Page 28

28

Lev

I wake with a start, heart racing, my fingers clenched around the edge of the desk. The war room is quiet, the kind of quiet that wraps around your ribs and squeezes. For a second, I forget where I am—then I see the maps, the photos, the red strings stretching like veins across the walls.

My chest tightens.

I fell asleep here again.

I push myself upright, ignoring the stiff ache in my back, the pull in my shoulder where I’d been leaning against the hard edge of the table. The light seeping in through the blinds tells me it’s morning—or close enough. Another day, another hour that she’s gone.

Alina.

Her name isn’t just a thought. It’s a wound that keeps reopening.

I reach for the photo at the center of the table—the blurry traffic cam still from the night she vanished. I’ve stared at it so long the pixels are etched into my brain. A black SUV. Tampered plates. Barely any identifying features. Too clean. Too careful.

I’ve been chasing ghosts.

My jaw locks as I drag a hand over my face. Every lead from the night before replays in my head like a broken record. Names. Faces. Whispers. All dead ends. I’ve been through every cartel contact, every Bratva rival, every outsider who might’ve had the guts to make a move.

Nothing.

But something about the vehicle—it won’t let me go.

I pick up the image again and narrow my eyes. Not just the SUV, but the way it was parked. The angle. The slight tilt of the body. Whoever was driving that night knew the cameras were there. Knew how to avoid them. Almost too well.

I squint. My pulse starts to rise—not in panic, but in awareness. I’ve seen a setup like this before.

My mind sharpens.

Not the car. The job.

I don’t know where yet—but the style, the method, the execution... it’s familiar.

I stare harder at the edges of the photo, as if willing it to speak.

It’s not a memory. Not yet. Just a sensation crawling beneath my skin, trying to take shape. I grip the edges of the desk until my knuckles go white.

Come on. Come on, damn it.

I’ve seen this before.

The thought circles like a vulture above everything else in the room.

And the second I figure out where—it’s going to lead me straight to her.

The mechanic's shop is tucked into a crumbling block of East Brooklyn, surrounded by rusting fences and rows of stripped-down cars. Inside, the place reeks of diesel, grease, and stale cigarettes.

I toss the SUV photo on his oil-stained workbench.

“You ever work on something like this?”

He barely glances at it. “Nah. Never seen that ride.”

Lie.

I say nothing. I just pull out my gun and set it on the bench, barrel pointed toward the floor. He stares at it like it might jump on its own.

“Try again,” I say calmly.

He looks up at me, then at the gun, then back again. His throat bobs.

“Maybe...” he mutters, his voice thin. “Maybe someone I know worked on it. I don’t touch that kind of job anymore.”

“Name.”

He hesitates. I take a step forward.

“Mendes,” he blurts. “Carlos Mendes.”

Time freezes.

Rage detonates in my chest.

I hit him with the hilt of my gun. He yelps, stumbling into the wall. Before he can recover, my fist connects with his mouth. The crack of bone and spray of blood and teeth are deeply satisfying.

He collapses to the ground, groaning.

I crouch down, grab his shirt, and yank him close.

“If you’re lying to me,” I growl, “pray I never come back here. Because next time, I won’t be this friendly.”

He nods quickly, blood dribbling down his chin.

I leave him on the floor.

Outside, the city is loud, but inside me—it’s louder.

I close my eyes and breathe in hard, nostrils flaring as I try to calm the beast in me from clawing its way up my throat. My fingers twitch at my sides. My jaw aches from how tightly I’m clenching it.

Carlos Mendes.

The name tastes like ash in my mouth.

It’s been over twenty years since I last heard it spoken out loud, but it’s never really left me. Not after what he did. Not after what he nearly did.

I was just a kid then. Fourteen. Running dope across the city for crumbs and pocket change, desperate to survive. Mendes took me in—not out of kindness, but because he saw another body to throw into the fire. I was fast, quiet, and stupid enough to believe loyalty meant safety.

Then a parcel went missing. Twenty grand’s worth. I didn’t steal it—but that didn’t matter. Mendes tied me to a chair in a warehouse and beat me bloody. Told me he was going to put a bullet in my head.

I would’ve died there. Forgotten. Another broken kid.

But Viktor came.

He came in like vengeance incarnate, paid the debt in full, and pulled me out of hell with his own hands. And just like that, my life was no longer Mendes’s to destroy. It belonged to Viktor. And I’ve never looked back.

But Mendes…

He’s a ghost I buried. One I never thought I’d see again.

This world we live in—it’s violent, it’s ruthless, but there are lines. Even among wolves, we keep to our territories. You don’t reach into another man’s family. You don’t touch his blood.

Mendes broke that rule.

And now?

Now I’m going to break him.

Before I go, I dial the one man who needs to know.

Viktor answers on the first ring. "You have something?"

"Carlos Mendes," I say. "He's the one who took her."

Silence stretches. Not because he doubts me—but because he remembers. Just like I do.

"You're sure?" he asks finally, voice low.

"Positive. I've got the link. I've got the pattern. He's back. And he's not hiding."

There's another pause. Then Viktor exhales. "I should tell you to wait."

I wait for the rest. The order. The command.

But it doesn’t come.

"But I know you won’t," he finishes. "So just... be careful. This isn’t just any job, Lev. This is a vendetta. You go in hot, you might not come out."

"Then I go in smart," I say.

"And bring her back."

My grip tightens around the phone.

"I will."

Then I hang up and head for the door.

Back at my penthouse, I toss the photo of the SUV on the table again, this time with purpose. The name Mendes buzzes in my skull like a wasp trapped under glass.

He didn’t just disappear. He’s been lurking. Waiting.

And now he’s made his move.

I lean over the table, gripping its edges as I stare at the evidence. My war board doesn’t feel so chaotic anymore—it’s starting to take shape. The fog is lifting.

If Mendes is the one who took Alina… this isn’t random. This isn’t just some revenge play for old scars.

It’s personal.

He always resented Viktor. Always wanted more power. Mendes was the kind of man who smiled at you while stabbing you in the back, biding his time, collecting names like trophies.

And Alina?

She’s not just leverage. She’s a trophy. A symbol. A prize he thinks he can take to reclaim power he was never good enough to earn.

He sees her as his key—his gateway into the world he could never break into. The Bratva. The power. The legacy.

But he made one mistake.

He took what’s mine.

And that? That makes this war.

I pull out my phone and call Anton. “Warehouse Seven. Meet me in one hour,” I say. My voice is low, steady. The kind of calm that comes before the storm.

“No questions?”

“No need,” he replies.

I hang up.

I move to the weapons cabinet in the corner, flipping the lock and throwing the doors open. Inside: order, precision, death. Everything in its place.

I strap on my Kevlar vest, load magazines into twin Glocks, and slide my combat knife into its sheath. I add a second blade, hidden in my boot. Every weapon has a purpose. Every piece of gear is a memory.

My fingers move with practiced familiarity—calm, composed, lethal.

This isn’t just a mission.

It’s personal.

I stare at my reflection in the metal cabinet. The man looking back at me isn’t the version Alina knew. He’s colder. More dangerous.

And he’s going to settle old scores.