"I don't know his name," the man whimpers. "We never saw his face. He communicated through encrypted messages."
I twist the knife again, eliciting another agonized cry. "Not good enough. Give me something useful or I start removing body parts."
Darian cracks his knuckles menacingly. "I vote we start with the fingers. Nice and slow."
The captive's eyes telegraph his terror. "Wait! Please! There was... there was a symbol. On the messages. A red scorpion."
I freeze, my hand still on the knife hilt. A chill runs down my spine as I lock eyes with Darian. His face has paled as I’m sure mine must have, too.
"You're sure?" I growl, yanking the man's head back by his hair. "A red scorpion?"
He nods frantically. "Yes, I swear it. What does it mean? Who are they?"
I step back, my mind racing. Red Scorpion. It can't be. They were supposed to have been wiped out years ago.
What the hell does this mean?
This guy is American, his ignorance of the most vicious bratva out of the USSR rooted in both his age and his nationality. Guys like him like to play at organized crime, they want to get in on the action, and they’re quickly assimilated by syndicates trying to get a foothold on American soil. But they lack the knowledge handed down through the generations that even the young members of the old families have. Guys like him don't have the same history and understanding as those of us who are the latest in a long line of descendants who have lived this life since its inception. But if Red Scorpion is making a comeback, it won’t be long before the new world quakes at the mention of that name. One thing’s for sure. We need answers, and we need them now, before everything goes to hell just like it did for my father’s generation.
“Get rid of him,” I growl at Darian, handing him the knife. “And find someone higher up the food chain to interrogate. We need answers - fast!”
He gives a curt nod but stays silent. We don’t need words. The look that passes between us is terse and brittle, a flick of the eyes that says everything heavy and unspeakable. Darian’s jaw sets, his lips thinning. Neither of us needs to give voice to our alarm, and I don’t want to freak out my men. The specter of the Red Scorpion speaks for itself.
For a moment, the warehouse seems to shrink around us, the air thickening with old dread and the kind of tension that precedes a storm.
Darian stalks over to the captive, eyes hard and cold, and finishes the job with clinical efficiency, with no more ceremony than if he were swatting a fly.
I don’t need to watch, and my mind is already spinning through decades of buried rumors and war stories, the kind that were whispered in the old country and only half-believed. The Red Scorpion—an organization so ruthless that all the Eastern European bratvas had treated their remnants as toxic. A cautionary tale for upstart criminals who forgot where the true power lay. That they might be back, be here in New York, is almost unthinkable.
And certainly terrifying.
I pace towards the warehouse doors, letting the icy draft cool my overheated brow. The sound of boots crunching on broken glass, the metallic ring of our tools as Darian disinfects them in gasoline, all of it fades under the hard pulse of my thoughts. If the Red Scorpion is making a comeback I can guarantee they’ve got a masterplan. But who is engineering this chaos, moving pieces I can’t yet see? And what’s the end game? Because I’m pretty sure we’re not the only players on this chess board. I can’t shake the sensation that we’re already deep inside someone else’s scheme, and every move we make only tightens the noose.
Chapter Three
LYAH
Hearing Niko finally come back, I push up into a sitting position on the bed and brace myself for the conversation we need to have.
“I need to speak to you.” I say when he comes into the room. I wish my voice held a little more confidence, but it comes out soft and unsure. Niko grunts, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto his bedside chair. His eyes are bloodshot, his movements sluggish. I can smell whiskey on his breath, which I know is a bad sign.
"Can't it wait?" he grumbles, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "It’s 3am and I’m tired."
I swallow hard, wringing my hands. "No, it can't." My heart pounds in my chest as Niko turns to face me, irritation evident in the set of his jaw.
“What is it then, that can’t even wait until morning?” he demands coldly, making me shrivel inside. This isn’t going to go well, I can already tell.
"I... I'm pregnant."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. Niko's expression doesn't change, doesn't soften. He just stares at me, his gaze unreadable.
"Are you certain?” he finally asks, his voice flat.
I nod, blinking back the tears that have sprung from nowhere. I guess somewhere deep inside, I was hoping for… something. "I only took one test, but it was positive. The literature says it’s more likely to give a false negative than a false positive."
Niko exhales sharply, turning away from me. "Fuck," he mutters under his breath.
I guess, to him, it’s not good news then.
