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“Advice has never been your forte, Aleksandr. Stick to what you do best: following orders.”
His breathing gets heavier. “Fine. I’ll see you soon.”
He’s not one to get angry easily, but I know I’ve pissed him off. I’ve never cared before and I’m not about to start now.
By the time I get to the warehouse, the smoke has settled and I can see the full extent of the damage. The explosion has taken out the whole back end of the structure. Black soot clings to the walls and embers hiss as they crunch underfoot.
My head spins with the unwelcome sensation of déjà vu. This night feels far too similar to another night from my past. A night when I turned the whole fucking city upside down and all I got in return was her body. Blackened and charred, hardly recognizable.
It was the ring on her finger that forced me to believe it.
I breathe in the dark plumes of smoke and vow, not for the first time, that I’ll avenge her death.
Pavel and Aleksandr jog over the moment they see me. “Do we know what caused the explosion?”
“A handmade bomb,” Pavel reports. “Hidden in the back half of the warehouse.”
“Have you checked the security footage?”
Aleksandr nods. “Three times over. Whoever planted the bomb took advantage of a blind spot at the back of the warehouse. The camera catches a shadow, but we don’t have a face.”
I smell blood and sulfur. “What about any suspicious persons loitering outside the warehouse in the last twenty-four hours?”
“We haven’t combed over footage for the exterior cameras yet.”
“Do it and report back to me immediately.”
Pavel gets right to it while Aleksandr lingers behind. “No one died,” he adds, as though that information is somehow comforting to me.
“If that bomb had been planted at the offices… or the penthouse…”
“There’s no way that could have happened.”
I glare at him furiously. “Didn’t you say something similar to me the night Elena went missing?” I snarl. “What were your exact words?”
“Brother—”
“‘They won’t target Elena. There’s no way they’d be that stupid.’ Was it something like that?”
He flushes. “The Irish are a lot more powerful than they were a few years ago.”
“So you’re afraid of a fight, is that it?”
Aleksandr’s mouth drops. “I’m not afraid of anything. But I do want to win. And we can’t win by being impulsive.”
I’m vaguely aware that he’s making sense. The problem is the logical side of my brain is currently being overridden by huge amounts of adrenaline and testosterone. And there’s a masochistic part of me that takes pleasure in it.
This isn’t about the mundane politics of war—it’s not about babies or marriages or weddings.
This is about taking action.
This is about the tangible thrum of battle—feeling a gun in your hands and knowing that, when you pull the trigger, someone will die.
This is about sweat and tears and bloodshed.
This is what I was truly built for.
“How long has it been since Elena died?”
