Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Dmitri
Aweek passed.
Seven days since Vittoria was taken from my club. Seven days of chasing ghosts.
I stare at the laptop screen. Security footage from Nexus. Again. Frame by frame. Looking for something we missed.
Nothing.
Igor sits across from me. Silent. Waiting.
Vittoria is upstairs. Asleep in my bed. She's been here two days.
I want her here. Where I can see her. Touch her. Know she's breathing.
"We have nothing," I say. My voice is flat. Dead.
"We have eight captured alive." Igor shifts in his chair.
"And they've told us what, exactly?"
"Nothing useful. They were hired through intermediaries. Paid in cash. Given instructions through encrypted messages that self-deleted."
I close the laptop. Too hard. The screen cracks slightly.
Fuck.
"The warehouse," I say. "My warehouse. He knew about it. Knew the codes. Knew it hadn't been used in over a year."
"Someone gave him the information."
"Someone close." I stand. Pace to the window. "Only three people have those codes. You. Aleksander. Me."
"It wasn't me."
"I know." I turn. Look at him. "And it wasn't Aleksander."
"Then someone hacked your system."
"Vittoria checked. Twice. No breach. No unauthorized access. Nothing."
Igor drums his fingers on the armrest. "Then someone got the codes another way."
"How?"
"I don't know."
I resume pacing. My office feels too small. Too confined.
"The attack itself," Igor continues. "Twelve men willing to die. Professional. Coordinated."
"And not a single civilian casualty." I stop. Face him. "That bothers me."
"Why?"
"Because it means they had excellent intelligence. Knew exactly where everyone would be. Who was family. Who was business. Who was innocent."
Igor nods slowly. "They targeted only our people."
"Exactly. Twenty-three dead. All soldiers. All connected. Not one bystander caught in the crossfire."
"That level of precision requires—"
"Inside information," I finish. "Someone told them the layout. The guest list. The security positions. Everything."
My phone buzzes. I ignore it.
"The police investigation went quiet fast," Igor says. "Too fast."
"I paid them well." I return to my desk. Sit. "Lorenzo handled the official story. Robbery gone wrong. Gang violence. The usual bullshit."
"And they bought it?"
"They were encouraged to buy it." I lean back. Close my eyes. "The mayor's office received a generous donation. The police commissioner's retirement fund got a boost. Everyone's happy."
"Except us."
"Except us."
Silence settles. Heavy. Oppressive.
I open my eyes. Look at Igor.
"Tell me about the rumors."
Igor straightens. "There's talk. Street level. A new player in Chicago. Someone calling himself Smoke."
"How reliable?"
"Not very. Third-hand information. Whispers. Nothing concrete."
"What are they saying?"
"That he arrived recently. Within the last few months. That he's building something. Recruiting. Making moves."
"What kind of moves?"
"Small ones. Quiet ones. Nothing that would attract attention from the major families."
I lean forward. "Until now."
"Until now," Igor agrees.
"And no one's seen him? No one knows what he looks like?"
"If they do, they're not talking."
I slam my fist on the desk. The laptop jumps. The crack in the screen spreads.
"This is insane. He attacks my club. Kills my men. Takes my woman. Uses my property. And I don't even know his fucking face."
"Vittoria saw him."
"Vittoria saw a man in a warehouse. We don't know if that was really him. Could have been another intermediary."
"She said he called himself Smoke."
"Anyone can claim a name."
Igor doesn't respond. He knows I'm right.
I stand again. Can't sit still. The rage builds. Builds. Needs somewhere to go.
"He knew my warehouse," I say. Repeat it. "He knew the codes. He knew when to strike. Where to strike. How to strike. He orchestrated an attack that killed twenty-three trained soldiers without touching a single civilian."
"Yes."
"That's not luck. That's not even skill. That's intelligence. Deep intelligence."
"You think we have a leak."
"I know we have a leak." I turn. Face him. "Someone in our organization. Or the Sartoris'. Someone close enough to know details. Schedules. Locations. Codes."
Igor's expression darkens. "If that's true—"
"It's true. It has to be. There's no other explanation."
"Then we need to find them."
"Before they give him more information. Before he strikes again."
My phone buzzes again. I grab it. Check the screen.
Aleksander.
I answer. "What?"
"We found something." His voice is tight. Controlled. "One of the bodies. The man who grabbed Vittoria first. The one who was shot."
"What about him?"
"He had a tattoo. Small. Behind his left ear. We almost missed it."
I grip the phone tighter. "What kind of tattoo?"
"A symbol. Looks like smoke. Or clouds. Our guy thinks it might be a gang marking. He's running it through databases now."
"Call me the second you have anything."
"Will do."
I end the call. Look at Igor.
"They found a tattoo on one of the bodies."
Igor sits forward. "What kind?"
"Smoke. Or clouds. They're checking gang databases."
"That could be our first real lead."
"If it's in any database." I set the phone down. "This man—Smoke—he's smart. Careful. He wouldn't let his people carry obvious identifiers unless—"
"Unless he wanted us to find it," Igor finishes.
"Exactly."
"Another message."
"Another fucking message." I return to the window. Stare out at the grounds. "He's playing with us. Showing us he can do whatever he wants. Whenever he wants. And we can't stop him."
"We'll find him."
"Will we?" I don't turn around. "He's probably been operating in Chicago for months. Building. Planning. And none of us noticed. Not us. Not the Sartoris. Not the Corellis or the Constantinos. No one."
"He'll make a mistake."
"When? After he kills more of our people? After he takes Vittoria again?"
The thought makes my chest tight. My hands curl into fists.
"She's safe here," Igor says quietly.
"Is she? He knew about my warehouse. What else does he know? Does he know about this house? The security? The guards?"
"We've tripled security. No one gets within a mile without us knowing."
"That's what I thought about Nexus."
Igor has no response to that.
I press my forehead against the cold glass. Close my eyes.
Seven days. And we're no closer to finding him than we were the night of the attack.
Vittoria
I like Dmitri's room.
That's the thought that keeps circling through my mind as I sit cross-legged on his bed, laptop balanced on my thighs.
The walls are a deep gray, almost black in the low light. Floor-to-ceiling windows line one side, overlooking the estate grounds. Heavy curtains, the kind that block out everything, are pulled back now, letting in the afternoon sun.
The bed is massive. King-sized doesn't do it justice. Dark wood frame, crisp white sheets. Four pillows on my side. Six on his. All perfectly arranged until I messed them up.
There's a fireplace across from the bed. Real stone. Not decorative. I watched him light it last night when I couldn't stop shaking.
His desk sits near the windows. Organized chaos. Papers stacked precisely. Three monitors. A gun.
But it's the small things that get me.
The book on his nightstand. Russian literature. Pages worn like he's read it a hundred times.
The photograph on the dresser. Him and his siblings. Younger.
The watch he takes off every night. Sets it in the same spot. His father's watch.
These details make the room feel less like a fortress and more like a home.
I shift against the pillows. My laptop screen glows with data that refuses to make sense.
Seven days since a man who calls himself Smoke took me from Nexus. Tied me to a chair.
And did nothing.
That's what unsettles me most.
I pull up another database. Cross-reference the tattoo Aleksander found with known gang symbols. Nothing matches exactly. The smoke-like design is close to a few organizations, but not identical.
The problem is there's too much information and not enough at the same time.
I have security footage from Nexus. Four of the men we searched about came back with military backgrounds. Honorable discharges. No criminal records. Nothing that explains why they'd sign up for a suicide mission.
The other? Ghosts. No records. No identities. Like they never existed.
I have the encrypted messages Igor recovered from one of the phones. Self-deleting. Routed through so many proxies I can't trace the source. The language is clinical. Professional. "Target location. Time. Objective. Extraction point."
No names. No personal details. Nothing human.
I have the warehouse codes. Dmitri's right—only three people should have access. Him. Igor. Aleksander. I've checked the system six times now. No breach. No unauthorized entry. No evidence anyone hacked in.
Which means someone got the codes another way.
But how?
I pull up the guest list from the engagement party. Two hundred and thirty-seven people. I've been through every name. Every connection. Looking for someone who doesn't belong. Someone who could be feeding information to Smoke.
Nothing stands out.
The door opens.
I don't look up immediately. My eyes stay fixed on the screen, tracking another dead end.
But I feel him.
Dmitri crosses the room. His hand reaches out, closes the laptop, and lifts it from my thighs in one smooth motion.
"Hey, I was—"
He sets the laptop on the nightstand. Then his hands are on me. Sliding under my arms. Lifting me like I weigh nothing.
My legs wrap around his waist automatically. Instinct.
His mouth crashes against mine.
The kiss is hungry. Desperate. His tongue sweeps past my lips and I moan into his mouth. My fingers dig into his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt.
When he pulls back, his eyes are molten. That pale gray-blue that usually looks cold now burns.
"What do you want?" I breathe against his lips.
His hand slides up my thigh. Under the oversized t-shirt I borrowed from his drawer. His fingers trace the curve of my hip.
"Are you wearing underwear?"
Heat floods through me. "No."
A growl rumbles in his chest.
He sets me down. My feet hit the floor. Before I can protest, his hands grip the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head.
My nipples tighten.
Dmitri's gaze drags down my body.
His hands move to his belt. His pants hit the floor.
He's already hard. Thick and ready.
He steps forward. His hands grip my waist. Lift me again.
This time he doesn't stop at the bed.
He carries me across the room. My back hits the wall beside the fireplace. The stone is cold against my skin. The contrast makes me gasp.
Dmitri pins me there. One hand braced against the wall beside my head. The other gripping my thigh, spreading me open.
"Hold on to me," he commands.
My arms wrap around his neck. My legs tighten around his waist.
He positions himself. The head of his cock presses against me. Teasing.
"Dmitri." My voice comes out breathy. Needy.
"Say you're mine."
"I'm yours."
He thrusts up. Hard.
I cry out. The stretch. The fullness. The way he fills every inch of me.
"Again," he growls against my neck.
"I'm yours." My nails dig into his shoulders. "Only yours."
He pulls back. Slams in again.
The wall shakes behind me. Or maybe that's just me.
His rhythm is brutal. Claiming. Each thrust drives deeper. Harder.
My head falls back against the stone. Pleasure builds low in my belly. Coiling tighter with every movement.
"Look at me," Dmitri demands.
I force my eyes open. Meet his gaze.
"You feel that?" He punctuates the question with a particularly deep thrust. "That's me. Inside you. Owning you."
"Yes." The word comes out as a moan.
His hand slides between us. Finds the sensitive bundle of nerves. Circles.
My body jerks. "Oh God."
"Not God, solnyshko. Me."
His fingers work faster. Matching the rhythm of his hips.
The pleasure builds. Crests. I'm right on the edge.
"Come for me," he orders. "Now."
My body obeys. The orgasm crashes through me. Wave after wave.
Dmitri doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. He drives through my climax. Chasing his own release.
His movements become erratic. Desperate.
"Mine," he growls. "All mine."
He buries himself deep. His whole body goes rigid. I feel him pulse inside me. Hot and claiming.
We stay like that. Pressed against the wall. Both breathing hard.
Slowly, he lowers me. My legs shake as my feet touch the floor.
Dmitri's forehead rests against mine. His hands cup my face.
"I needed that," he admits quietly. "Needed you."
I reach up. Touch his jaw. Feel the stubble rough against my palm.
"I'm here," I whisper. "I'm safe."
His eyes close. Just for a moment.
When they open again, the vulnerability is gone. Replaced by that cold determination I've come to recognize.
"Come." He takes my hand. "Shower. Then we talk about what you found."
"I didn't find anything useful."
"Then we'll look together."
He leads me toward the bathroom. His hand warm and steady in mine.