The door was locked.
“Move.”
Marcello barely got out of the way before I kicked.Once—the frame buckled.Twice—wood splintered.The third blow blew the door inward.And I saw red.
Viktor Sokolov stood inside the smoke-choked room, built like a slab of granite, Russian to the bone.
His meaty fist was wrapped around Neve’s arm, dragging her toward another door—a hidden exit.
Her mask was off, and there was no hiding what they’d done to her.
Blood streaked her skin.Her lip was split.One eye swollen, her cheek purple-black.But those hazel eyes—furious, defiant—locked onto mine.
I don’t know what I saw.It could have been recognition.Fear.Maybe even relief.All tangled together.
That’s right, baby.I’m the devil youdoknow.
Viktor yanked her in front of him like a shield.
“You’ve made a mistake coming here,” he snarled.
Marcello raised his gun.“Let her go.”
Viktor laughed, deep and ugly.“No.She’s compensation.My brother’s dead.And someone she knows killed him.Blood for blood.”
He drew a knife and pressed the serrated edge to her throat.
Neve trembled—just once—but didn’t make a sound as she shifted her neck, moving the blade away from her artery.
Good girl.
Viktor smirked.“You want her, Cavalho?Come and get her.”
I stepped forward.
Marcello grabbed my arm.“Atlas—don’t?—”
I shook him off.
“Careful,” Viktor warned.“I’ll spill her before you reach?—”
Neve moved.
She drove her heel into his shin and smashed her elbow into his ribs.He grunted, shocked, his grip loosening.
I hit him.
We banged into the wall.Metal crashed.Glass shattered.Viktor swung his knife wild; I caught his wrist and twisted, nearly snapping bone.
He punched me hard in the jaw.I barely felt it as I buried two blows into his ribs.
Neve stumbled back into the corner, hand at her throat, eyes wide as she watched us tear into each other.
Viktor lunged again.I slammed his knife-hand against the wall until his fingers finally opened.The knife clattered across the floor, skidding through blood and ash.
He roared, grabbed my collar, and tried to drive me backward.I twisted under him and hurled him into the wall so hard the plaster cracked, dust raining down like ash.
“You’re dead,” he spat, blood stringing from his mouth.“You interfere in Sokolov business?—”