When he finally spoke, the playfulness was gone, replaced by something low and lethal.
“Who?”
“Bratva.”
I heard it then — the inhale of breath.The tiny, involuntary fracture in his control.
Raze Cavalho didn’t hate easily.
But he hated the Bratva with the kind of devotion men reserved for religion.
“How can I help?”he asked.
Notif.
Notwhy.
How.
“They’re scattered,” I answered.“I want them in one place.And then I want that place gone.”
A slow whistle slid through the line.“You’re talking high-grade.”
“Yes.”
“You want to collapse a structure,” he added thoughtfully, “or level it?”
“Level it.”
No hesitation.No mercy.
A dark chuckle answered me.“Christ, cousin.I haven’t heard that tone in years.”
“Can you do the drop or not?”
“I can.But I’m not handing you toys and sitting this one out.I’m coming in with you.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I’m not doing it for you,” he cut in.“I’m doing it because the Bratva are my problem too.”
My jaw tightened.“Still beefing with Mikhailov’s crew?”
“Oh, I’m past beef,” he told me.“That’s why I owe you, remember?”he continued quietly.“You dragged me out of the gutter when they killed my family.”
A memory crashed into me — fire and smoke and Raze on his knees in the driveway of his home, mourning the life of his wife and unborn son in a car explosion we had to drag him away from.”
“Then our enemies are the same,” I confirmed.
“And our ambitions are aligned,” he finished.“I’ll bring the arms.You bring the bodies.Gather every Bratva bastard tied to this hit.I’ll set the charges.And then we light the goddamn sky.”
“Fine.”
“And Marcello?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry about your brother,” he added quietly.“Alessio was a good kid.”