Page 51 of Haunted (Blackwood Brothers #1)

And walking between them, calm as if he owns the place, is Ilya Orlov. When his gaze settles on me, he smiles.

It’s not a pleasant expression.

“What the fuck is this?” Tyson’s voice cuts through the tension, fury radiating from every syllable. His gun is trained on Orlov, but the Russian doesn’t appear to be concerned.

I step forward, keeping my weapon ready. “Orlov. This is unexpected.”

“Is it?” He adjusts his cufflinks with deliberate care. “I thought I was quite clear about my intentions during our last conversation. ”

“You agreed to a quarter supply. Nothing about—” I gesture toward his armed escort “—whatever this is.”

Orlov laughs, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. “Ah, Xavier. Always so literal. So focused on the small picture.”

He takes another step forward, and every gun in the warehouse shifts to track his movement.

“It’s time to stop fucking about with carnie boys and move all shipments through the Orlov Bratva,” he says, his accent making each word sound like a blade being drawn. “So I’m here to end the carnie boys, leaving you with no other choice.”

The fury that erupts in my chest is razor-sharp. I step forward, putting myself directly between Orlov and Tyson, my gun never wavering from the Russian’s center mass.

“Like hell, you will.”

Knox moves without hesitation, sliding into position in front of Lars. I catch the slight shift in his stance—ready to throw himself into whatever shitstorm is about to rain down. Cade edges to the side, creating a triangle that gives us better angles while keeping the carnival crew protected.

Orlov’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Such loyalty to these... performers. How touching.”

“Call them whatever you want,” I say, my voice dropping to the lethal register that’s made men twice my size back down. “But they’re under Blackwood protection. That means anyone who fucks with them fucks with me. ”

“Xavier—” Tyson starts, but I cut him off without taking my eyes off Orlov.

“Stay put.”

The Russians’ men shift restlessly, fingers tightening on triggers. Twelve against four—not the worst odds I’ve faced, but not ideal either. Especially with half a million in cash and enough product to supply the entire eastern seaboard scattered around us.

“You disappoint me, Xavier.” Orlov shakes his head. “I offered you a partnership. Growth. A chance to expand.”

“And I told you we’d consider a quarter increase. Nothing more.”

“That was before I realized how... emotional you’ve become.” His pale eyes glitter with cruel amusement. “First, the woman, now protecting carnies like they’re family. You’re going soft.”

The mention of Mira sends white-hot rage through my veins, but I keep my expression neutral. Can’t let him see he’s hit a nerve.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Ilya.” I take another step forward, close enough now that his guards tense.

“You’re going to take your men and walk out of here.

Tonight’s transaction proceeds as planned with Tyson’s crew.

And from this moment forward, the Blackwood family will no longer be doing business with the Orlov Bratva at all. ”

Orlov’s smile widens, showing too many teeth. “And why would I agree to such terms?”

“Because you can’t be trusted.” Each word comes out final. “Any organization that resorts to threats and intimidation over honest negotiation isn’t worth our time.”

“Honest negotiation?” He laughs again. “This is the criminal underworld, Xavier. Threats and intimidation are the only currencies that matter.”

“Maybe in Moscow. Not in Ravenwood.”

I watch Orlov’s face, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell. The slight tightening around his eyes. The way his jaw clenches. The almost imperceptible shift in his weight.

He’s calculating. Weighing his options.

Behind him, his men wait for orders, their weapons trained on us. That hesitation tells me everything I need to know—Orlov didn’t come here planning for a firefight. This was supposed to be intimidation, a show of force to bend us to his will.

But intimidation only works when the target is afraid.

And I’m not afraid. I’m pissed.

My finger rests against the trigger, steady as stone. Knox breathes evenly beside me, his own weapon locked on one of the guards. In my peripheral vision, I catch Tyson’s slight nod—he’s ready to move if this goes sideways.

Orlov’s pale eyes narrow to slits as he studies my face. Looking for weakness, for doubt, for any sign that I might fold under pressure.

He won’t find any.

“You’re serious,” he says finally, genuine surprise in his voice. “You’d actually shoot.”

“Without hesitation.”

The warehouse falls silent except for the distant hum of traffic beyond the walls. Twelve guns pointed at four. Those odds should terrify any sane person.

Good thing sanity has never been my strong suit.

Orlov takes a step back, his eyes never leaving mine. Another step. Then another. The movement is slight, barely perceptible, but I catch it—the way his shoulders drop a fraction.

“You’re making a mistake, Xavier,” he says, but the heat has gone out of his voice. “The Orlov Bratva has a long memory.”

“So do the Blackwoods.”

He jerks his head toward his men, a sharp, silent edict that they follow. They begin backing toward their vehicles, weapons still raised but no longer actively targeting us. Orlov himself retreats more slowly, his gaze locked on mine like we’re animals circling each other.

“This isn’t over,” he calls out as he reaches the lead SUV.

“Yes, it is.”

The doors slam shut. Engines roar to life, and within seconds, the three vehicles are reversing out of the warehouse bay, their headlights sweeping across the concrete walls before disappearing into the night.

Only when the sound of their engines fades do I lower my weapon.