31. Rafi
31
RAFI
“ V asili Teskin. It’s a name I never thought I’d hear again,” she confides.
“What does he mean to you?”
“Nothing. He means absolutely nothing. Except maybe the cost of a bullet.”
Vasili Teskin. The name is a grenade. It lands in the middle of my thoughts and explodes, scattering every ounce of focus I’ve managed to hold onto.
I glance at her, trying to read her face. Her gray eyes flash with a mixture of fury and uncertainty, but there’s no mistaking the weight of her pain.
Her expression doesn’t shift, but the way she clenches her fists tells me she’s holding something back. Maybe a scream. Maybe tears. Maybe both. I’ve seen Tayana at her worst—raw, broken, vicious—but this moment feels different. The silence stretches between us, taut as a bowstring.
I can’t claim to understand her justifications for hating her uncle. Maybe she blames him for everything—her mother’s death, the attack on her, the years of living in fear. She was fourteen. A trauma like that twists your mind in ways you can’t untangle. But it’s not her grudge against her uncle that gnaws at me now. No, that honor goes to her other nightmare.
Vasili Teskin.
The man who killed her mother.
The man who vanished into the night, leaving a trail of blood and ruin. Some say the Aslanovs found him, buried him under a Siberian winter, and wiped their hands clean. But now we know better. If he’s out there buying weapons, dealing in flesh, and organizing hits, then he’s alive. Thriving, even. The realization sits like a lead weight in my chest.
Seattle’s underworld hums with his name. Leo’s people are digging, Lucky’s man Ryder is connecting the dots, and Brando’s wedding day massacre points to one man and one man only—Teskin. A retaliation for the lost cargo. The timeline fits too well to ignore. But knowing he’s out there and actually finding him are two different beasts. His web of influence spans continents and cutting through it feels like trying to dismantle a bomb blindfolded. Every thread traces back to someone or something else, and always to Frank fucking Falcone. If Frank were still alive, I’d kill him again just for good measure.
But there’s more. There’s always more.
“On account of what he did to your mother, Igor Aslanov wouldn’t be associated with him,” I mutter, mostly to myself. Tayana hears me anyway. “The attack on your shelter? That wasn’t your uncle. It was Teskin.”
She nods slowly, the pieces clicking together in her mind. “The uniforms match.”
It’s the logical conclusion. Teskin’s soldiers made a statement with their precision, their ruthlessness. But why? Why go after Tayana after all these years? What does he want from her? The questions twist in my gut, unrelenting.
“What led him to you?” I ask, my voice low.
Tayana’s brows knit together, confusion clouding her expression. “I don’t know,” she says softly. “I haven’t seen him since that night. There’s been nothing… unusual. Except for you.”
I try to ignore the way her words sting, like a blade nicking skin. Instead, I watch as she sits back, her gaze going distant, like she’s searching through the recesses of her mind for something she might have missed.
Then, suddenly, her posture stiffens. Her eyes sharpen. “Wait,” she says. “There was something.”
I lean forward. “What?”
“The week before I met you,” she begins, her voice unsteady, like she’s piecing together a half-forgotten memory. “I went to the docks for a pickup. Late at night.”
“On your own?” My words come out clipped.and she shoots me an irritated look. My jaw tightens as the image forms in my head—Tayana, alone on the docks in the dead of night. Reckless. Dangerous.
She nods, regardless of my frustration. “The man I was meeting… he was shot that night.”
I sit back, the weight of her words settling in. “Okay. Relevance?”
“He was shot in front of me,” she says, her tone edged with something I can’t quite place. Regret? Fear? Both? “And… I think it was meant for me.”
The air shifts, crackling with tension. I narrow my eyes. “What makes you think that?”
She hesitates, as if saying it aloud will make it real. “Because if he hadn’t leaned in to kiss me, that bullet would have missed him and hit me.”
Tayana’s words hit me like a hammer to the chest, knocking the air out of my lungs. My fists clench at my sides as a bitter taste crawls up the back of my throat.
“You’re sure?” I demand, the edge in my voice sharp enough to cut through steel.
She nods, her fingers trembling as she folds her hands in her lap. “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” she says, her voice small but certain.
Silence settles between us, heavy and suffocating. My thoughts spiral, each one darker than the last. Vasili Teskin’s name looms like a storm cloud, casting a shadow over everything. This wasn’t random. The attack at the shelter, the ambush at the docks—none of it. How many times has the bastard tried to kill her? How many more will he try before we put an end to him?
I push back my chair and stand abruptly, the legs scraping against the floor. “Come on. We need to get to the war room.”
Tayana hesitates but follows, clutching her cardigan tightly around her. Her steps are quiet, but the tension radiating off her is deafening. We make our way down the corridor, and I don’t bother masking the storm brewing inside me.
Scar is already in the war room when we arrive, standing by the table with Kanyan. The portable whiteboard is set up, covered in scribbled names and lines that crisscross like a chaotic spiderweb. Scar’s gaze flicks to me, then to Tayana, his expression unreadable.
Kanyan steps forward, marker in hand. “So, we have three players on the scene now,” he says, standing at the portable whiteboard and jotting down names. He rattles off his thoughts as he writes, while Tayana stands beside me, drawing her cardigan closed as though the whispered names of the men she’s afraid of can somehow seep into her skin and ice her over.
“Vasili Teskin. Public enemy number one. His involvement in the wedding shootout ties directly to the intercepted cargo. It’s safe to assume the hit was retaliation for that loss. Confirmation should be coming through any minute now.”
Scar hums in agreement, his arms crossed over his chest. I lean against the table, thumb pressed against my chin as I mull over the pieces. It all fits too neatly.
Kanyan continues, adding another name to the board. “Daniel Russo. Enemy number two. His attempts on the lives of Jack and Jacklyn Vicci, as well as his role in the Vicci uprising, place him squarely in the threat category. The fallout from that incident would be a fresh wound for him and he’s likely regrouping.”
“And our third player?” Scar asks, his tone clipped.
“Igor Aslanov,” Kanyan replies, underlining the name. “His association with Russo suggests he’s a threat, but we’re still piecing together his full involvement.”
He turns to Tayana, his expression hardening. “Tayana, I need you to put aside your feelings about your uncle for a moment. Whatever he’s done, whatever life he’s chosen to lead, we need clarity. Has he ever physically hurt you? Or intentionally caused you emotional harm?”
Tayana freezes, her posture stiffening as she processes the question. I can see the wheels turning in her mind as she sifts through memories, each one dragging her further into the past. Her knuckles whiten as she grips the edge of her cardigan and frowns as realization dawns on her.
“No,” she breathes, and it feels like she’s exhaling a long held secret. “No, he hasn’t.”
The room falls silent, her admission hanging in the air. I glance at Scar, whose expression softens ever so slightly, then back to Tayana. Her shoulders sag, the weight of her confession visibly lifting, while the storm in her eyes remains. She’s still holding onto something, and I’m not sure if she’s ready to let it go.