Page 111 of Haunted

The bay door explodes inward with a screech of metal on concrete. Three black SUVs barrel into the warehouse, their headlights cutting through the darkness like searchlights. Men pour out of the vehicles—at least a dozen, all armed, all wearing the same dead-eyed expression that marks professional killers.

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 outfinal. “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.