Page 67 of Precious Legacy
Without a second glance, he turns away silently, heading towards another group who are sparring. Savannah sends me a curious look, but I don’t even attempt to entertain the silent questions I know are bouncing around in her head.
It isn’t until the session is over and Savannah and I are stumbling out of the academy at ten past five. I feel every musclein my body scream. My brain feels like it might internally combust, and my nerves are completely fried. What started out as a great first day quickly turned into one from hell and I need nothing more than to take the edge off.
“I feel like I need a stiff drink and a massage,” Savannah groans as we head out the gates.
“Me too,” I laugh nervously. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.” It’s a stretch, but it’s what I imagine it to feel like, minus the extensive injuries.
Pulling out my phone, I request an Uber and lean against the wall we’ve come to a stop at. Savannah joins me since we’ve agreed to share a ride. She doesn’t live too far away from me, so it makes sense.
It’s amazing how in such a short space of time—an extremely short space of time—I’ve met someone who is so similar to me. We like the same music, we have the same clothing preferences that aren't office wear, and we like bikes. We have a lot in common, and I can already tell I’ve made a good friend here. Something tells me she’s going to be the person to get me through the next six months, and I’m not complaining at all.
TWENTY-SIX
Keeping a handle on my anger is usually an easy task for me; using the gym as my outlet helps me rein in my emotions.Well, killing perverted assholes also helps.It gives me the opportunity to unleash all my pent-up rage and aggression, allowing me to focus on what needs to be done, rather than letting my emotions become the driving force of every decision I make.
Unfortunately, I didn’t expect to be standing in front of a burning building at eleven o’clock at night, watching my gambling den collapse into nothing more than ash and rubble. My anger is currently simmering beneath the surface so intensely that I’m finding it difficult to think straight.
“Sorry, Ro,” my Uncle Cillian offers, resting a hand on my shoulder.
My jaw tenses as I watch the flames engulf Black Jack. The heat blazes across my face, and all I can manage is, “Fuck!”
I got here as soon as my uncle gave me the news. Thanks to our mole, who gave him the heads up, he was able to get here to confirm his intel before calling me. It wasn’t enough, though.We needed to know sooner, so we could ensure no lasting damage was caused.
“Anyone hurt?” I dare to ask.
“Not as far as I know,” Cillian confirms. “My guy says they weren’t out to hurt anyone. Just sending a message.”
“And what’s the message?” I grumble, rubbing a hand over my tired face. We’re the ones still waiting for an answer to when we can meet with them to discuss the docks situation. I found it odd that they hadn’t replied since Milo was supposed to deliver that message after Varo visited him last week.
Once again, the Russians are pushing our boundaries, testing limits they have no business testing.
“I don’t know the details of that. From what I can tell, the Federovs are just trying to make you sweat.”
“Well, it’s fucking working,” I snap, swiping moisture off the back of my neck. The heat emanating from the flames is suffocating.
“Relax,” Cillian chuckles, turning to lean against his Harley. “We can get ahead of this. We just need the right intel.” He’s pretty calm considering everything, which tells me he’s confident in the guy spying on the Bratva brothers for us.
Alvaro’s words still sit in the back of my mind as me and my uncle stand on the sidewalk, observing the fire engines that work tirelessly to put out the blaze. No doubt, the fire chief will provide me with some lame excuse for the cause, but we both know what really happened.
“Who is he?” I ask my uncle. Up until now, the identity of our mole never bothered me because I trusted Cillian enough to handle it. I figured the fewer people who knew about him, the better. It works in our favor to keep his identity a secret, but after Varo voiced his concerns that our mole might be Milo, I have more reason to know who our mystery guy is.
Cillian turns to me, brows furrowed. “Who?”
“The person you’re getting intel from.”
He exhales loudly through his nose, pulling a cigarette from his leather jacket and lighting it up. He offers me one, but I shrug him off, still focused on the blazing inferno ahead of us. “I thought you didn’t care?”
“I don’t” I mutter. “I trust your judgment, but I need to be sure we’re not dealing with who I think we are.”
“It’s not Kyrovsky, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” he smirks.
“How—”
Shooting me a knowing look, he takes a drag of his cigarette, the glow from the end lighting up accentuating his features. “I’m good at what I do, remember?”
“I remember,” I murmur. Turning to face him, I pin him with a glare. “Is there anything weshouldknow about Milo Kyrovsky?”
“Other than Varo drooling over the guy?” he chuckles before shaking his head. “No.”
