“I am. I just thought…I thought it would be more personal. Although, I guess there is a poetic justice to killing him in a fire.”
“The explosion and the fire hopefully won’t kill anyone. I’m not looking for any collateral damage,” I explain to her. “I just want Kirill to panic and get flushed out of the club. It’ll be risky with a police presence, but I’ll have men outside ready to take a shot at him. We’ll get him Saturday night,” I promise her.
“That’s still leaving too much to chance,” she replies. “What if the HVAC technician leaves something besides a bomb at the club? What if he also left a gun?”
The walls seem to narrow around her words.
This isn’t the same woman I watched weep next to her father’s grave.
This is someone forged by grief and fury. Someone stepping toward a line she may never come back from.
“Why would he do that?” I ask warily, even though I have a good idea.
“Because I’m an unfamiliar face. Nobody in the Bratva knows me.”
“Some of the Russians could have seen you at the warehouse on the pier. They would remember you.”
“The only ones that looked my way got shot,” she counters. “None of the men in that gunfight would be able to pick me out of a line-up. My looks aren’t that noteworthy.”
“I beg to differ.” I smile at her as I prop myself against the mattress and begin gingerly unbuttoning my shirt. “I think your looks are quite noteworthy.”
“Save it, Romeo,” she says with a smile as she helps pull my undershirt over my head. “I want to be on the ground Saturday night at the club. If your plan is to burn the place down and try to shoot Kirill when he runs, I want to be there. I want to be a shooter.”
“Absolutely not. It’s going to be chaos in the streets; you could get swept up in a stampede or accidentally injured in a dozen other ways. No, you and I are staying here Saturday, and that’s final.”
Her eyes spark with defiance, sharp enough to slice through every boundary I’m still pretending exists between us.
She doesn’t reply to my ultimatum. She just leans in and kisses me, soft and certain, like the argument is already over.
And as she melts against me, I know my words never stand a chance.
Constance Monroe listens to exactly one voice—her own.
And that voice has already decided she’s going to that club on Saturday night, with or without me.
Constance
Maximo is asleep before midnight, the steady rhythm of his breathing filling the dark bedroom.
I lay beside him for another ten minutes, listening, waiting, until I’m sure he won’t wake when I slide out from underneath the covers.
A part of me whispers that I should stay. That slipping away from him tonight is crossing a line I can’t uncross. I smother it and keep walking.
The hallways are quiet, the kind of stillness that comes when most of the house is sleeping but a few corners are still humming with business. I find that hum in Maximo’s office; a murmur of voices and a warm slice of light spilling out into the corridor.
Enzo is inside, leaning back in Maximo’s chair with his phone to his ear. His voice is low, calm. It sounds like he’s negotiating, threatening, and bargaining with someone all at once.
“Make sure the HVAC techs are there first thing in the morning. Not too early to be suspicious but not delaying.” He hangs up, makes another call, then another, each one stitching together another piece of Saturday night’s trap while I listen.
“Are you sure the HVAC techs are loyal?” I finally ask him from the doorway.
Enzo looks up, not startled but watchful. “They’ve been with us for years. The elder Luciani, God rest his soul, helpedthem get their business started with some seed money. They owe the family favors. They’ll repair the system so it’s nice and warm for the party but leave a surprise that will blow the roof off the building and smoke the place out quick as that.” He raises a hand and snaps his fingers.
“Good.” I take the final step inside the office. From the pocket of my bathrobe, I pull the Glock I’ve been carrying and practicing with for days here at the estate. I study it for a moment, so sleek and familiar now. It’s comforting in my hand. I set it down on the desk in front of Enzo.
“I want this hidden somewhere inside the club. Bathroom ductwork, utility closet, anywhere I can get to it quickly if things go sideways.”
Enzo frowns, his eyes narrowing. “Absolutely not,” he snaps. “Maximo would put a bullet in my skull if I armed you for something suicidal.”
