Chapter 22
Nik
I’m carving a custom knife handle. Walnut burl, dark and knotted… a bastard to shape, but worth the fight. The blade scrapes in steady strokes.
Shick. Shick. Shick.
Usually, this work clears my head, but not tonight. My mind keeps circling back to the burner phone in my desk. Volk hasn’t called since the first time. No surprise. The fucker enjoys reminding you who holds the strings.
I’ve caught myself hovering over the call button more times than I’ll admit, but I never press it. A Bratva favor isn’t free. It’s blood, and I don’t know how much I’m willing to bleed. At least, not yet. So, it stays in the drawer. Silent. Mocking me.
I’ve been at this for over an hour when a sharp buzz rattles through the quiet. I freeze, knife mid-stroke.
The phone.
I’m across the room in two steps. I yank the drawer open and see the screen is lit. Only one man has this number.
I answer. “Yeah?”
Volk’s voice is flat and unimpressed. “You’ve been busy, Nikolai.”
I frown. “So have you.”
He lets the silence stretch, just long enough to remind me who’s in charge.
“I thought you’d want to know… your inquiry? Marcus? His name came up in a wiretap.” He pauses.
My pulse spikes. “And?”
I hear a rustle of paper on his end.
“He’s been making calls to Rutledge. Setting up payment arrangements. The timeline suggests soon.”
I grip the phone tighter. “He’s moving product?”
“He will be. People, not just drugs,” Volk clarifies. “Your instincts were right. Walter’s not doing this solo. He’s expanding.”
My gut twists. I pace to the window and stare out at the Nashville skyline like it might answer the hundred questions racing through my head.
“Marcus is getting sloppy,” Volk adds. “Your window’s closing.”
“How long?”
Another pause. “You have a month. Maybe less.”
I rake a hand through my hair. The connections are snapping into place too fast now. I need more time.
“What do you want from me?”
His voice sharpens. “Nothing, yet. But if you make a move, you tell me. We don’t tolerate unsanctioned crossings.”
Meaning: if I act without clearing it first, I’m dead too.
I swallow. “Understood.”
“Good, and Nikolai?”
“Yeah?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone, knuckles white.
Marcus, Walter, Joe... the puzzle’s almost complete.
Marcus is moving people. Walter is bankrolling it.
And Joe? If that was him at the safe house, he’s managing it.
But how the fuck did Joe get on Walter’s radar?
Has Walter been protecting him all this time?
Why? And this Marcus guy from Atlanta… is this just an expansion? Or something more?
I stare out at the dark streets below, dread curling in my gut. I used to think we were chasing a single monster. This feels less like a network and more like a hydra: cut one head, two more grow back. I’m not sure we’re ready for what happens when we start to dismantle it.
I can’t sit still after Volk’s call. Every instinct is screaming move, but if I move too fast, I’ll miss something.
Instead, I pull out the encrypted laptop stashed in my closet. It’s already patched into a few of the Bratva’s tracking nets, thanks to Volk, and it’s linked to a contact in Atlanta who owes me favors and happens to have access to street-level surveillance feeds.
The last payment Marcus made flagged a location: a warehouse tied to one of Walter’s shell companies. I send off a quick coded request for any camera pulls in a five-block radius over the last two months.
It takes hours, but I don’t even notice the time passing. Nights long fallen, and I’m half a bottle of whiskey deep, fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on the desk.
Finally, the files come in. I start scrubbing through them. Frame by frame. One warehouse feed, then the street cams. There’s nothing.
Until... two weeks ago. Friday night. A black Escalade pulls up.
I lean closer.
The man I’ve identified as Marcus gets out first, wearing a sleek suit, phone in hand, cocky as hell. Typical. He’s talking to someone in the passenger seat.
Then she steps out, and my heart stops. Petite. Drowning in a man’s jacket. Strutting in six-inch heels. Her hair’s darker, her face thinner. But there’s no fucking way I’m wrong.
“Lina,” I whisper.
She’s alive. Not just alive… she’s right fucking there. In Atlanta. Walking into a building with Marcus.
I pause the feed, rewind, play it again. My hands shake.
Then, a second figure steps out behind her. A tall guy, built like a weapon. He doesn’t blink. Watches her like it’s his job. Watches Marcus like he’s a problem.
I scrub forward, analyzing every movement. The man keeps close to her, like he’s... protecting her? What the hell is going on?
I sit back hard, pulse thundering in my ears. She’s alive. She’s with Marcus and some unknown player. And none of this makes sense.
I replay the footage again and again, learning every second. Then, I start making a list.
Identify the unknown man.
Find out where they went after this.
Find out why the hell Lina is with Marcus.
And most of all, find a way to tell Axel.
Because one thing’s for damn sure… whatever’s happening?
It’s bigger than any of us thought.