♞Chapter Twenty Three♞
Mikhail
The call comes at three in the morning. Roman’s voice is sharp, edged with barely contained rage. “We have a problem.”
I’m already out of bed, throwing on a white button-up and holstering my gun at my side. “How bad?”
“Bad.”
When I walk into the warehouse, Roman, Sergei, Anton, and a few others are gathered around the long steel table, cigarette smoke curling through the dimly lit room. The scent of gunpowder lingers from whatever poor bastard met his end here earlier tonight.
Roman doesn’t waste time. “The deadline passed.”
“Who’s pissed?”
“The fucking governor.”
A slow, dark smile stretches across my face. “A politician? And he’s foolish enough to think he can dictate terms to us?”
Roman slams his palm against the table, rattling the glasses of vodka in front of the men. “Don’t fucking start, Mikhail. We took his money, gave our word, and now we don’t have the product.”
“The product” being a forgery. The one Petrov was supposed to finish before his accident.
“There’s another problem,” Roman says, rubbing the scruff on his chin. “The doctor said Petrov won’t be able to use his hand with high precision ever again.”
Shit.
“Have you not found someone else yet?” I ask. “I have,” Roman growls. “But someone has his head so far up his own ass, he won’t let me use her.”
The room goes silent.
“Lola is off the table.”
Roman’s nostrils flare. “Right now, we need a fucking miracle. She’s our only option.”
“I don’t care who I have to fight. I don’t care if the governor himself puts a bullet in my head. This won’t touch her.”
We stand toe to toe. Violence thrums in the air. My blood hums with the urge to break his nose. The other men shift uncomfortably, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
“I already tried with three other artists. One pissed his pants before he could even pick up a brush. The other two were so fucking bad, a three-year-old with crayons would’ve done a better job,” Roman hisses.
“Then find another.”
“There is no other,” he snaps. “You’re fucking blind, Mikhail. You’d rather let this deal go to shit than use what’s right in front of you?”
My patience wears thin from exhaustion and the sheer audacity of him thinking I’d risk her for some filthy politician’s money. “I’d rather burn this whole fucking deal to the ground than pull her into this.”
Roman opens his mouth again, no doubt to argue. But bullets rip through the warehouse, cutting him off. Glass shatters. Wood splinters. The room erupts into chaos.
“Ambush!”
The men scatter, returning fire. The scent of blood spills into the air, mixing with smoke and gunpowder.
Roman and I lock eyes for a single, charged second.
Then we start shooting. We move like fucking shadows, muscle memory guiding us before our minds can catch up.
The gun in my hand is like an extension of my body.
A shot cracks through the air, and fire explodes through my shoulder.
The force jerks me back, but I don’t fall.
I grit my teeth and tighten my grip on the gun.
Roman moves like a predator, shoving one of the Turks against a concrete pillar, his gun jammed beneath the man’s chin.
The bastard spits blood onto the floor, smiling through split lips.
“You were too slow, Volkov,” he sneers. “The governor grew impatient. Paid us well for this message.”
Roman chuckles, but we all know there’s no humor in this situation. "And you took the job, knowing exactly who you were dealing with?" He clicks his tongue. "Either you're stupid or desperate."
The Turk’s expression hardens, but he doesn’t speak. Roman presses the muzzle deeper against his throat. "Let me guess. He told you he was being generous, didn’t he? One week to deliver his precious painting. No more delays. That was his offer?"
The Turk stays silent.
"Fine. He’ll get his painting." His eyes flick to mine, and I nod. I understand why he’s playing along.
"But listen closely," Roman murmurs. "If he ever orders from us again, I’ll flay him alive. Inch by inch. And I’ll make sure his wife, his children, and every pathetic little bodyguard he hides behind watch as I peel the flesh from his bones. Deliver that message to him."
The Turk swallows.
"And as for you..." His smile vanishes, replaced by something utterly merciless. "The war has begun."
I roll my shoulder, ignoring the sharp pain spreading down my arm. The bullet is lodged deep, but it’s not enough to stop me. I know why Roman promised the painting. We have a reputation to uphold—fearsome, yes, but reliable. Even in the underworld, a deal is a deal.
But this? This isn’t just a transaction anymore. Roman has turned it into something else entirely. A war. And I have no choice but to follow him into it. The Turks turn to leave. But Roman raises his gun and fires.
One. Two. Three.
They drop like flies, collapsing into the dirt, their bodies twitching as blood pools beneath them. They didn’t expect this. Honestly, neither did we. It seems Roman grows more bloodthirsty by the second. He makes sure to leave one alive, just to send the message.
He walks over to Anton. Our man lies sprawled on the ground, his pulse gone. Roman crouches, dipping two fingers into the blood coating Anton’s skin. He draws a cross on his forehead, a silent farewell.
"Sergei," he says, voice like gravel, "clean this up."
Sergei nods and signals to the others. Roman rises, strides toward the bar, and pours himself another vodka. He downs it in one swallow.
"You have seven days to find us someone else," he tells me. "If you don’t, Lola becomes our only option."
I grab him by the collar and slam him into the wall. His head cracks against the concrete, but the fucker just smirks. His hands stay limp at his sides, letting me have my moment.
"Look at yourself," he says, eyes gleaming. "A beast. All because I said her name."
"She. Is. Off. Limits," I grind out. "I don’t care what it costs. Who I have to kill. Who I have to burn to the ground. She stays out of this. Do you understand me?"
"Don’t let me drag her into this myself," he threatens.
"Don’t even think about it. Brother or not, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes," I spit.
"You’re thinking with your dick, not your head."
I don’t acknowledge the bullshit he just spewed. I turn and walk away, shrugging my blazer over my shoulder to hide the blood dripping down my arm.
Roman thinks I’m being irrational. That I’m thinking with my dick. He couldn’t be more wrong.
I’ve never been more clearheaded. I will unleash absolute havoc before I ever put her in danger.
That is my promise—to myself, and to her.