Page 2 of The Bratva’s Captive Flame

"Solano wants it closed out," one of them says. "The formula's holding. We don't need the old man at a bench anymore. We just need somebody who can read his notes…"

The other one says something too quietly for me to catch, but they chuckle. It sickens me to hear them talking about not needing Papa. I don't care if they don’t need him. I need him.

"I'd give him a week. It'll be a lot less if he keeps running his mouth like he did this morning."

My whole body goes rigid. They're standing in there talking about killing my father, like he's a worn-out piece of equipment they can swap for a newer model. My blood is boiling, and it takes all of my self-control not to react. Everything in me wants to walk through that door and start screaming. But I already know how that ends.

When those men come closer to me, I tuck into the shadows against the building and hold my breath, waiting until they pass, and when they're gone, I step out and look into the bay door, still open. There are six crates lined up against the far wall, sealed, stamped, and stacked to go. I don't need anybody to tell me what's inside. There's a shipping sheet taped to the side of the nearest one, covered in handling marks, with the word Berlin stamped across the top of it.

Glancing over my shoulder, I creep into the warehouse to get a closer look. I don't know what six crates of that are worth, but I know it's more money than I'll touch in ten lifetimes. Whoever's waiting at the other end of that shipment isn't some thug with a gun on his belt. A man who can move that much across a border has power on a scale I can't even imagine. A man like that could reach down into this little kingdom of Solano's and pull my father straight out of it.

Solano isn't afraid of me, or of any fit I've thrown, but a buyer that powerful is the one thing he can't afford to lose. A man who has enough money to buy six crates of Papa’s product has enough money to make a deal to buy the Cartel's chemist. Especially if the Cartel is already going to throw him away.

A plan starts to form in my head as I creep around the crates, thinking of a life far away from here where my father can be free. I just have to reach the man on the other end of this shipment and pray he hears me out.

I have to get myself in front of whoever's expecting these crates and tell him there's a chemist sitting in Spain who makes the very thing he's paying a fortune for.

I hear voices again, but they're farther away, laughing obnoxiously, and I know in my heart that this is my shot.

With a glance at the door to make sure no one is watching, I start prying the lid off this crate. I'm going to get to that man, and I'm going to make sure he hears me out.

Because if I don't, they're going to kill my father.

2

DEMIN

Istand with my arms crossed over my chest staring out the open bay door of the loading dock at the warehouse, waiting for a shipment that was due to arrive seven hours ago and has yet to be heard of. Mishka and Bart have given me a wide berth this afternoon, choosing to stay back in the offices while I stew, and I'm not happy at all.

Delays like this usually mean trouble, and with the product we have coming all the way from Spain—and the sheer volume of what we've ordered—I can't afford trouble. I should've known better than to trust Solano's men. I'm stark raving mad, absolutely furious that things are out of my control, and I won't stand for it.

"Where the hell is my fucking shipment!"

I turn away from the dock and stride back into the main warehouse area. Mishka straightens up when he sees me coming closer, phone already in his hand. Bart shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to avoid me, but there’s not enough space between us to cool the frustration that keeps rising.

"Call the contact again," I snap at Mishka. "Tell him if my crates aren't rolling through that gate in the next thirty minutes, I'll come down there myself and burn Solano's entire operation to the ground. I don't pay for delays like this."

Mishka nods and steps away to make the call, and I watch him go, noting the tension in his shoulders. Bart moves toward the supply lockers on his own, gathering the scales and the testing kit in silence. At least they are doing something useful instead of standing around watching me fume. Never in my life have I had to wait on men to do what they promised. I'm not the sort of person who sits around waiting, and everyone knows this. If Solano thinks I'm going to kowtow to him, he's dead wrong.

This kind of delay is unacceptable. The product coming from Spain represents a major investment, and with the volume I ordered, any disruption ripples through my entire network. Buyers expect consistency. Markets shift quickly if supply falters. Solano's crew has been reliable enough in the past, but these repeated issues make me question whether that trust was misplaced.

I check my watch again as the minutes drag on, leaving me muttering under my breath as I pace. "Where the hell is my fucking shipment?" Grumbling doesn’t help but it releases some of the pressure in my chest.

The product coming out of Spain has been holding strong, which is why I committed to this large order. But if Solano can't deliver on time, that formula doesn't matter. I'll find another source, and make sure they understand the cost of failure, by teaching Solano a lesson he won't soon forget.

Mishka returns after a few minutes. "They say the truck hit a delay at the border, but it's moving again. Should be here soon." It takes balls to approach me when I'm this angry, but someone has to give the updates, I suppose.

"About fucking time," I grunt, fixing him with a hard glare. "I've been waiting all afternoon because of their incompetence. Get me something to drink."

He grunts and turns to go get me that drink as I notice Bart getting things ready for intake. We've invested so much into this. If it goes sideways, Sebastian will never speak to me again. But if we're successful, we'll own this whole city. The hiccup of a long delay like this is hopefully just a tiny hurdle and after this, we'll be smooth sailing.

Finally, the low rumble of a heavy diesel engine vibrates up to meet me, and I step out onto the loading dock as the box truck turns into the drive. Its headlights sweep across the pavement before it backs up carefully to the bay door. Two of Solano's men climb down from the cab, faces tired from the long journey. They look like they expect trouble, and they're right to think that.

"About fucking time," I snarl, glowering at them as they open the back door of the truck. Neither of them says much, and I'm not sure they even know English. Being Russian in a German city dealing with Spaniards means we speak a universal tongue, which they appear to ignore, anyway.

My men join them with a tow motor and a lot of noise, and I hover at the bay door watching them haul crate after crate of carefully packed product off the truck. Six in all, though it probably could’ve been put into five, but the masking agents probably took up space too.

"Is good?" one of Solano's men says, flicking his eyes nervously at my face and then over to Mishka's.