Page 83 of Devil’s Reign

“You want answers, you suck it up,” Aleksei says from my right, smoothing a hand down the front of his own borrowed jacket.

On my left, Dima fiddles with his fake mustache for the fourth time in ten minutes. I don’t say anything about it. We look ridiculous already.

Here’s how it happened: because we’ve been watching the warehouse so closely the past few days, we were able to discover three workers who could pass for us—barely. We nabbed them last night, and when they refused to talk, feigning innocence, we decided to borrow their identities for the day.

“I still think it’s a terrible idea for all three of us to do this,” Dima mutters. “You should have stayed back, Aleksei. If they discover who you are in there…”

“Suck it up,” Aleksei repeats.

Dima shuts his mouth. We all know the implication that he didn’t finish. Discovering the pakhan in this meeting would be a catastrophic advantage handed to the wrong person. But Aleksei has never been the type to send his brothers somewhere he won’t go himself, and no version of this conversation ends with him staying behind.

We fall silent as we merge with the line of workers waiting outside the warehouse entrance. As planned, we separate to decrease our chances of discovery. I keep my eyes forward, fedora down, and move with the patient shuffle of a man who does this every week.

When it’s my turn at the checkpoint, I pull out the ID. Federick Pacheco. The guard takes it and eyes me critically. For a moment, my pulse hammers in my ears. Then he grunts, hands the card back, and waves me through.

Nice. I’m in.

I don’t look for my brothers. I walk forward and get my first real look at the place. The warehouse itself is enormous, rust-streaked along the roofline, a company placard bolted near the door with a delivery manifest taped crookedly next to it. Nothing unusual. Looking as innocent as possible, I drift away from the flow of workers heading towards the dock and the smaller side buildings. Instead, I make my way towards the warehouse entrance and push my palm against the door—it opens easily. I slip inside, shutting it quietly behind me.

The noise outside dulls, and it becomes so quiet in here that I realize it must be soundproofed. The moment I register that, everything clicks into place. This isn’t just a meeting location. This is where they’ve been running their operations and holding my men after kidnapping them. It’s the perfect place: an active, legitimate warehouse on a busy commercial dock, surrounded by real workers and real cargo and real foot traffic, that swallows sound and operates at all hours without raising a single flag. They’ve been hiding under our fucking noses this entire time.

I let my eyes adjust to the interior light and take stock. The massive space looks almost completely cleared out, stripped in a way that feels wrong for such a busy dock. Maybe it serves a different purpose than the other buildings around it.

Pallets are shoved against the far walls in loose stacks. A forklift sits abandoned nearby, and when I swipe two fingers across the frame, they come away coated in grey dust. It hasn’t moved in weeks. Now that I'm really looking, I see dust on almost every surface, except for one area.

In the center of the floor, there’s a rough square of space that’s noticeably cleaner—like something heavy was dragged away recently. Crates, maybe. But what the hell was inside? Boot prints track through the dust in several directions around it, the imprints fresh enough that the edges are still sharp. People were here in the last day or two. Probably preparing for their big meeting tonight.

My attention lifts from the floor, drawn to a large folding table under a line of dangling bulbs, four chairs arranged around it. Papers lie spread across the surface, some stacked, others left askew, and a thermos sits uncapped beside them, like whoever was here stepped away mid-task.

More details come into focus as I step closer. A metal locker in one corner, secured with a new shiny padlock. A cheap monitor on the mezzanine glowing blue in standby mode.

I’m right at the table, my hand already reaching for the stack of papers, when a dull thud leaks through the wall. Footsteps. Close. Moving fast. Shit.

I spin away, my heart kicking into overdrive as I sweep the room for somewhere to hide. I have approximately four seconds to make myself disappear.

41

MELANI

Giving Boris and the others the slip is easier than I expected. Too easy, actually.

They’ve been trained to trust me, and I’ve played the part perfectly. Since I got my freedom, I’ve made a habit of excusing myself to the restroom whenever we’re going around the building together. So after lunch, when I do it again, no one bats an eye.

“Don’t take too long,” Boris says, brows pulling together as he watches me get to my feet.

Does he suspect something? No. If he did, he’d follow me. But ever since that woman chewed him out in front of the restroom, he’s avoided trailing me there. And I’ve been careful—always making sure to linger at least thirty minutes before going back out. Which means I only have thirty minutes before they come looking for me.

Guilt stabs at me, but I shove it aside. I have to do this. In the restroom, I stand at the sink for a moment with both hands flat against the cool porcelain. This is it.

I quickly empty my bladder, rinse my hands, then place the neatly folded letter I wrote for Vanya on the counter next to the paper towels.

Whatever comes after today, I don’t want Boris and the others to take the punishment for something I chose to do. That’s the most I can do for them now.

When I step out, I glance both ways down the hallway, making sure the coast is clear. My attention snags on the camera mounted in the upper corner, and my stomach twists. I can only hope whoever is monitoring the feed right now isn’t one of Vanya’s men. There’s nothing I can do about it either way. With one last look over my shoulder, I head for the emergency exit, forcing my steps to stay calm and unhurried.

My palms sweat as I pull the handle—but it opens easily. And just like that, I’m outside. Free.

Hyper-aware of how little time I have, I don’t stop to celebrate. I don’t even let myself think about how easy that was. I start running in the opposite direction of the building, away from any window Boris might look out of. Nobody spares me a second glance as I tear along the sidewalk. People run in New York all the time. I’m just another person in a hurry. Only after I’ve put four solid blocks between the Korona and me do I slow down enough to hail a taxi.