68. Chapter 68

68

Dimitri

T he Chicago wind bites like a rabid dog, but it's got nothing on the ice in my veins. I'm perched on a rooftop, binoculars trained on the dingy motel across the street. Wren's in there, probably cuddling that brat of hers. Chert , when did she get so soft?

"Target's on the move," Oleg's voice crackles through the earpiece. His icy blue eyes are probably narrowed to slits; the fucker's always so damn serious.

I grunt in response, watching as a black SUV pulls up. My grip tightens on the binoculars as I see them drag Wren out, the kid clinging to her like a barnacle. Even from here, I can see the fear in her eyes. It's wrong, all wrong. The Wren I know would be kicking, biting, leaving a trail of bodies. But she's just… holding that kid.

" Blyat ," I spit, the curse tasting bitter on my tongue. "They're taking her."

Saveliy materializes beside me, silent as a fucking ghost. His long black hair whips in the wind as he peers over the edge. "We moving in, boss?"

I want to. Every muscle in my body is screaming to jump down there, to paint the street red with Zimniy's blood. But I can't. Not yet.

" Nyet ," I growl, the word feeling like broken glass in my throat. "We'll find their filthy hole soon enough. And when we do, we'll smoke ‘em out like the rats they are. They won't know what hit ‘em. You got that?"

Oleg's ice-blue eyes glint with murderous intent. " Da , boss. We'll make them eat their own fucking entrails."

Saveliy's grin is all teeth, a predator ready to pounce. "Just point me at ‘em. I'll carve my name into their bones."

We climb down from the rooftop, my boots hitting the pavement with a heavy thud. A matte black Audi RS Q8 waits for us; I slide into the driver's seat, the leather creaking under my weight. As Oleg and Saveliy pile in, I yank out my phone. Time to check in with the fashionista.

The phone rings five fucking times before Erik deigns to answer.

" Bonjour, mon cher !" Erik's voice oozes fake cheer. " Comment ?a va ?"

"Speak English, you pretentious fuck," I snarl. "Or I'll rip out your tongue next time I see you."

Erik laughs. "You're in a mood, D. What's got your balls in a vise?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that Wren's been snatched by Zimniy's goons," I growl.

Could've pulled Zimniy's spine out through his ass, use it to beat Elena to a bloody pulp. Two birds, one stone.

The line goes quiet for a moment. I can almost hear the bubbles popping in Erik's overpriced champagne. When he speaks again, the background noise has faded, like he's stepped away from whatever posh bullshit he's attending.

"Ah, yes. Our little bird." His voice drops, all traces of humor gone. "Tell me, brother, have you gone soft for this cunt?"

I squeeze the phone so hard I hear the screen crack. "Fuck you. I'm calling to let you know we're moving on Zimniy. If my brains end up splattered across Chicago, you know who to skin alive."

Erik snorts. "Always so dramatic. You've bathed in worse bloodbaths, D. Just do what you do best: make those fuckers scream, yeah?"

My jaw clenches so tight I can hear my teeth grinding. He's right, and that just pisses me off more. I've waded through rivers of blood, painted walls with brains, and never batted an eye. But now? My chest feels like it's being crushed, all because of one fucking woman.

I take a deep breath, feeling my nostrils flare. This is nothing. It should be nothing. If Wren wasn't involved, I'd be knee-deep in corpses by now, laughing as I went. But she is involved, and that makes everything so much fucking harder.

These emotions, they're like poison in my veins. Making me weak. Making me hesitate. Fuck that noise.

"I'm hanging up now. Try not to choke on all that champagne and cum."

"Wait, D," Erik's voice turns cold. "Don't leave any loose ends this time, you hear me? I don't want to be cleaning up your shit from across the pond."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll mail you their eyes in a fucking matchbox. How's that sound?"

Erik laughs. "Perfect. Bonne chance, mon frère ."

Shoving the phone back in my pocket. My chest feels tight, like someone's got their fist around my heart and is squeezing.

"We're losing visual," Oleg reports.

I nod, forcing myself to think. To plan. To be the fucking Bratva leader I'm supposed to be. "Saveliy, you're on point. Track that SUV, but keep your distance. Oleg, I want eyes on every traffic cam, every CCTV in a ten-mile radius. We find out where they're taking her, then we strike."

They nod, moving with the efficiency of well-oiled machines. Good soldiers. Good killers.

As the SUV disappears around a corner, I feel something snap inside me. The rage I've been holding back floods through me, hot and familiar. I'll kill them all. Zimniy, Elena, every last yeblan who dared to touch what's mine.