Page 126 of Dirty Game

Her handwriting is a dream: tight, slanted, every number on point.

She’s stitched together the whole route. How Mikhail moves crates through the port, how the weapons vanish into railcars, and pop up on the Bratva’s auction floor.

She left the paper files on the desk, but what matters is the digital trace, the impossible-to-fake signature of her mind working through the numbers.

My eyes burn, but I don’t blink.

I track the incoming wire transfers, the ghost names on every account, until the whole network starts to flicker at its seams.

There’s a photo at the edge of the desk—Dante, forced to smile, Sienna’s hand gripped too tightly on his shoulder.

He’s trying not to cry.

The photographer thought they’d edit it out, but I see it clear as day. I always see it. The rage comes, but I box it away.

Cyrus stands behind my shoulder, glasses smudged and hair perfect, watching my every move.

He doesn’t speak.

He knows I don’t want the commentary.

Korrin’s a low rumble in the background, pacing, chewing a matchstick until it’s pulp.

We’ve been at this for two hours, and the hit goes down in three.

I turn to my brothers. “Warehouse on 17th is a shell. The real operation is here—” I tap the screen, a red dot pulsing. “West edge of Mikhail’s compound. There’s a tunnel entrance under the garden shed. That’s where the transfer happens. We go in, and we kill them. We make sure nothing else comes out but ashes.”

Korrin bares his teeth. “No mercy, then.”

“None,” I say.

I stand, cracking my knuckles.

My hands are fucked from last week, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t slow me down.

I take the 9mm from the drawer, check the slide, rack the first round, then load the spare mags.

Clean, fast, unthinking. The ritual calms me.

There’s a knock on the frame, but I don’t need to turn.

Rosalynn steps in, gait uneven but steady.

She’s wearing black jeans, a soft hoodie pulled up over her hair, and she’s walking without her cane today. Stubborn as always.

She doesn’t waste time. “I’m coming.”

I look her over, notice the swelling at her knuckles, the splints on her fingers. “You’re not ready to come out on the field.”

“I found the evidence. I earned this,” she says, louder than I’ve ever heard her.

Korrin’s eyebrows spike. Even Cyrus glances up from the screen, interested.

I step closer, drop my voice. “You’ve done more than anyone. But if you get shot tonight, it’s all for nothing.”

Her jaw sets. “You think I’m afraid of getting hurt again?”

I admire her for her honesty. “No. I think you’ll do something heroic and die.”