Page 143 of Devotion

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“What are we looking for?”Fyodor marches along, barely limping. How he is on his feet is beyond me. The man is machine.

“A car that shouldn’t be here, a man in a black mask. He will likely not wear it though, to blend in.”

“Great. So needle in haystack.”

“Yep. Can’t you use your thermal vision to just locate the…um, you know,bomb,” Ciro mouths the last word, eyeing passing guests as we rush into the building.

“What the fuck is he talking about?” Fyodor growls, watching the crowd.

“How was it working with JCVD?”

“Who?”

“Jean-Claude!”

“This is another Dolph Lundgren reference.”

“A…Universalreference.”

“I hope bomb only kills you.”

“I hope your barber goes to hell for his crimes.”

Somehow, I do not even roll my eyes. This is just the way they are. The way Ciro is. We are running headlong into danger, so he must focus the way he does best. By pissing off Fyodor. It works in both ways. Fyodor is even more ruthless and precise when he is mad.

“You do not have a photo?” Fyo grimaces, scanning along the balcony level over the main gathering. “My men do not know what to look for.”

“He has hair as black as your soul, eyes to match. Maybe recently dyed. Could be wearing contacts.”

“Fucking useless.”

“Either of us will know him when we see him.” Ciro is becoming frustrated. Tapping his foot. We need a clue.

“He has a scar on his neck, here, in this shape,” I point, drawing the icon on the back of Fyo’s hand.

“At least one of you knows how to gather intel.”

“I’ll gather your ass up off the floor after I kick it.”

We roam, drifting apart a bit in our search. Yet in a crowd this size, it’s no use. The majority of the Bratva and their guests are oblivious. Enjoying drinks, chatting. Everyone mingles, trying to work their way toward where I know Pyotr is posted up.

He is the center of all attention tonight.

Surrounded by guards.

But those guards will not matter if the building gets blown sky high.

I am debating heading down into the garages to begin a search when a commotion near the entrance draws my attention. More guests.

However, the crowd is agitated.

Pointing.

Ciro catches my eye from across the ballroom, shaking his head in question. I meet his eyes before looking back at the doors. Right at Adil Abas and a contingent of soldiers. And right over his shoulder, jet black eyes.

Ero’s lips twitch in a hint of a smile.

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