Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
M IKHAIL
I’m standing on the loading dock of the Queens processing plant, and all I can think about is the way Irina looked this morning when the sun hit her hair.
I should be focused. I should be thinking about the shipment logs or the traitorous whispers in the North Docks, but my head is full of the scent of roses and the memory of her skin under my hands.
I'm getting soft. Artyom was fucking right.
I check my watch. My brother is ten minutes late. He is never late. He lives his life by a clock that is more precise than a Swiss movement. If he’s not here, it’s because something went wrong.
"Lev," I bark, not looking back.
"Boss?" Lev steps out from the shadows of the warehouse door, his hand already moving toward the holster under his jacket. He can sense it, too. The air here is too still. The usual hum of the machinery is dampened by the sound of the river, and there isn't a single worker in sight.
The fuck?
"Where is my brother?"
"He texted five minutes ago. Said he was entering the perimeter. He should have been at the gate by now."
I look toward the chain-link fence that surrounds the property. It’s an old factory, a relic of the days when the Morozovs only dealt in steel. Now it’s a transit point—a place where things disappear before they officially exist.
I see movement near the edge of the brickwork of the primary silo.
It’s subtle—a flicker of shadow that doesn't match the angle of the sun.
My pulse starts to pick up, that jagged, familiar adrenaline finally drowning out the thoughts of Irina.
I reach for my piece, the cold weight of the grip a comfort against my palm.
"Lev, get the car started. Now."
"Mikhail?"
"Do it!"
I step off the dock, my boots crunching on the gravel. I’m looking for my car, expecting the black sedan I drove here. But I don't see my vehicle. I see a man.
Artyom is running.
He’s not in a car. He’s on foot, bursting around the corner of the main office building, his suit jacket flapping behind him. He looks wrecked—his tie is gone, his face is smeared with something dark, and his eyes are wide with a frantic urgency I’ve never seen on him.
"Mikhail!" he roars, his voice tearing through the silence. "Get down! Down!"
I don't ask questions. I don't look for the threat. I dive behind a stack of rusted steel beams, my shoulder hitting the metal with a jar that rattles my teeth. Lev dives right beside me, his gun drawn.
For a split second, there is a silence so absolute it feels like the world has stopped breathing.
Then, the world ends.
An explosion tears through the center of the factory.
I see the brickwork of the main silo turn into a liquid spray of red dust and fire.
The heat is a searing, white-hot wall that peels the paint off the beams I'm hiding behind.
I feel the ground buck under me, the concrete cracking like an eggshell.
The shockwave throws me backward. I’m airborne for a heartbeat, the world spinning in a blur of orange and gray, before I slam into the side of a shipping container. The air leaves my body in a wheezing gasp.
Everything goes white.
There’s a high-pitched whine in my ears that drowns out the world. I try to breathe, but all I inhale is dust and the acrid, chemical sting of burning plastic. I struggle to push myself up, my limbs feeling like they belong to someone else.
"Artyom," I cough, the name sounding like a rasp in the silence.
I look toward where I last saw him. The office building is gone. In its place is a jagged maw of twisted rebar and flaming timber. The air is thick with falling soot, black flakes drifting down like macabre snow.
I see a figure lying face down in the dirt, twenty feet from the blast site.
"Artyom!"
I scramble toward him, my knees scraping against the broken glass and hot brick. I don't feel the pain. I don't feel the blood trickling down my own forehead. I reach him and roll him over, my hands shaking.
His face is a mask of gray dust and blood. His eyes are closed, his head lolling to the side.
"No," I whisper, my fingers searching for the pulse in his neck. "No, no, no. Not like this. You don't fucking die on me, brother. Wake up."
For five agonizing seconds, I find nothing but the heat of his skin. Then, a throb. Faint. Irregular. But it’s there.
"Lev!" I scream, looking back.
Lev is staggered, blood pouring from an ugly gash on his temple, but he’s standing. He looks at the ruins, then at us.
"Get the SUV!" I roar. "Now!"
The primary structure of the factory is groaning. The fire is spreading to the chemical drums stored in the basement, and the sound of secondary pops—small, sharp explosions—is starting to fill the air.
I hook my arms under Artyom’s armpits. He’s a big man, heavy and solid, but I haul him upward with a strength I didn't know I had. My muscles are screaming, my lungs burning with every breath of smoke, but I don't stop. I drag him across the gravel, the heat from the fires licking at my back.
"I've got you," I grunt, my teeth bared. "I've got you, you bastard. You’re not leaving me. You hear me?"
Artyom let out a soft, wet groan, his hand twitching against my arm. He’s alive.
Lev skids the SUV to a halt a few yards away, the tires kicking up a cloud of ash. He jumps out and helps me lift Artyom into the back seat. I scramble in after him, pulling my brother’s head onto my lap.
"Go!" I shout, slamming the door. "Private wing. Tell them to clear the floor. If all the doctors aren’t waiting at the entrance, I’ll fucking kill them all."
As we roar out of the lot, I look back through the rear window. The factory is a pillar of black smoke and fire. It’s a message.
I look down at Artyom. His breathing is shallow, a rattling sound that makes my chest tighten. I wipe the blood from his brow with the tail of my shirt, my hands finally starting to tremble with the aftershock of the blast.
"Stay with me, brother," I whisper. "Don't you dare leave me."
The drive to the Morozovs’ private hospital wing is a blur of red lights and the smell of ozone. Every time Lev takes a turn too fast, Artyom groans, and I feel a fresh surge of fury. This was an assassination attempt. They tried to take the head of the family.
We pull up to the emergency entrance. A team of medics is already there, their faces pale as they see the state of the SUV. They pull Artyom out, their movements clinical and fast.
I follow them through the doors, my boots tracking ash onto the white tiles. I don't stop until they push me back from the operating theater doors.
"Sir, you can't come in here," a nurse says, her hand on my chest.
"He’s my brother," I growl, looking down at her. I probably look like a demon—covered in soot, blood, and the raw energy of a man who just survived an inferno.
"I know, Mr. Morozov. But you need to let us work. Please."
I stay at the doors, staring at the small window as they move Artyom onto a table. I see the heart monitor's erratic spikes. I see the way they’re cutting his suit off—the suit he probably spent three thousand dollars on just this morning.
I walk to the waiting area and collapse into a chair, my head in my hands. The ringing in my ears is finally fading, replaced by a cold, calculating rage. They hit us. They hit us where it hurt, and they did it when we were vulnerable.
I pull my phone out. The screen is cracked, but it still lights up. I have one message to send. One man who knows the shadows of this city better than anyone else.
I type out the text with shaking fingers.
Meet me at the hospital. Tomorrow. 0800. We’re at war.
I hit send. I know Konstantin Belov won’t ask me any unnecessary questions. It’s what I like most about him. He’ll be here.
I lean my head back against the wall, watching the blood from my forehead drip onto my knee. Artyom is alive. We are still standing. But the peace is over.
They wanted a war? They’ve got one. I’m the Madman. And I’m going to make sure the only thing left of my enemies is the ash under my boots.
But first, I have to make sure my brother wakes up.
I close my eyes, the image of the explosion still burning in my retinas.