Page 130 of Ruined

I nod, watching as she guides them inside. Evelyn turns back once, her eyes meeting mine. There's something in her gaze I can't quite place—grief, yes, but something else too. Somethingthat makes my chest tear open in a way that has nothing to do with my healing bullet wound.

"I'll be back," I tell her.

The walk to Damiano's office feels longer than usual. Each step reminds me of the bullet hole in my chest but it's nothing compared to the weight of what just happened. Alexander Anderson is dead. Murdered. And somehow I feel responsible.

Damiano and Matteo are waiting for me, their faces grim.

"How are they?" Damiano asks as I shut the door behind me.

"Fucked up," I say honestly. "Their father was just murdered."

Matteo shifts in his seat. "About that... our contacts say the Russians have already left the city."

"Left?" I drop into a chair, wincing at the pull on my stitches. "That makes no fucking sense."

"It does if Anderson was their only target," Damiano says, leaning forward. "Matteo's been digging. Turns out Anderson owed Ivan money. A lot of it."

"So this was about cash?" I laugh with absolutely zero humor. "All this fucking bloodshed over money?"

"Ivan was using Evelyn's contract as leverage," Matteo explains. "But the real issue was the debt. When Ivan died his family came to collect."

I run a hand through my hair, processing this. "But how the fuck do they not know who killed Ivan? We weren't exactly subtle about storming his house."

Damiano exchanges a look with Matteo.

"That's the interesting part," Matteo says. "Ivan kept his operation compartmentalized. His men knew he was meeting with you but not why. And his family in Russia only knows he's dead—not who pulled the trigger."

"So they think Anderson had something to do with it?" I ask.

"They think Anderson owed money to a dead man," Damiano clarifies. "And dead men can't collect. So they made an example of him."

I shake my head, struggling to process what Damiano and Matteo are telling me. This shit doesn't add up.

"No, that's too fucking convenient," I say, standing despite the pain shooting through my chest. "You're telling me Ivan Volkov—the Butcher of Moscow—gets killed, and his family just... what? Doesn't bother to investigate who pulled the trigger?"

Matteo shifts uncomfortably. "The Russians operate differently?—"

"Bullshit," I cut him off. "I've dealt with these people. They don't just let shit go. Especially not the death of someone as connected as Ivan."

I pace the room, my mind racing. "Someone's feeding us a line. Ivan's operation might have been compartmentalized but his family would tear apart this entire fucking city to find who killed him."

Damiano watches me carefully. "What are you suggesting, Noah?"

"I'm suggesting we're missing something." I press my fingers against my temples. "Anderson's death isn't the end of this. It's a message."

"A message to whom?" Matteo asks.

"To us. To me." I turn to face them both. "They're letting us know they can get to anyone."

Damiano leans back in his chair. "If they knew it was you who killed Ivan?—"

"I didn't kill him. Matteo did." I glance at Matteo, whose face has gone pale. "But they don't know that. They just know someone stormed Ivan's house and he ended up dead."

"So why not come directly for us?" Matteo asks.

"Because they're playing a longer game." I feel the realization settling in my gut like lead. "They're watching us. Seeing how we react. Anderson was just the first move."

Damiano nods slowly. "That would be consistent with how the Volkovs operate. They're patient."

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