Page 113 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

That’s all good and well. She doesn’t need to know what happens next.

Within twenty minutes, Stepan collects me and leads me into the den. He hands me a set of dry clothes and then bustles into the kitchen. A pot whistles on the stove.

Kostya and three men are seated on the couches facing each other. I stand near the table that sits between the couches and stare at the clothes in my hands. I set them aside.

“Boys, the game has changed.” I scratch my chin and then straighten my posture, keeping my expression calm. “Sharp just tried to squeeze us the hard way. And that means Felix isn’t too far behind.”

Kostya hangs his head. Defeat hangs in the air, a pungent odor mixed with anxiety and sweat that makes me feel ill.

But it won’t stop me.

I refuse to let it stop me.

“We need to step up our violence,” I say. “It needs to be targeted.”

Kostya lifts his head enough to ask, “At Cardona?”

“Precisely. We need to disrupt him and his men from reacting. Strike before they strike.”

Gennadiy and the other two men flanking him bow their heads respectfully. Kostya follows suit. They’re committed right to the end.

But this isn’t the end.

It’s just the beginning.

I run my fingers through my damp hair. This new plan must be bold, strong, vigorous. No loose ends. No stones unturned.

My eyes brighten with the idea as I say, “Kostya—bring me Sharp.”

Just as Kostya’s head snaps up, Stepan walks into the room, ceremoniously setting the tray of tea on the table. He gestures for the men to serve themselves.

Once they’re occupied, Stepan turns to me. “We need to speak alone, Pavel Sergeyevich.”

I nod.

The kitchen feels bigger than the den, though that’s likely due to the lack of people occupying the room. The clink of teacups and low chatter carries through the open doorway.

Stepan pitches his voice low, saying, “I’m worried that grabbing Sharp might make too much noise.”

“Are you questioning my orders?”

“No, Pavel Sergeyevich. I merely wish to express my concerns.”

Irritation nestles in my chest as I glance toward the doorway. When I focus on Stepan, I say, “You don’t need to be concerned.”

“Good soldiers are always concerned.” He bows his head. “Respectfully, Pavel Sergeyevich.”

I step back, putting some space between us. Behind me is the kitchen table. I sink into a chair and gesture for him to join me.

I motion for him to proceed with his concerns.

“When I was in Chechnya,” he recounts in a low voice. “My unit got trapped in a building that came under attack. We spent three days in an endless cycle of attacks and counterattacks. Each hit came in faster than we expected. There was no time to eat. To sleep.”

His face is a hardened mask, but I can see the dim memory of fear in his eyes. “We didn’t have time to shit. Eventually, we were overrun.”

“How did you get away?”

“I grabbed three men and slipped out after our commander—a stupid fool who thought that his diploma from the Frunze military academy could save him—got shot.”

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