Page 14 of Reign of Four

In fact—I don’t have to do this shit. It takes all of two seconds to slide my phone in my pocket and grab my gun. Billy doesn’t have the experience to know that a man like me is always armed—that, or he’s just really bad at his job.

Pressing the barrel underneath Billy’s chin is like a breath of fresh air. Shouldering him against the glass front door kicks my pulse up a notch, and all of a sudden, things are a lot more tolerable. “If you want to keep your brains inside your skull, Mr. Simmons, I suggest you start talking. What are you really guarding, because let’s be honest, it’s not this trash warehouse.”

Billy’s eyes narrow, his entire body tensing as I dig my elbow into his ribs. “Put the gun down, Mr. Monrovia. No one has to die today.”

What a stupid, cliche thing to say.

The glass suddenly shatters behind him, so loud that I almost miss the pop of a gun beneath the sound of cracking glass. A grunt passes Billy’s lips as his body jostles from the invisible bullet, then we both tumble through the doorway and onto the floor. As I push myself up off of his chest, blood bubbles past his lips and his eyes start to fade. Glass cracks under my feet as I duck behind the front counter for cover. Billy stares motionless up at the ceiling, already dead. “Fucking Christ, Andrei, get me some fucking backup!”

His voice sounds from my pocket. “I told you to take a team.”

“You know I don’t like teams!”

Footsteps thud down the hall, then a door slams open in the distance. Billy’s killer is running away.

I jump up to follow. “I’m in pursuit.”

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

“Not planning on it.”

The chase begins as I barrel through a door onto the gritty warehouse floor, and one glance at our surroundings confirms that, much like me, my target is working alone. The warehouse is fucking empty. Gutted to the studs to undergo some kind of overhaul, which has not been approved for a permit. That much, at least, I know.

The killer is still running toward the far end of dock doors, each one shuttered closed. They should have picked a better escape route, but judging by the way they run in a straight line, I doubt they’re used to running for their life.

Young, inexperienced, or downright stupid.

Sunlight filters in from the windows way up high near the ceiling, giving the room enough of a glow that I can see through the dust kicking up. Everything is in muted shades of brown and ugly as fuck.

It’s a terrible place to die.

As the assailant tries the back door and finds it locked, I slow to a jog to witness their panic. The way they breathe hard through their mouth, jerking their arms around as they try to open not just the regular door but also the closest dock door by hand, failing to notice the pin that keeps it in place. It rattles but doesn’t open.

I hold my gun at the ready as I pick my way across dusty debris, careful with where I step. “If you surrender now, I’ll make it quick.”

Not that they deserve it after killing their own hired help.

I push thoughts of Billy from my mind. I hope he didn’t have any kids, after all.

My gun’s already raised when they remember theirs, twitching for it. It’s a tiny silver thing, shoved into their front pocket. Good aim is what took Billy down, not firepower.

“He didn’t have to die, you know. I wasn’t going to kill him.” I step closer, taking in the baggy cargo pants, the ratty black shirt, the unkempt hair, and Jesus, the terror in his dark eyes. I’m not facing a Bratva man with a kill record—he’s just a kid. Lanky and underfed, from the looks of it.

Billy may have been his first.

His breaths are shallow and fast, like a cornered rabbit, as we stare each other down.

I take a deep breath. “Easy. I don’t want to hurt you. I just need to know what you’re doing here and who you’re working for.”

This building used to be under our jurisdiction two weeks ago, but when my people somehow misplaced our contracts for multiple properties across the city, shit went sideways, and we still haven’t recovered. I fired those responsible, but now I’m thinking I was too hasty. Maybe they were paid to sabotage.

Maybe the Madame had gotten to them, too. I think back to all those people at the wedding chapel a few days ago—all those traitors breathing our air and drinking our champagne, laughing and making fools of Ezra, Andrei, and me. Thinking they’re going to win. Thinking they’re going to take her from us, take our Bratva, take our city.

No one can take this city from the people who live and breathe it every day. I was born in Harlin Heights, as was Andrei, and we’ll fight for it tooth and nail.

An outsider won’t win, especially not someone using children to fight their battles. It reeks of desperation and poor planning, which means that whoever is orchestrating this—Katya, I suspect—doesn’t have the resources we think they do.

I stop my advance, frowning at the kid. If he pulls any shit, I’ll shoot him in the leg, but I won’t kill him. He was probably trying to survive on the streets when he got tangled in Bratva business. Someone must have snatched him up.

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