“That’s not the plan.”
Sawyer lets out a slow breath, his fingers flexing against the steering wheel. I can see it—the battle going on behind his eyes. He hates this. But he also knows I’m right.
“We’ll be right outside,” he says after a long pause, his voice low, reluctant. “The second anything feels wrong, you get the hell out.”
I nod, accepting the small victory.
“Give me a second,” I murmur, pulling down the sun visor and flipping open the mirror. My reflection stares back at me, tired eyes and tension carved into my expression. I rake my fingers through my hair, fixing loose strands, adjusting the collar of my jacket. I need to look composed. In control. Like I belong.
As I reach for my lip balm, Sawyer shifts beside me. “Here,” he says, holding something out.
I glance down at the small, flesh-toned earpiece in his palm.
“It’s linked to my cell,” he explains. “We’ll hear everything. andwe’ll know when you want us to respond.”
I hesitate for only a second before taking it. “Thanks.”
Sawyer doesn’t say anything as I fit it into my ear. Ada watches in silence as I adjust my hair, making sure the device is hidden beneath the strands.
I take a deep breath, my hand resting on the door handle. The metal is cool beneath my fingers.
“You sure about this?” Sawyer asks, his voice quieter now. Not as the team’s strategist. Just as him.
I glance at him, then at Ada, then back at the house.
“No,” I admit. “But it doesn’t matter.”
And with that, I open the door.
Chapter 36
Rats in the Walls,
Rats in the Shadows
Isabella
The air inside the house is thick, stale cigarette smoke clinging to the walls, mingling with the unmistakable metallic tang of something darker. Something rotten.
I step through the doorway, my shoes barely making a sound against the warped wooden floor. The dim light casts jagged shadows, stretching across the peeling wallpaper like skeletal fingers. It smells like sweat and desperation, the kind of place where bad things happen and worse things are planned.
He doesn’t live a luxurious life, that’s for sure.
A low murmur of voices drifts from the next room. Male. Russian. The Bratva has a way of speaking that’s unmistakable, low, measured, like every word is a warning.
I learnt that the day I met Aslanov.
I keep my breathing steady, letting my eyes adjust. The house is falling apart, but someone still calls it home. A half-eaten plate of food sits on the dusty coffee table, the TV flickering with static in the corner. Empty beer bottles litter the floor, some shattered, as if tempers have already flared tonight.
Then I see him.
Monya Kuznetsov.
He’s slouched in a chair at the far end of the room, apistol resting loosely in his grip, his free hand swirling a glass of something dark. He looks exactly how I expected; grimy tracksuit, a thick gold chain around his neck, scars that tell stories no one’s alive to repeat. His hair is buzzed short, his face hard, eyes half-lidded but still sharp enough to cut.
Three other men are in the room, leaning against the walls, their hands never straying too far from their weapons. One of them is built like a tank, tattoos creeping up his neck. Another is thinner, jittery, his fingers tapping against the grip of his gun. The third sits at the table, counting stacks of cash with slow, deliberate movements.
Fuck me.
