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Yuri doesn’t like his lieutenant enough not to laugh.
“Excellent choice,” Jasper says, pulling into the back lot of the warehouse. “People say she’s the greatest living athlete.”
That worked. Rafail fumes in the backseat, unable to deny that Serena Williams does indeed wear his same watch.
Male ego is our greatest weakness.
Jasper brings the SUV up the ramp, all the way inside the warehouse. We’ll be packing the product in the trunk so Jasper can take it to the new lab.
The atmosphere in the warehouse is tense. There’s ten men here in total, much more than you’d usually need for a delivery.
Soon we’ll be thirteen, when Vlad and Andrei arrive with the driver. They rode their bikes out an hour along the route to bring the truck in safe, in case any more unwanted visitors were waiting.
The Wolfpack are armed to the teeth, wearing bulletproof vests despite their complaints of how uncomfortable they’d be. Yuri’s men are likewise strapped. If any of Krystiyan’s goons had the bright idea to rob us again, they’re going to meet a whole lot more firepower than last time.
My men and Yuri’s have separated into opposing camps, close enough for conversation, but mostly talking to their own brothers in low tones. A few suspicious glances pass back and forth, and hands are close to triggers.
Each of us suspects the others of leaking the information about the first delivery. Yuri’s men mistrust me because the supplies were stolen by my ex-girlfriend. I know it was one of them because my confidence in the Wolfpack is complete.
I really do think it was Rafail. He seems like the type of asshole who would have Krystiyan Kovalenko for a friend. While he’s worked for Yuri a long time, I suspect his number one client is always himself.
Not that I’m so squeaky clean these days. Everyone knows my last supplier ended up dead, and I just murdered Krystiyan. I’m not to be trusted, either.
The warehouse is dilapidated and freezing cold. Thunder rumbles through the holes in the roof.
“The driver better be on time,” I mutter to Chief.
“He is,” he assures me. “Andrei just texted. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
That ten minutes feels like an hour. Rafail keeps roaming around the warehouse, which means I have to watch him constantly. I despise working with people I can’t trust.
I came to Moscow for freedom and independence. Instead I’m partnered with one of the last people I would have chosen, saddled with his even worse soldiers. All without making a dime in profit, because Sabrina has managed to royally fuck me again and again.
She was right—going head-to-head against her fucking sucks.
I always want you on my team …
Every word we spoke to each other haunts me. Her voice echoes in my head all day long.
I’m hollow and empty inside. Even if I start making money hand over fist, I already know I won’t enjoy it. I haven’t enjoyed anything since she left. I haven’t been happy for one single minute.
That’s not going to change. Sabrina will go home to Chicago, or she’ll die here in Moscow. No matter how clever she is, how resourceful, she can’t survive long with a price on her head.
I hope she goes home. No matter how much it would pain me, the alternative is so much worse.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the interior of the warehouse in garish brightness, highlighting the jumble of old crates and broken-down machinery piled around the room. The smell of ozone fills the air.
This place once took shipments of windows and doors. Dusty plates of glass are still stacked against one wall, sending ghostly reflections back at us whenever anyone walks past.
“They’re almost here,” Chief reports, having received another text.
Rafail slaps the large red button on the wall, raising the bay doors once more.
The wind whistles into the warehouse.
Headlights sweep the room ahead of the truck. It rumbles up the ramp, rocking side to side.
Vlad and Andrei leave their bikes outside, following the truck on foot.
