behind a veil.

She looks fragile at a glance, silent, delicate, and still.

But watch long enough, and you’ll see the tremble in her fingers.

The way her shoulders flinch ever so slightly each time someone walks too near.

Her gaze drops quickly, hiding behind the rim of her espresso cup.

She doesn’t speak to anyone. She doesn’t linger long.

She lazily sips her coffee, watches and waits, then, reacts.

Is she mourning? That’s the question that keeps circling.

Mourning him —her brother. Isaac Romanov.

But how does one mourn the death of a monster?

I study her from the safety of my car, engine off, the windows tinted black.

The file Noah compiled rests on the passenger seat beside me, thin and frustratingly vague.

There isn’t much to go on, no real dirt, no confirmed crimes.

Just rumors. Whispers. Her name scattered across transaction logs and social events, her presence always surface level. Never bloody. Never provable.

Katya Romanov. Twenty-five. Second-born. Publicly less involved in the empire than her brother, but no less dangerous, according to our sources. She’s not the blade. Not the hand that strikes. She’s the face of the deal, the one they send when they want to appear clean.

The file lists her upcoming engagements, appearances, and family gatherings.

And then it’s there.

Sworn to be wed to Nikolai Sokolov.

Tapping my fingers along the steering wheel, the name sits bitter in my mouth like acid.

Nikolai. That smug little bastard. The same one who torched a whole operation last year and left two dozen of my men in body bags. Charming. Vicious. Loyal to a fault. And now he’s been promised Katya?

“So… Little Butterfly,” I mutter under my breath, watching her rise from her table, tucking her chin low as her guards circle close. “Daddy wants you protected. And Nikolai wants your cunt.” I scoff, shaking my head, smirking despite the gravity of the situation.

You can wrap her in velvet and keep her behind glass, but she’s still part of the machine. Still a Romanov. Still leverage.

Especially now.

Watching her leave, her guards are suddenly more alert. My little gift from last week must’ve rattled them. A threat delivered without a sound. A warning stitched into the envelope that arrived on their doorstep.

She may not know it yet, but she’s already part of the game.

And I’m done watching from the sidelines.

“Seems like you’re perfect after all,” I murmur, eyes following her until she disappears down the block. “Delicate, obedient, untouchable.”

A butterfly pinned beneath glass.

Let’s see how long she stays that way.

Pulling out my phone with shaking hands, my fingers move before my mind can even catch up. There’s no time to hesitate, not when every second feels like it's working against me.

“Call Noah,” I mutter, pressing the device to my ear, my fingers tapping out an uneven rhythm against the dashboard as it rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Shit, man, it’s not even seven yet-”

“I don’t pay you to bitch,” I snap, voice sharp with edge. “You said Dimitri was transferring funds to a warehouse downtown. What’s the address?”

There’s a pause, followed by the muffled groan of someone else, his fiancé, most likely, grumbling in the background. Noah sighs, clearly half-awake, but not stupid enough to test my patience further.

“Aren’t you supposed to be off?” he asks, tone groggy but pointed.

“The address, Noah.”

Another beat of silence. I can hear the sound of fingers flying across a keyboard now, the quiet click of urgency in his movements.

“I’ll send it over,” he mutters. Then, hesitating, “Does Roman know you’re working-”

“Have a good day off, Noah,” I cut him off, ending the call before he can finish. I toss the phone onto the passenger seat, the screen lighting up a second later with an incoming message. The location. The coordinates. The confirmation that I’m not just chasing a ghost.

The adrenaline surges now, hot and blinding. It floods my veins, sharpening my focus, dulling the exhaustion I hadn’t realized was clinging to the corners of my vision. My hand shakes, just barely, the phantom of hesitation tracing across my thoughts.

Glancing down at Roman’s contact on the screen, my thumb hovers over the call button. A single name, one tap away. The rational part of me, the one he helped build, knows I should tell him. Loop him in. Be smart.

But it’s just a quick peek. A look.

Nothing more.

Reaching down, I yank my sidearm from its holster, popping the magazine free with a practiced flick of my thumb. I count the bullets, one by one, more out of habit than need.

Fully loaded.

No safety net. No backup. Just me, and the truth waiting to be uncovered.

Reinserting the magazine with a sharp click, the sound is like a promise in the silence.

No need to call Roman.

Not for this.

Not when I know damn well, there’s no rest for the wicked .