Nikolai's POV
"That's enough, Nik," Luka grumbles, adjusting his tie like he's about to strut down a fucking runway instead of standing in this piss-stained warehouse, ankle-deep in someone else's mistakes. The fucker's got blood on his cuffs—my blood, Joe's blood, who gives a shit?—but he's still playing the polished prince. Typical Luka. Always the calm to my storm, the leash on my rabid dog.
I step back, rolling my shoulders, and take a good, hard look at the damage I've carved into Joe's face. It's a fucking masterpiece—swollen eyes like ripe plums, a nose twisted sideways, lips split open like overripe fruit spilling red. He's slumped against the wall, a ragdoll of a man, chest heaving in shallow, wet gasps. I did that. Me. My knuckles sting, split open and singing with every flex, but it's a good pain. The kind that reminds me I'm alive, that I can still break something when everything else is broken.
"Still pretty enough to kiss, Joe," I drawl, wiping my hands on his shirt. The fabric's soaked, clinging to his chest like a second skin, and my fingers leave crimson streaks. "Maybe I should send you back to Enzo like this. A little love letter from the Volkovs."
Luka snorts, but there's no humor in it. "You're a fucking lunatic, you know that?"
"Yeah," I grin, all teeth and no warmth. "But you love me anyway."
He doesn't answer, just flicks his gaze to Joe, then back to me, his jaw tight. We're here in L.A. because we had to be—sneaking in under the radar, a secret little business deal to line our pockets and bolster our arsenal. No one was supposed to know the Volkov brothers were crossing into Enzo DeSantis' territory. The kingpin of L.A.'s underworld doesn't play nice with trespassers, and we weren't ready for a turf war. Not yet. Our resources are stretched thin, and Viktor—our elder brother, the big bad wolf of the family—is still a ghost of himself, brooding over his dead fiancée. Almost a year since she bled out in his arms, and he's stil hasn't gotten over it .Pathetic. But it left us two to pick up the pieces, to keep the empire from crumbling.
Except we got fucked. Someone talked. The goods—guns, cash, whatever the hell we were moving—were intercepted by Enzo's men before we could blink. Now here we are, sweating in this shithole warehouse, taking it out on poor, dumb Joe, one of Enzo's grunts who had the bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I crouch in front of Joe, grabbing his chin and forcing his head up. His eyes flutter, unfocused, blood bubbling from his mouth. "Who, Joe?" My voice is low, a growl that vibrates in my chest. "Who sold us out?"
He mumbles something incoherent, a gurgle of spit and red, and I slam his head back against the concrete. The crack echoes, sharp and satisfying. "Speak up, asshole. I'm not in the mood for games."
"Nik," Luka snaps, stepping closer. "Ease up. He's half-dead already."
"Good," I shoot back, not looking at him. "Means he's halfway to telling me what I want."
Luka's hand lands on my shoulder, firm but not rough. "We need him alive, you idiot. Dead men don't talk."
I shrug him off, standing to face him. He's taller by an inch, broader in the shoulders, but I've got the edge—wild, untamed, a live wire ready to spark. "You think Enzo's gonna send us a thank-you note for keeping his pet alive? We're fucked either way, Luka. Might as well have some fun."
His eyes darken, that cool control of his fraying at the edges. "Fun? This isn't a game. We're on borrowed time here."
Before I can snap back—something clever, something cutting—a gunshot rips through the air, loud and close, slicing our bullshit in half. We freeze, heads whipping toward the sound. It's not from inside the warehouse; it's outside, near the water. The docks, maybe. My pulse kicks up, a drumbeat of adrenaline that makes my skin itch.
"Fuck," Luka mutters, hand already on his gun, tugging it free from the holster under his jacket.
"Finally," I say, grinning like a kid on Christmas. "Something interesting."
"Nik—"
"Shut up and move," I cut him off, already heading for the door. Joe's forgotten, a bloody heap on the floor, unconscious or close enough. Luka curses under his breath but follows, because he always does. He's the brains, the cold strategist, but I'm the one who charges into the fire, and he knows he can't stop me.
We slip out of the room, moving silent as shadows through the warehouse. The place is a rotting corpse of industry—rusted beams, cracked concrete, stacks of crates that smell like mildew and despair. The air's thick, heavy with salt from the nearby ocean and the faint tang of oil. Outside, it's pitch black, quiet and endless, the kind of dark that swallows you whole. Perfect for hiding. Perfect for killing.
Another gunshot cracks, sharper this time, followed by a splash. My blood sings, every nerve alight. We reach the edge of the loading dock, crouching behind a pile of splintered pallets. I peer out, Luka right beside me, his breath steady while mine's ragged with anticipation.
And there he is—Enzo fucking DeSantis. The man the legend, a nightmare in a tailored suit, standing at the water's edge like he owns the goddamn world. He's got that slicked-back hair, that predator's stare, and a gun still smoking in his hand. In front of him, a woman's on her knees, hands tied behind her back, head high despite the blood trickling from a cut on her lip. She's not begging, not crying—just staring him down like she's daring him to pull the trigger again.
He smirks, raises the gun, and fires. The shot's deafening, a thunderclap that drowns out the crash of waves. Her body jerks, then topples backward, hitting the water with a splash that sends ripples racing across the black surface. She's gone, swallowed by the tide, and I can't look away.