"Who are we seeing?" I press.
He glances at me, then sets his glass down in the cupholder. He reaches for the whiskey decanter but stops mid-motion, his hand hovering over it. His eyes flick to me again, and he withdraws his hand.
"A Bulgarian smuggler," he says. "Freelancer. Tied to one of the premium trafficking routes across Europe. Lucian and I discovered him while doing some work while you were in the air."
My fingers drum against my thigh.
"And?"
"And," Victor continues, his tone measured, "this particular smuggler specializes in moving high-end assets across bordersfor elite clients. The kind of clients who pay fifty million dollars for what they want."
The word "assets" makes my stomach twist.
Elena isn't an asset. She's not cargo. She's not a fucking transaction.
"Where is he?" I ask.
"Aici. În România," he says and glances at his watch. "Douazeci de minute de aici."
I turn to face him fully now, my body angled toward him like a predator.
"Twenty minutes," I say and nod.
Twenty minutes until I get my hands on someone who knows where Elena could be. Someone who moved her. Someone who profited off her suffering.
My lip twitches.
It's a small movement, barely noticeable, but those closest to me catch it. They always do.
"Adrian," he says, his voice sharpening.
I lean back and reach for my gun, tapping the handle.
"Adrian," Victor says again, firmer this time.
I look at him.
His expression is calm, but there's a warning in his eyes. The kind of warning that says he knows exactly what I'm thinking and he's about to tell me why I'm wrong.
"We need a location," he says. "A name. An address. Something that leads us to Moscow. So you're going to walk in there, and you're going to let him talk."
I stare at him.
"Do not kill him before he gives us what we need," he says. "I’m serious."
My fingers stop drumming on my weapon, and I curl my hand into a fist.
"Yeah. I'll get the information first," I say. My voice is flat and cold.
Victor nods.
"Then I'll kill him."
He doesn't argue. He just picks up his glass again and takes another sip.
After some time, the car slows down, and I feel the shift in momentum as we turn off the main road. The buildings outside change from modern high-rises to older, secluded structures with narrow streets and dim lighting.
The Rolls-Royce comes to a stop in front of a three-story building with dark windows and a wrought-iron gate. It looks out of place and too expensive for this area.