Chapter 2: Irina

Bars like this are second nature to me—dim, smoky, filled with the kind of people who've seen more than their share of darkness. Places where deals are made, secrets are traded, and no one asks too many questions. I've spent years frequenting dives like this. This is my world, and I know how to navigate it better than most.

I sit in a booth near the back, the table sticky under my fingers, waiting for the man Dmitri insisted I work with. Alexei Romanov. I don't know much about him, and I don't like that. In my line of work, not knowing can get you killed.

I take a drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke curl around me as I consider what little I do know. Dmitri vouched for him, said he's got skills—strategic mind, good in a fight, but more of a charmer than a killer. That last part makes me uneasy. Charm doesn't get the job done, and it sure as hell won't help us take down Sergei.

The door swings open, and I spot him immediately. He's taller than I expected, with that easy confidence that comes from someone who thinks they can talk their way out of anything. He doesn't belong here, and it shows—he's too clean, too put together. But what catches me off guard, just for a second, is how damn pretty he is. Not in a way that matters, of course, but it's enough to make me wonder if Dmitri's playing some kind of sick joke on me.

He scans the room, and when his eyes land on me, there's a flicker of something in them—surprise, maybe, or amusement. Whatever it is, it's gone in an instant, replaced by a grin that's all charm and no substance. He walks over, sliding into the booth across from me with a kind of lazy grace that grates on my nerves.

"Mind if I join you?" He nods toward the empty seat, as if I haven't been waiting for him to show up.

I exhale a stream of smoke, meeting his gaze with the kind of cold indifference I've perfected over the years. I don't have time for small talk or whatever game he thinks we're playing. "You're late."

His grin widens, like he finds that amusing. "Fashionably, I hope."

"Not the impression you want to make." I stub out my cigarette, already feeling the tension in my jaw. I can't tell if he's cocky, stupid, or both.

He leans back, unbothered by my irritation. "Fair enough. I've heard a lot about you, you know. Dmitri says you're the best."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere." I cross my arms, studying him for a beat longer. He's got that look in his eye, the kind that says he's used to getting his way with a smile and a wink. That's not going to work on me.

"I'm not here to flatter you, Irina. I'm here to work together."

I almost laugh at that. "Work together? Is that what you call this?"

"Call it whatever you want. We're in this together, whether we like it or not."

I don't like it. Not one bit. But Dmitri's orders are clear, and as much as I hate the idea of working with someone like Alexei, I know better than to disobey. Still, I need to know what kind of person I'm dealing with, and I'm not convinced yet.

"Let's get something straight," I say, leaning forward, my voice low and sharp. "I don't trust you. I don't know you. And until you prove yourself, you're nothing more than a liability to me."

He doesn't flinch, just tilts his head slightly, considering my words. "Fair enough. But you should know, I don't trust easily either."

I raise an eyebrow, not expecting that. Maybe he's not as soft as he looks.

"Good. Then let's get to work." I push the file across the table toward him, the one I've been going over for hours. "Our first target is a local contact. Sergei's men frequent this place, and if anyone knows where he's holed up, it'll be them."

He flips open the file, scanning the contents with a quick, practiced eye. "What's the plan?"

"Direct approach," I say, the words clipped. "We go in, find the guy, and make him talk."

Alexei looks up, meeting my gaze with that irritating confidence again. "Make him talk? You mean rough him up?"

"If that's what it takes."

He closes the file, leaning back in his seat as if he's about to say something I won't like. "That's one way to do it. But it might be better to try talking to him first. You know, see if we can get the information without breaking his nose. We'll have a target on our back if we do this to everyone we meet."

I narrow my eyes, not liking where this is going. "Talking won't get us anywhere. These men don't respond to kindness."

"They might respond to something better than a beating."

"Like what?"

"Like money. Or fear. Or making them think they've got something to gain by cooperating."

I stare at him, the urge to tell him exactly where he can shove his suggestions nearly overwhelming. "You're naive if you think they'll just hand over what we need."

"And you're stubborn if you think brute force is the only way to get results." His tone is still light, but there's an edge to it now, something darker beneath the surface.

The tension between us sharpens, the air around us thick with it. I've worked with plenty of men who thought they knew better, but there's something different about Alexei. Something that makes me hesitate, just for a second. He's got a point, even if I don't want to admit it.

Still, this isn't the time to coddle our contacts. We're running out of time, and I'm not about to let his idealism get in the way of what needs to be done.

"Fine," I say, standing up and grabbing my jacket. "You want to try playing nice? Go ahead. But when that fails, we do it my way."

He follows me out of the booth, the grin back on his face, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Deal."

Outside, the night air is cool, a welcome change from the stifling heat inside the bar. I start walking, and Alexei falls into step beside me. The streets are quiet, the city settling into that strange lull between dusk and midnight, when anything can happen and no one will care.

"You know," Alexei says after a moment, "we don't have to hate each other."

"I don't hate you," I reply, my voice flat. "I just don't trust you."

He chuckles, the sound low and almost genuine. "That's a start."

"Don't get used to it."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

We reach the next bar, the one where our contact is supposed to be, and I pause outside, turning to face him. "This isn't a game, Alexei. If you mess this up, we both pay the price."

His expression shifts, the humor fading. "I know."

For a moment, we just stand there. I can see the determination in his eyes, the same drive that fuels me, but there's something else, too.

"All right," I finally say, pulling the door open. "Let's get this over with."

The inside of the bar is even worse than the last one—dark, dingy, and with a smell that makes my nose wrinkle. But I push it aside, scanning the room for our contact. There, in the corner, nursing a drink like it's his only friend in the world.

We approach him, and I can feel Alexei tense beside me. This is it. His moment of truth. We're about to see if his way works or if I'm going to have to clean up the mess.

The contact looks up as we reach his table, his eyes narrowing when he sees me.

Good. He knows who I am. That'll make this easier.

"Evening," Alexei says, sliding into the seat across from the man. "Mind if we join you?"

The man doesn't respond, just looks at me like he's waiting for the hammer to drop. I lean against the wall, crossing my arms and keeping my gaze fixed on him, letting him know that if he doesn't play nice, I'm more than ready to make him regret it.

"Don't worry," Alexei continues, still all smiles. "We just want to talk."

The man snorts, taking a swig of his drink. "Talk, huh? What about?"

"Sergei Marakov," I say, cutting to the chase. "We know you've been in contact with his men. We need to know where he's hiding."

The man freezes, his knuckles white around the glass. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I push off the wall, taking a step closer, but Alexei holds up a hand, stopping me. "Let's not start off with threats," he says, his tone light. "How about we make a deal? You give us the information we need, and we make sure nothing happens to you."

The man's eyes dart between us. "And what happens if I don't?"

"Then you answer to me," I reply, my voice low and dangerous.

The man swallows hard. I can see the wheels turning in his head, weighing his options, trying to figure out the best way to save his own skin.

Finally, he sets the glass down with a trembling hand. "All right. I'll tell you what I know. But you'd better keep your word."

Alexei leans back, satisfied. "You have my word."

The man glances at me, and I give him a nod, letting him know that if he cooperates, he'll live to see another day.

"Look, I don't know much," the man stammers, eyes flicking nervously between us like a trapped animal searching for an escape route. His hands tremble slightly as he clutches his glass. "But there's talk . . . Sergei's got himself in deep with someone they call the Broker."

Alexei, leaning forward just enough to close the distance. He's almost too calm. "The Broker? Who's that?"

The man shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His eyes dart toward the darkened corners of the bar as if expecting someone to appear out of the shadows.

"I don't know who he is, exactly," he mutters. More like whispers. "But I've heard things. They say he's more than just some crime lord. He's got influence—real power. Rumor has it, he's got the government in his back pocket, strings he can pull without anyone even noticing."

There's a beat of silence, the weight of his words settling over the table like a heavy fog. I exchange a glance with Alexei, my mind already working through the implications. This isn't just another name on a list; this is someone who could complicate everything.

The man swallows hard, his gaze flicking back to me, desperation creeping into his tone. "Sergei's not the same man he used to be. He's got resources now, the kind you can't even imagine. You two . . . you can't get to him, not with the kind of protection he has now. You're walking into a death trap."

I feel a sharp jolt of anger at the fear in his voice, but I keep it under control, masking it with a cold, calculating smile. "A man who climbs that high," I say, leaning in just enough to make him flinch, "has a much longer way to fall. And when he falls, it's going to be hard. Very hard."

The man swallows again, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. Then, with a resigned sigh, he reaches into his jacket pocket. His fingers fumble for a moment before pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. He hesitates, clearly torn between self-preservation and the fear of what might happen if he doesn't cooperate.

"This . . .." He slides the paper across the table toward Alexei, his hand shaking. "This is the last address I have for Sergei. It's not much, but it's all I've got. Just . . . just be careful. You don't know the kind of people you're dealing with."

Alexei takes the paper, his movements slow and deliberate, as if to avoid spooking the man any further. He unfolds it, glancing at the scrawled address before slipping it into his pocket. His eyes meet the contact's, and for a moment, the easygoing charm fades, replaced by something harder, more dangerous.

"You've done the right thing," he says, his tone carrying a weight of unspoken promises and threats. "But if I were you, I'd find somewhere far away to be for a while."

The contact just nods, his face pale, clearly eager to be done with this conversation. He drains the rest of his drink in one gulp, his hands still trembling as he sets the glass down. I watch him for a moment, feeling a mix of pity and disdain. He's a small-time player in a much larger game, and he knows it.

"Let's go," I say, standing up and casting a final glance at the man. "We've got what we need."

Alexei nods, rising to his feet and giving the contact a final nod. "Thanks for the help. Stay safe."

We turn to leave.

The Broker. A name that brings with it more questions than answers and a reminder that Sergei Marakov isn't just another target. He's a man who's woven himself into something much larger, something that will take every ounce of skill and cunning we have to dismantle.

But that's exactly what we're going to do. Because no matter how high Sergei has climbed, no matter who he's aligned himself with, he's still the man who destroyed my life. And I'll be damned if I let him slip through my fingers now.

"See?" Alexei says as we step outside, the night air cool against my skin. "Sometimes talking works."

I don't respond, just pull out another cigarette and light it, watching the smoke curl into the air. He's right, but I'm not about to give him the satisfaction of saying so.

"You did good," I finally admit, the words grudging.

He grins, but there's a seriousness in his eyes that wasn't there before. "Thanks. But we're just getting started."

I nod, flicking the cigarette into the gutter. "Let's keep moving. We've got work to do."

As we walk down the street, side by side, I can feel the shift between us. We're still not friends, not by a long shot, but there's a grudging respect forming. I don't trust him, not yet, but maybe, just maybe, we can make this work.

For now, that's enough. We've got a common enemy, and that's all the motivation I need. Sergei Marakov is going down, and nothing—not even my distrust of Alexei—is going to get in the way of that.