ANDRONIKOS

I ran my fingers over Adira’s back, her head resting in the crook of my arm. She traced slow circles on my skin, a comfortable silence settling between us.

“How long do you think it’ll take them to find me?”

My fingers froze.

“I mean, I’m just stating the obvious. They managed to hurt you, so it isn’t far-fetched that they’ll get me soon. At this point, I just think they’re stalling.”

Her words, though grim, carried a biting edge of truth. But I didn’t need her worrying about that.

“Look at me, flogítsa mou,” I said, gently gripping her chin. She reluctantly lifted her gaze to mine, and in her eyes, I saw clearly the fear she’d obviously been trying to hide from me. My little flame was scared.

“As long as I’m here, Adira, I promise, no one is going to get to you or your family. I’m the only one with permission to do that. Understand?”

She nodded, her full lips forming a sad pout. Unable to resist, I kissed her.

One thing led to another, and soon, I was inside her again, making slow, passionate love to her body.

Wait, love?

Deciding not to dwell on that thought, I finished inside her and pulled her close, allowing myself a moment to wonder what it would be like to hold her in my arms like this every day, before sleep finally claimed me.

********************************************

I woke up before Adira, her silhouette under the sheets tempting me to crawl back in. But I had business to attend to.

Before leaving, I left a note behind so she wouldn’t think I had abandoned her. In the kitchen, I met Kace brewing coffee.

“Take care of her,” I said.

“I will, boss,” he nodded solemnly.

Iason was already waiting for me in the car, his hostility palpable. He found a lead yesterday, and today, we were putting an end to this endless game of cat and mouse.

Thirty minutes later, we arrived at Greenwood cemetery. The place was eerily silent—like most graveyards—but today, this place would determine whether we were a step closer to uncovering our enemy or stuck in the same position.

We moved with purpose, our eyes scanning the area. The graves stood like silent sentinels, and for a fleeting moment I admired their power—how one could reign supreme, only for death to cripple them in an instant.

According to Iason’s intel, Luciano was meeting someone today. If all went well, we’d have both Luciano and his contact in one piece before dissecting them for info later today.

This time, we came prepared. An army of my best men stood just outside the gates, hidden in strategic positions, ready to blow the heads off anyone who tried something stupid. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

“There,” Iason muttered, nodding towards a shadowed area near a mausoleum. Facing each other, two figures stood, their body language tense. I recognized one of them instantly—Luciano. But the other man—

“Is it just me, or does the other person look Russian?” Iason whispered, narrowing his eyes.

My stomach twisted at the realization. The Bratva had no love for the Italians—hell, they hated them as much as we did. So why the fuck was a Russian meeting with that slimy bastard.

We watched in silence as the two men exchanged words, their voices too low to hear. After a moment, Luciano handed the Russian a black case. He examined it briefly before a slow, wicked smile spread across his face.

In a single, fluid motion, he pulled out a gun out and put a bullet straight through Luciano’s skull.

Luciano’s body crumpled to the ground, blood trickling from the hole in his head. I didn’t have time to revel in his death because, in the next second, gunfire erupted from both sides.

Iason and I dove behind a nearby gravestone as a bullet whizzed past my ear, almost hitting me. The once silent cemetery was now filled with chaos. Through the dim light filtering through the gray skies, muzzle flashes illuminated the carnage.

Luciano’s men, enraged by their boss’s murder, scattered and fired wildly at the Bratva. A few managed to return fire, but they were outgunned. One by one, they fell like dead flies.

Speaking into the hidden device in my shirt, I gave the signal for my men to move in. The Bratva moved like ghosts—fast, efficient, ruthless. Grabbing the hair of a struggling Italian, one of them shoved a gun under his chin before releasing the trigger, sending brain matter spraying onto the tombstone behind him.

“Fuck me,” Iason growled, drawing his pistol. He aimed and fired; one of the Russians dropped. I joined my second-in-command, striking another in the arm. I aimed to finish the job but was interrupted by open fire from another Russian, forcing us back into cover.

Suddenly, an explosive sound tore through the air. 

Was that a grenade?

A cluster of Luciano’s men barely had time to react before they were sent flying, debris scattering everywhere. The air was covered with smoke and dust, reducing visibility.

“Move!” I barked, yanking Iason back just as a bullet chipped the marble gravestone we were using as cover.

Where the hell were my men? I thought angrily as I fired another shot. Suddenly, a Russian charged toward me, his hand a blur of steel.

He lunged, but I intercepted his attack, grabbing his wrist and twisting it till the blade clattered to the floor. Driving a swift knee into his gut, I grabbed his head between my hands and slammed it against a tombstone. His skull shattered on impact, and he collapsed, unmoving.

Good fucking riddance.

Iason, however, was locked in hand-to-hand combat with another Russian. A punch to the jaw wasn’t enough to destabilize Iason—he immediately retaliated with a brutal elbow strike before firing a bullet into the man’s chest. The Russian fell, blood pooling around his body.

The shootout had begun to die down. The bodies of Luciano and his men littered the floor and the Russians? Well, they were nowhere to be seen, having disappeared into the shadows like ghosts.

“Fuck,” Iason muttered from somewhere up front as he knelt in front of a dead man. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“What is it, Iason?” I asked, approaching him.

When I saw the lifeless body, all the blood drained from my face.

Engraved into his skin, still bleeding, were the words: ‘Tick-tock. Your little flame may soon join the hell hounds.’

Written in Russian.

God, no. Adira!

“Iason,” I bellowed, my heart pounding, hot blood roaring in my ears. “Call Kace and make sure Adira doesn’t leave the house. We move. NOW!”