26. Dave
26
Dave
R ooted to the ground in the middle of my father’s living room, I take in the sight. Shelby, Tommy, and Nikolai stand in a semicircle before me. My father, Jack, is standing near the fireplace, a silent observer still commanding respect. Though age has softened his sharp features, the steely glint in his blue gaze is as unyielding as ever. His fingers tap idly on the marble of the mantel as he listens intently.
It feels like a lifetime ago when the sound of screeching tires woke me up. Maybe that’s because time had frozen as they told me what happened at the safe house.
Safe house?
I sneer at the irony of that term. That fucking house was designed to protect Alexia and Rose. How the fuck did I mess it up so royally?
Blinking to refocus my attention on the present moment, I glance around the room. There’s no moon in the sky this late into the night, or perhaps this early in the morning. So the light that spills through the arching windows comes from the lamps in the garden. A modern crystal chandelier casts cold white beams on the beige couch and deep blue carpet. The intricate moldings and the peaked ceiling are a testament to my mother’s taste. All this luxury does nothing to ease the grim tension in the room now.
Shelby’s jaw is set so tightly a muscle pulses under the skin of his cheek. The usual kindness in his eyes has been replaced by a sharp edge. He pushes his glasses up his nose, an old tell that betrays the anxiety coursing through him. Beside him stands Tommy, his twin, muscles straining under the fitted leather jacket. His former Marine training shows off in the way he clasps his hands behind his back, keeping his feet far apart. With their military background, Tommy and Shelby make a formidable unit, but today, their presence is overshadowed by the dark news they bring.
Nikolai, tall and sharp-featured, with eyes like chipped ice, leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over a suit that looks as impeccable as it does out of place in this room at this hour. He has that look of calculated calm that never falters, but even his gaze flickers with something dangerous—a barely restrained fury that simmers just beneath the surface.
Trying to wrap my mind around the facts, I demand, “Say that again.” The words tear out of my throat like shards of glass. My hands clench into fists at my sides, the muscles in my forearms straining as guilt and remorse tighten their hold around my chest like a vice.
Tommy steps forward, floorboards creaking beneath his polished boots. I can barely hear it over the pounding in my ears. “Igor found the safe house,” he says, each syllable heavy with the frustration we all share. “He killed Nadya. He took Alexia, Rose, and Pete.”
This isn’t a nightmare I can wake up from. It is the fucked-up reality I am in as a direct consequence of my reckless behavior. I run my fingers through my hair, resisting the urge to pull at it. The high ceiling presses down with the weight of the situation.
I snap my stare to Ray Flanagan, one of my father’s most trusted men, who stands by the window. A dark shadow clouds his expression as the news about his wife and son sinks in. His large frame, all solid muscle and experience, shakes visibly. He looks back at me, waiting for a command or a reaction—something to make sense amid this chaos. I can relate to his anguish. Now, I need to pull my shit together and get us out of this hole.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, the word slicing through the silence like a blade. Nadya’s face flashes in my mind—her gentle smile, the way she’d care for Rose with such tenderness. Gone. Just like that. “How the fuck did that happen?”
Nikolai uncrosses his arms, stepping forward with the grace of a feline. He narrows his eyes where a cold fury glints, matching mine. “It wasn’t a lucky guess. Igor knew exactly where to strike.” A ripple of tension passes through the room. Ray’s jaw tightens. And Shelby’s fingers twitch at his side, certainly searching for the reassurance that his hidden gun provides.
Nik’s voice is ominous as he adds, “Remember, we monitor Alexia’s phone. Our records show that she called her cousin, Olivia, around seven last night. The call lasted a few seconds. A couple of minutes later, when Olivia called her back, Igor must’ve been on the line, tracking the call.”
I stiffen, the implication hitting me like a sucker punch to the gut. Olivia. “No, I can’t believe it,” I growl, shaking my head. “Olivia wouldn’t betray Alexia like that. They’re closer than sisters.” My voice wavers because, beneath the denial, guilt gnaws at me, whispering of my failures. I bite down hard, forcing myself to hold on as control slips through my fingers.
Shelby shifts uneasily, his usual calm fractured by a rare flash of anger. He pushes his glasses up again, a nervous habit that shows me the tension building in him. “It wasn’t voluntary, Dave. Our guys in the streets tell us Igor has snatched Olivia’s sister. She’s only thirteen. Apparently, he threatened to sell her to the cartel as a sex slave if Olivia didn’t help him find Alexia.”
Dad’s low, gravelly voice rumbles. “Igor always had a talent for finding weaknesses.” The subtle tremor in his voice is the only sign of emotion, the only hint that even he, the immovable force, feels the sting of betrayal. “But using family—he’s crossed a line even the devil would hesitate at.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush, sharp and searing, as the world narrows to that one, terrible truth. Thirteen. A child. My vision blurs, and a cold sweat breaks out on my palms, each heartbeat hammering the enormity of my failure.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the room from spinning. Guilt burns my chest like a branding iron. The worst part is that I deserve that mark, the symbol of my unforgivable mistake. If I hadn’t shut Alexia out yesterday, if I hadn’t allowed my own damn pride to guide my reactions, she wouldn’t have needed to call Olivia. My argument with Alexia, the anger that drove me from her side—it all led to this nightmare.
I open my eyes and meet Shelby’s, seeing my own regret mirrored in the depths of his steady blue gaze. “It’s on me, then,” I say, the admission bitter on my tongue. “This one is on me.”
“Don’t go there, Dave,” Tommy interjects, his firm voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. He steps closer, and I can feel the intensity radiating off him. “Igor’s the only one responsible for all this shit. Not you.”
Knowing my brother is right is a hollow comfort. I can’t shake the image of Alexia’s desperate expressions as she pleaded for understanding, for trust, and how I turned my back on her. A familiar ache pierces my heart, reopening the wounds that refuse to heal. Now, the cost of my shortcomings is bleeding into reality.
Ray’s gravelly voice breaks the silence. “So, what’s the plan, boss?” He’s staring at me, his eyes hard and determined, waiting for my command to set things in motion.
Jack leans forward. “End this once and for all, my son,” he mutters, his eyes drilling mine with the authority born of years leading our Syndicate. The intensity in Dad’s stare makes it hard to breathe. He adds, “This isn’t just another battle. Make sure Igor understands that when he dared to strike at the heart of this family, he signed his death warrant.”
I draw a shaky breath, forcing my emotions down where they can’t cloud my thinking. “We hit back. Hard.” My gaze sweeps the room, meeting each of their eyes, daring anyone to doubt the fire coursing through my veins. “We don’t stop until we have Alexia and Rose back. And Igor won’t just regret the day he was born—he’ll curse every move that brought him to this point.” I lock eyes with Nikolai. “Gather all your leads. We start now.”
Nikolai’s lips curl into a cold, humorless smile. “Good. Because I have a few leads that might just help us do that.”
Tommy’s expression shifts, a flicker of hope brightening the darkness. He steps forward. “Then let’s move. Time’s not on our side.”
Shelby’s stare meets mine as he adjusts his glasses as if mentally preparing himself, a pact forming between us. “I’ll summon our men.”
The room brims with the promise of retribution. The tension in my muscles is coiled and ready to snap. This isn’t just a fight anymore—it’s personal.
And Igor won’t know what hit him.
T he warehouse is a forgotten ruin on the outskirts of the city, abandoned long before my father’s empire claimed it. Rust and decay cling to the beams while the acrid scent of mildew mixes with the tang of old oil. Vines twist up the crumbling walls, showcasing the neglect. Silence and shadow fill the structure and the air reeks of old blood and rancid sweat.
A muffled groan breaks the stillness, echoing in the cavernous room. Illya, one of Igor’s Bratva soldiers, is tied to a metal chair, the legs of which screech against the floor as he shifts, testing the unyielding restraints. His head lolls to one side, blood caking the split in his brow and streaking down over his jawline, staining the gag stuffed between his teeth. The fluorescent light above flickers, casting him in flickering shadows that make his pale blue eyes widen with each dark pulse.
I roll my shoulders, each knot of muscle aching with the control I fight to maintain. I flex my fingers, whose knuckles have gone numb from the blows I’ve landed on the motherfucker’s thick skull. I step back, letting the crunch of glass under my boot mark my movements.
Illya shudders.
Good.
“Cut the gag,” I order, devoid of mercy.
Shelby steps up from behind, his face a mask of practiced indifference, the kind that unsettles more than rage ever could. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose before drawing a switchblade from his pocket. The blade catches the weak light as it slices clean through the cloth, freeing the thug’s mouth.
He coughs, sputters, and spits blood onto the floor around his feet.
“P-please,” Illya stammers, voice hoarse, eyes darting wildly as if seeking an unseen savior. “You don’t?—”
I cut him off with a fist to the jaw, the impact sending a jolt up my arm and a satisfying crunch reverberating through the vast warehouse. His head snaps back, eyes rolling before he rights himself, dazed and shaking.
“You don’t get to talk yet,” I growl, leaning in close enough for him to feel the heat of my rage. The coppery scent of his blood mingles with the sour stench of his fear, feeding the beast clawing inside me. I don’t want just answers. I’m sending a message, making him understand the cost of taking what’s mine.
Tommy moves to stand by the metal table where scattered tools wait for his expertise. These implements can easily make a grown man weep. He trails his fingers over a pair of pliers, a blowtorch, but grabs a slender knife. He tests its balance with a practiced flick of his wrist. He remains silent and watchful, the perfectly still predator waiting for me to give him the green light.
“Where is Igor?” I demand, each word clipped and lethal. My voice travels the vast room, echoing back to me like a dark menace.
The Bratva soldier’s eyes dart to my brother, then to the knife in his hand, then back to me. He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he breathes out. “He’s always moving, changing safe houses?—”
“Wrong answer.” I snap my fingers.
Tommy steps forward without hesitation. He flicks his wrist, making the knife glint under the harsh light when he throws it through the air. The blade plunges into the man’s thigh. His scream slams into me, vibrating against my chest like a second heartbeat.
“Think harder,” I grunt, leaning in until our noses almost touch. His breath comes in ragged pants, eyes wide and glistening with the sheen of tears. Sweat pours from him in rivulets, plastering dark curls to his forehead. I grab a handful of his hair, yanking his head back so he has no choice but to face the fury in my stare. “Or I promise this gets much worse.”
He whimpers, a pathetic sound that grates my ears. But he isn’t talking. Not fast enough. I slam him against the chair and it tilts backward until he lands on the floor. The pain in his eyes deepens when the back of his head bangs on the concrete. For a moment, I think he’s going to break.
Nikolai steps into the light, crouching beside Illya and fisting the other man’s bloodied shirt. “You know who he is, don’t you?” His eyes glint like polished steel as the thug’s expression shifts—recognition mingled with terror.
“Y-yes,” he stutters. “The Ruthless King, that’s what they call Dave Boyle.”
“Exactly.” Nikolai’s lips curl into a dark grin. “So, you know how this will go for you. If you don’t give him the right answers, you’ll bleed to death from multiple holes.” He brings Illya up with him when he stands, and the metal legs of the chair shriek as he does.
“If you tell me the truth, you’ll die quickly.” I complete Nik’s remark. “Now, where’s Igor?”
“In the penthouse in Back Bay,” the man replies through gritted teeth.
I draw the pistol tucked in my waistband and shoot his kneecaps. “Wrong again.”
He wails as blood oozes from his new wounds, mixing with the old ones. His eyes turn glassy from the intense pain he’s experiencing. I don’t bother explaining that we’ve already combed all Igor’s known addresses. I wouldn’t need this piece of shit if we found any other clues.
We have not.
It’s the middle of the fucking morning, and I still have no idea where Alexia and the kids are.
“Okay, okay!” he wheezes, voice cracking. “Igor’s holding up in an old compound near the docks. He’s got an army guarding the place. You won’t get in that easily.”
For a moment, the world stops, each word falling like hot stones in my heart. I exhale slowly, steadying the chaos inside. Relief and rage intertwine, a volatile combination that quickens my pulse.
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” I grunt, my words dripping with mockery. “Who else is there?” I press on, folding my arms over my chest, watching the sweat drip from his temples. “Who’s guarding the compound?”
His throat bobs with a hard swallow as his eyes dart to the door before bouncing back to mine. “R-Rory and Andrei. They came from New York. But Igor’s paranoid—he trusts no one. But I can help you get in.”
“Nice try,” I scoff. Then, turning to my father, I add, “Andrei’s reputation dates back many years.”
Jack nods. “He’s a known killer, a sadist who enjoys leaving his mark.”
A new wave of acid burns my stomach at the thought of this monster anywhere near Alexia and Rose. My vision blurs with fury, making me literally see red.
Shelby steps closer, his gaze scanning the thug’s face. “What about the people he’s going to sell at the auction. Where are they?”
He screws up his face when more blood gushes from the wounds. “He moves them around to different locations. But the woman and the kids he snatched today are there. Igor needs them. I don’t know why.”
Finding out they are alive gives me brief relief. But it’s a faint whisper, gone as the rage returns. When I recall Alexia’s fear and her scars, blazes ignite behind my eyes. I won’t stop until she’s safe, until they’re all safe.
I cast one last look at the broken man before me. “I know why. He wants me to go get them,” I explain, gripping my gun and aiming at Illya.
With a bullet carving the middle of his forehead, I fulfill my promise of a quick death.
Ray appears at the edge of my vision, arms crossed, expression set in stone. “I’ve already called the clean-up crew.”
“Let’s move,” I tell the men. The faces of Alexia and Rose flicker behind my eyes, fanning the raging flames burning in my gut. “We have a war to win.”