“No. But I will be after Ettore suffers.”
I study her face. Beautiful. Furious. Mine.
“We’ll finish this war soon.”
She nods. “Together.”
That one word lands heavier than it should.
Aleksandr groans as he’s shoved into the van.
I climb in after him.
Serenity follows.
Now the real fun begins.
The safe house is about fifteen minutes from downtown. My grandfather used it, and so did Dad when they’d gone to war.
No neighbors. No cameras tied to the city grid. Reinforced windows. Bulletproof doors. Basement cells. Plenty of weapons.
The perfect place to lie low.
Aleksandr is zip-tied to a steel chair in the basement, bleeding through a temporary bandage wrapped around his thigh. Miff made sure he wouldn’t bleed out. Not because we care. Because dead men don’t talk.
His busted wrist is already swelling. His face looks like ground beef.
Good.
I stand in the kitchen, pouring whiskey into a heavy tumbler while Serenity stalks past me in black tactical gear, still wired from the rooftop fight.
She looks fucking lethal.
And exhausted.
“Drink water,” I tell her.
She doesn’t stop walking. I hear her smack her lips.
Miff coughs into his fist to hide a laugh.
I glare at him.
He suddenly becomes fascinated with his tablet.
Serenity grabs bottled water from the fridge, anyway.
That’s right. Listen to your husband.
I don’t say it.
Tonight isn’t the night.
The dining room table is covered in maps, burner phones, weapons, ammo, drone feeds, and enough caffeine to kill a horse.
Ritchie leans over the table. Catch sits cleaning his weapon. Angel stands beside Serenity, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Kicks devours a bag of potato chips like dinner isn’t on the way.
Miff taps his tablet. “Aleksandr finally talked.”
