Page 32 of Vows in Violence

I exhale, a long breath laden with frustration and determination. "Scorched earth strategy, Valachi. Nikolai will be moving. I know this. I made the man. Any available safehouse is a place for him to take her. If he isn’t there, we destroy it. I won’t be checking a property twice."

Angel raises an eyebrow, his skepticism clear. "You are employing World War II tactics? You are really willing to destroy your empire to find my sister?"

I meet his gaze, unwavering. "Yes."

Silence settles between us, heavy and charged. Admitting something like this almost feels too vulnerable, like I've just handed Angel a weapon to use against me. My father would be furious if he knew. But Angel doesn't have a quip ready, no quick retort to deflect the gravity of my words. The strategist in me recognizes that it's because we both have the same goal. Angel isn’t a friend; he’s a tool.

Moving my hands to my lap, I glance at Angel’s arm and grimace. "Take care of your fucking arm. It’s revolting."

The burn on Angel’s arm is oozing a yellow liquid—a sign of healing, but it's been too long since I dealt with wounds on a living person. Most of the people I work with end up dead.

Angel laughs, breaking the tension. "I think it makes me look more formidable. It’s going to scar, and it’s a story I can tell the ladies."

My fingers flex on my knees. "Because a homeless guy is such a catch."

Angel smirks, unbothered. "You know men like us are only in the shithole temporarily. We always find a way back out."

I can't deny him this. Angel has outwitted and outmatched almost everything thrown at him.

"All right," I say, looking at the map on my phone. "I have our next spot."

"Feeling good about it?" Angel asks, starting the car.

"Just fucking drive."

Once again, I’m careful with how much information to feed Angel at once. I give him instructions piecemeal, never telling exactly where we are going. He may be injured and have the same goal as me, but that doesn’t mean I should trust him.

We arrive at the next safe house, and Angel follows along, clutching the keys. I go in first, but the place is empty. Dustcovers all the surfaces, telling me no one has been here for a very long time. We move on to the next shelter, and the next one after that, but each one is undisturbed, and each one I burn to the ground.

“You may need to get more gas. It’s looking pretty low,” Angel says as he gets into the driver’s seat.

He’s right. I’m nearly out of fuel for burning down the buildings, but I don’t answer him. I have too much on my mind to bother.

As the sun dips below the horizon, my irritation starts to mount. When I took over as the Don of the Romanov Family, I tripled my father’s number of safehouses. It was strategic, giving us more options than any other family in the city. But I didn’t anticipate how the houses could be used if one of my men went rogue.

We get out of the car at another location, a tiny apartment above a laundromat. We walk through the laundromat, the tiles in its floor cracked and dirty. Some of the machines have out-of-order signs. A few are running, their customers sitting in chairs by the window, absorbed in their phones, none of them paying us attention. Angel has his arm clutched to his chest, trying to hide the horrendous mess. His pale face and tightening features tell me his wound is starting to take its toll on him. But I have no time to nurse him.

I punch a code into a keypad on the "Staff Only" door and walk into the next room. It's mostly storage, with a few machines, boxes of parts, and cleaning supplies. There's another door with another keypad. This one opens to a set of stairs leading tothe upstairs apartment. Each step creaks, not once but twice, as Angel follows closely behind. We reach the landing, where a plant that hasn’t seen water ever has almost turned to ash; it’s that dry. I push open the door that isn’t locked. I glance at Angel, giving him a nod to be ready.

The apartment upstairs is a two-bedroom and horribly brown. Brown carpet, brown-paneled walls, and brown furniture. It smells heavily of cigarette smoke. In fact, there's a cigarette still lit in an ashtray on the coffee table, the silver smoke lazily arcing toward the ceiling.

I take out my pistol, and Angel stays back. As much as I’ve accepted the buddy cop vibe of our partnership, I still don’t trust him with a gun. I take two careful steps toward the master bedroom door, which is slightly ajar. With my pistol, I push it open.

The room is destroyed, the mess within is a clear indication that there was a fight here. Blood is splattered against the wall, some of it still running toward the carpet. A very recent kill. I haven’t stepped fully in when the half-open door slams against my hand, knocking the pistol to the floor. I jump back as the door swings open fully, and the assailant follows me into the living room in quick strides.

I spare a quick glance at his hands. Empty. I feared he picked up my pistol, but he seems to be more driven to attack me.

He's a young man, looking way too young for this line of work. He lunges at me, and I swing a punch that he dodges easily before coming up with a quick right hook that connects with fullforce against my face. I keep steady, knowing hitting the ground isn’t an option.

We fight. He has a surprising amount of training for his age. His style conflicts with my Krav Maga. This isn’t the street-fighting, weight-using technique I’m used to. He moves with speed and precision. He spins away from another one of my hits, and the light glints off the knife he has skillfully removed from somewhere on his body. His movements are so quick that I can’t keep up.

He lunges, and I feel the knife slice into my shoulder. Pain explodes, but he’s already jumped back before I can counter. Angel appears from my right and bullrushes the man. I can already see that he will be no match for our assailant.

He easily twists out of Angel’s path and swings back, grabbing his arm before digging his fingernails into Angel’s burned arm. For the first time, I hear Angel scream. After all the pain I’ve personally inflicted on him, this is the first time he’s ever screamed in pain. Angel crumples to the ground, his mouth stretching wide in a grimace.

With Angel out of action, the young man turns back to me. I see an opportunity and muster up every ounce of strength I have as he charges, kicking the coffee table and sending it hurtling toward his legs. He tries to jump above it, but the ceiling is too low. There isn’t enough clearance. I seize the opportunity and rush him, grabbing both his arms as I slam him onto the floor, the force knocking the knife from his hand.

As fast as this guy is, he’s powerless once I get a firm hold on him. My shoulder protests every time my fist rises and falls. The impact is satisfying, and I can’t seem to stop. For the second time in twenty-four hours, blood splatters on my face. I keep punching long after the assailant is dead.

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