Page 83 of Filthy Little Fix

"Iwarnedyou, Dante," she says, bitterly. "I warned you not to get too involved."

"Don't start, Svetlana."

She approaches. That combative stance. I hate it.

"I saw how you looked at him. I saw the marks you left. He told me helivesfor you, Dante," she says through gritted teeth, her hands pushing my shoulders in a barely contained fury. "This stopped being about an 'asset' a long time ago."

"Coming intomyhouse and killingmymenispersonal!" I retort, raising my voice unintentionally. I need to drag the conversation back to the only territory that makes sense. "This is a fucking declaration of war. They spat in our faces and they need a response."

"And they'llgetone," Svetlana agrees. And pauses. The acidity and harshness slowly fade, dissolving until only a fearful vulnerability remains on her face—an expression I haven't seen in a long time. "But Iknowthat look, Dante," she whispers, and Dmitry, quiet, stiffens beside her. "Seeing not business, but anaffront... And retaliating likehedid... Youknow."

The comparison is worse than a blow. It'sdirty.

My fucking father. Thebastardwho raised us surrounded by fear and hatred. A man who turned everything into adebt, everything into apunishment. And now she looks at me as if she sees his face in mine. As if I were...him.

My stomach turns. I fight it. Everyfuckingday, I fight to purge any remnant of him from me, and he creeps in closer with every moment.

Maybe he's gettingtooclose.

"Don't compare me to him," I growl. The words come out low, through clenched teeth.

Svetlana doesn't back down. She and Dmitry have a shared understanding of old fear. They see it. They see our father's ghost in me.

Nyx, in some sick way, brought this monster to the surface. From day one.

"Dante." Dmitry's voice is low. An attempt to anchor the conversation, to pull us away from the precipice of this shitty legacy. "She didn't mean that."

"It doesn't matter now," Svetlana interrupts. Shedidmean every word she said. "What matters is that they have our most valuable and dangerous resource."

I force myself to breathe.Control. The Donneedsto be in control.

I point at Svetlana. "I want the financial analysis. Every Malakov asset. Accounts, shell companies, investments." My gaze shifts to Dmitry. "And you, intelligence. If there are names we don't know yet, I want them. I want to know what time they take their trash out and the name of their children's pet dog. I want leverage."

They don't argue. They nod, back in their roles as Volkovs.

"And you?" Dmitry asks. Withconcern.

I walk towards the exit of the room, passing them, feeling their gazes on my back. I need air. I need something tobreak.

"I'll handle the street."

The rain beatsagainst the Escalade's armored glass. The city lights are just that: lights, blurs of color on the wet asphalt. Beside me, Grigory is quiet. In the front seat, two more men; in the back, three.

It's a procedure. A calculated response to a breach of protocol. The part of me that feels the loss of Nyx like a phantom limb is ignored—I force everything not relevant to the operation down.

The target isIl Cigno Nero. An Italian restaurant. One of the nodes in their money-laundering network. The architecture is neoclassical, a pretentious facade to hide the rot.

Other men are already in position nearby. I give the signal over the radio as soon as we arrive. One click.

The first sound is the shattering of the facade's glass. Chaos is a useful tool to mask the precision of the infiltration. They go in with crowbars and sledgehammers, with orders not to touch the customers, to target things. Tables, bottles, and the infrastructure of their luxury.

I get out of the car. Grigory and two of my best men follow. We cross the street under the flashing red lights and enter through the front door—or what's left of it. The wood is splintered, the hinges hanging like broken bones. The noise is deafening. Screams. Alarms. The sound of expensive wood splitting apart. The customers are cowering on the floor; the cooks have been dragged out of the kitchen and into the main dining room.

In the midst of the pandemonium, I see Vinny, the youngest of us, grabbing a civilian's arm—a man in a suit, trying to shield his wife with his body. Vinny yells at him, gripping the man's arm as if securing a target.

I don't slow my pace. I extend my arm as I pass him. I force Vinny's wrist down with a sharp twist.

The snap is clean. Cartilage giving way. His scream comes first from shock, then pain.