Page 102 of Dirty Game

I look up. “You’re not thinking. Mikhail wants us to hit him. He wants to play martyr, rally his people.”

Korrin’s teeth show a snarl more than a smile. “So?”

“So we don’t give him the satisfaction.” I grab the folder marked RUSSIA and fan the contents. “We wait. Hit him where it hurts.”

Cyrus finally glances up, eyes unreadable behind the glass. “He has a shipment coming in tomorrow. The one Rosalynn found in the books.”

“The weapons?” I ask.

Cyrus nods. “Yes. They’re running it through the port, disguised as machine parts. But the inventory’s off. They’re doubling the load, maybe tripling.”

Korrin’s mouth twists. “Then we jack it.”

“We do more than that,” I say. “We kill every man guarding it, take the weapons, and leave a message: No more warnings.”

Cyrus slides his glasses off, folds them. “Clean. Surgical. Minimal casualties.”

Korrin’s lip curls. “You’re getting soft, brother.”

“Efficient isn’t soft.” I let my gaze pin him. “We need this to look like a business move, not a blood feud.”

Korrin throws up his hands, but he’s not really angry.

He just needs a reason to fight. “Fine. We hit the port, take the guns, and cripple Mikhail in the process.”

“And if Sienna’s there?” Cyrus asks, low.

I answer without hesitation. “She’s not the target. The boy is.”

The table goes silent. Even Korrin loses some color.

Cyrus looks at me with something almost like pity. “You’re not willing to go that far?”

I meet his stare. “He’s my son. She’s a cunt. I don’t care about her.”

Korrin grabs the knife and starts flipping it again, harder this time. “Never pegged you for the family type.”

I shrug. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

He snorts. “Or devolving.”

We lock eyes, and for a moment, it’s like we’re back in the alley, both of us sixteen, deciding who’s going to throw the first punch.

He breaks first, as always.

Cyrus clears his throat. “There’s something else.” He taps the binder, sliding it toward me. “Rosalynn’s numbers are too clean. She’s hiding something.”

I flip to the flagged page.

She’s cross-referenced the casino accounts with the Bratva’s shell companies, mapped the transfers down to the last cent. It’s perfect. Just like she is.

“She’s loyal,” I say, voice cold.

Cyrus raises a brow. “Or she wants you to think she is.”

“She is,” I repeat.

Korrin sighs. “Jesus, you’re whipped.”