The brothers narrow their eyes when we walk in. I lift my chin, sliding onto the seat beside Konstantin, refusing to be sent away. The room is thick with tension, the hum of strategy and planning already in the air.
When no one speaks, Konstantin nods, his quiet authority letting the others know to proceed.
Roman smirks, clapping Konstantin on the shoulder. “Congratulations on your victory,” he says, voice just loud enough to carry.
Konstantin rolls his eyes, sharp and dismissive. “Thought any less?” he asks.
“Arrogant prick,” Roman murmurs.
The rest of his brothers shake their heads and dive back into the intel, letting Mike take the floor.
I lean in, listening, every word sinking like lead. Mike’s voice is calm, measured, but it carries a weight that makes my stomach twist.
“Markov is alive,” he says. “Wounded, yes—but he’s not done. The sniper, the threats, the messages, the warehouse meeting…all of it was part of something larger. A desperate, calculated plan.”
I swallow hard, every muscle in me taut.
Mike doesn’t pause. “He—or whoever is orchestrating this—intends to trade Raelyn to a rival syndicate. Protection. Power. Whatever they think you’re worth. You’re not just being hunted anymore. You’re a bargaining chip.”
The words hit like ice water. My stomach flips. The room narrows, the walls closing in, but Konstantin’s hand finds mine under the table. Firm. Grounding. His presence is a lifeline I clutch without thinking.
I don’t let the silence swallow me.
“I want the full file,” I say. My voice is steady, even if my pulse isn’t. “Everything you have on Markov. No edits.”
Konstantin stiffens beside me. I feel the instinct in him—to shield, to contain—coil tight. The brothers look to him, waiting. Roman’s gaze flicks between us. Lev doesn’t blink. Dimitri’s jaw sets.
I turn my head and meet Konstantin’s eyes. I don’t argue. I don’t beg out loud. I just look at him and let him see the truth there: I need this. I can handle it.
He exhales through his nose. Long. Controlled. Then, finally, he nods.
Mike slides the file toward me.
It’s thick. Heavy with paper and intent. I open it and start reading.
Patterns emerge fast—coded messages repeating at irregular intervals, supply routes that look chaotic until you stop reading them as lines and start seeing them as movement. I stand, drawn to the board, my eyes tracing pins and strings, retreat after retreat, each one tightening inward.
A shape forms.
Not a circle. Not random.
A triangle.
My breath catches.
“No,” I murmur, stepping closer. “This isn’t just flight. It’s migration.”
I follow the points with my finger. Old industrial routes. Abandoned docks. Forgotten rail spurs. All converging toward the same dead zone.
“The old shipping district,” I say, louder now. “He’s pulling back there.”
Konstantin’s head snaps up.
“That district was shut down years ago,” Lev says.
“Yes,” I reply. “Which is why it’s perfect.” I turn, heart hammering. “My father worked undercover there. Years before he disappeared. He had a sub-station—off the books. He used it as a dead drop and a temporary command point. If Markov is moving there, it’s not just for cover.”
It’s for something else.