Page 134 of Dark King Daddy

“Maspeth,” he said. “Fire. Loading shed. Someone torched it.”

I sat up. The bed creaked.

“Which shed?”

“Shed C. East side of the yard. The night crew was inside when it started.”

“Casualties?”

“None. Yuri got them out.”

“Yuri.”

“The dispatcher. He smelled the accelerant before the flames reached the main bay. Pulled the alarm, got fourteen men out through the south exit. Two smoke inhalations, minor. No serious injuries.”

Yuri. I saw him in the basement again, holding the water bottle with both hands after I cut him loose. Even with Arkady standing over him, he had watched the clock, terrified of what might be happening to his brother. Tonight he had got fourteen men out of a burning shed. I pressed my feet against the floor and took a breath.

“Firefighters?”

“On scene. Containment in progress. The yard is shut down. Nothing moves until the investigation clears the structure.”

“Shed C,” I said. “East side.”

I reached for the tablet on the nightstand. Opened Nikita’s file. The four false schedules. Four locations. I scrolled to version three — the one distributed to Kostya and his captains.

Container 7741. Staging location: Shed C, east side, Maspeth Yard.

I stared at the screen.

“Daniil?” Arkady’s voice was flat, controlled, waiting.

“It’s one of the false schedules,” I said. “Shed C. That’s the location Nikita gave to Kostya’s group. The fake cargo location.”

Silence on the line. Then: “The Voronins hit a location that only Kostya’s people knew about.”

“Which means someone in Kostya’s circle is passing information to Viktor.”

“Or Kostya himself.”

“No. Kostya is cautious, not treacherous. He questions the alliance because he’s protecting Orlov interests. That’s loyalty, not betrayal. But someone in his circle received that schedule and passed it to the Voronins.”

Ksenia’s hand found my arm. She was awake. Her fingers closed around my wrist, and I turned to see her sitting up in the lamplight, her hair tangled, her eyes focused.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Maspeth,” I said. “Fire at the yard. Shed C. The night crew got out. Yuri pulled the alarm.”

“Is everyone—”

“Everyone’s safe. Fourteen men. Minor injuries.”

She held my wrist. Her grip tightened.

I looked at her. At the fear in her face and the strength beneath it—the woman who had recited shipment numbers at a Bratva dinner and was now sitting up in bed at three in the morning processing the news that someone had burned down part of our operation.

“They went for one of our false shipments,” I said. “The location Nikita distributed. Shed C. It was bait.”

Her eyes sharpened. The fear receded. The architect’s mind—the mind that saw structure and pattern and the logic beneath chaos—engaged.