Page 6 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter six

There Is No Running From Your Shadow

Echo

“ I ’d say this is far from fucking abandoned,” the words come out low, almost to myself, as I crouch behind the tree line, peering through the scope at the mess of blacked-out SUVs crowding the lot.

The building ahead is falling apart, brick chipped, windows cracked, graffiti scrawled across the face like scars, but the vehicles tell another story.

The way they line the perimeter with tactical precision, their engines still warm, the way the drivers remain seated, eyes alert, none of this is accidental. This place is active. Alive.

And dangerous.

Men and women gather just outside the rusted double doors, puffing on cigarettes with a nonchalance that doesn’t match the weight on their hips. Each one strapped with a handgun, some with rifles slung casually over their backs. These aren’t hired thugs. They move with training, with purpose.

Romanov inner circle.

Wherever my Little Butterfly has gone fluttering off to, she’s not alone.

Her father’s friends, and their spawn, all present and accounted for.

Familiar faces. Recognizable scars. Kids who grew up in this empire like it was a birthright, like the blood on their hands was always just ink on a ledger.

Security, no doubt. Watchdogs with sharp teeth.

And yet… careless.

Multiple entrances remain unguarded, side doors rusting on broken hinges, windows large enough to crawl through, blind spots easy to exploit. A ghost could’ve slipped in and out without so much as a whisper. Hell, I could’ve slipped in already.

They think proximity to the Romanov name makes them untouchable. That just being born into the inner circle grants them immunity from consequence.

No wonder Isaac was so easy to get to.

Complacency like this is a cancer.

And I’m here to cut it out.

That’s the beauty of it, isn’t it?

They’d never expect a strike this early. Never imagine I’d be bold, or reckless, enough to move this close to their territory. They’re still licking their wounds, still scrambling to make sense of Isaac’s death, still pretending their empire isn’t crumbling at the edges.

Roman would call this careless. Noah would say it’s uncalculated, a decision fueled by emotion instead of reason.

But to me?

This is opportunity.

Every guard outside that building. Every pair of eyes distracted. Every vulnerable opening left unchecked. It all spells one thing: a chance to bleed them from the inside.

How many could I take out before they even knew I was there?

How many could I break before one of them finally leads me to her?

The building itself is nothing special, an aging fortress hidden behind rust and broken glass.

But the blood money that keeps it running flows directly from the Romanov empire.

Owned and operated under the guise of performance training, it’s run by Genivive Pavlov, a name I know too well.

An assassin trained in ballet and brutality alike.

What better cover than a stage?

What better grooming than dance?

Young women from the Romanovs' inner circle are shaped here, refined like porcelain, polished to perfection. Poised and elegant in public, but sharpened beneath the surface. Killers dressed in silk. Blades hidden behind ballerina smiles.

It’s always the same with them.

They talk of legacy while hiding rot beneath the floorboards. a rot that spreads, infects, and destroys.

Isaac? He was just the beginning. A taste. A warning. A promise written in blood.

When I’m finished, there will be nothing left of their empire. No heirs. No handlers. No survivors to rebuild what they think they’re entitled to.

Every demon Roman’s faced. Every ghost lurking in Noah’s closet. Every ruined life, every trafficked soul, every whispered scream in the dark, it all leads back here.

To them.

Catalyst wasn’t born to challenge the Romanovs. It was forged to end them.

They smuggle. They manipulate. They break. And I’ve seen what that leaves behind.

I remember the children. The faces. The fear. Tiny hands wrapped around my finger, desperate, pleading. “Don’t let go.” Not again. Not this time.

Never again.

Never-

“What took you so long?” a voice breathes from the shadows, low and hushed.

Someone’s already here.

A flicker of motion catches at the edge of my vision.

Lifting my head just enough to track it, I spot the hooded figure jogging toward a parked car just a few feet away.

From my place on the bench across the street, half-shadowed beneath the branches of a dying tree, I watch in silence.

The hood is drawn low, movements hurried but not uncoordinated. This isn’t panic. This is intention.

The figure leans into the driver’s side window. The voice that answers from inside is high, impatient, distinctly feminine.

“You caught me in the middle of something. Do you wanna go or not?” the driver snaps.

“I didn’t ask you here for no reason,” the hooded figure bites back, tossing something through the window. A small white pouch lands with a soft thud in the driver’s lap before the girl, yes, girl, pulls back, her feet already moving.

She turns, heading my way.

Heart knocking against my ribcage, I lower the brim of my ball cap, keeping my head down just enough to stay invisible. She walks past without pausing, unaware that every step she takes has me gripping the edge of my seat.

Without raising suspicion, I tilt my phone upward, angling the camera just enough to catch her through the screen. A breath catches in my throat as the lens sharpens around her face.

Katya Romanov.

Blue-green eyes. Skin like porcelain. That same cold, unreadable gaze that’s haunted the profiles I’ve studied a hundred times.

But no photo, no surveillance footage has ever done her justice like seeing her now, flesh and blood, walking free under the open sky like she doesn’t carry the weight of an empire on her shoulders.

There’s a reason her family keeps her on a leash. A reason she’s always guarded, always hidden beneath layers of silk and shadow.

And yet, here she is.

Alone. Hooded. On the move.

My grip tightens around the phone.

Where are you running off to, Little Butterfly?

And more importantly, who are you running from?

Passing your driver a pouch of coke just to slip past your own bodyguards?

Must be important.

That’s not the kind of move someone makes on impulse. That’s desperation, or something damn close to it. Whatever Katya Romanov is running toward, she doesn’t want anyone from Daddy’s inner circle knowing about it.

Her hand trembles as she reaches for the door handle. Mangled. Bruised. Blood still crusted along the knuckles. A little scuffle inside Genivive’s fortress must’ve gone sideways fast. From the look of her, it wasn’t much of a fight, at least not one she walked away from unscathed.

So, she’s a fighter now?

Interesting.

Let’s see how long that lasts.

The car engine hums to life, low and efficient, and she climbs in without looking back. I catch a clear view of the license plate before it merges into traffic, disappearing into the current of early morning chaos. Her trail won’t stay warm forever, but it’s warm enough for now.

Tapping the side of my phone, the screen is still lit with Noah's last text:

Anything yet?

He's expecting silence. He knows today's my day off.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Today’s the perfect day not to follow the rules.

With one flick of my thumb, I kill my location. The GPS blinks out. No more breadcrumbs.

Noah can wait.

Roman can keep pretending everything’s under control.

Because for the first time in weeks, the game has shifted.

And me?

I’ve got a trail to follow and no leash to hold me back.

Time to have a little fun .