Page 121 of Unveiled

I nod. “It’s time.”

She pulls out her phone and sends a message. I’ve got a discreet screen mirroring app on mine, so no one knows I’m watching.

Anya to Ophelia

The big guns are coming in for a huge treaty. It’s today. Be ready.

A full hour passes before the door swings open, and Cillian O’Rourke strides in with six of his men. He’s cocky, bold, like he already knows how this will play out.

I feign surprise. “O’Rourke. Nice to see you.”

He cocks his head and gives me a grin, baring a gold tooth. Cocky prick. “Speak o’ the devil. You were always shite at lyin’, Kopolov.”

I shrug. He’s not wrong. I never saw the purpose.

I move in front of Anya to protect her. She’s wearing a bulletproof vest, but it makes me feel better knowing how easily I could strike and slit his throat.

Cillian smirks at me and places an order. To Anya’s credit, her hands are steady while she fills his teacup, and I place a cinnamon roll on a plate. “On the house,” I tell him with a nod. O’Rourke hesitates.

“Are you turning down my wife’s sweets, O’Rourke?” I shake my head. “I remember. Your mother used to bake those Irish apple tarts, didn’t she? Shame if you never got to taste them again.”

He takes the plate with a scowl as the bell over the entryway jingles, andtheywalk in. Not foreign arms dealers or the force of power-hungry Bratva factions from across the world.

My family.

Dressed sharp. Silent. In disguise. They take their seats, the atmosphere shifting. I walk to the entryway, slide the lock into place, and, just for dramatic effect, turn theOpensign around to sayClosed.

The Irish realize they’re surrounded a second too late.

Cillian twitches, reaching for his weapon.Fucking amateur.

I move first.

My gun is pointed at him before he takes another breath. The shot cracks through the air, hitting his knee. Bullseye. He drops to the floor, screaming.

The fight is fast. Efficient. I promised Anya it would be, that we wouldn’t mar the pretty new floor in the bakery or spill blood on the new tile.

Rafail sheds his coat, rolling his shoulders like he’s warming up for a workout, then grabs a chair and smashes it across an Irish bastard’s face. The sound of splintering wood barely registers before Matvei moves, muscle and steel, as he takes two down swiftly before they have a chance to react.

Yana and Zoya turn what could’ve been an ambush into immediate submission. A wrist is snapped, a jaw shattered, and Zoya’s blade pressed into the vulnerable flesh beneath an eye. The Irish kneel before us, disarmed and bleeding. Cillian O’Rourke’s cocky smirk has vanished.

No more blood. No one dies. We planned it this way: a show of power that leads to negotiation, not flat-out war.

When it’s over, the Irish are on their knees. Cillian stares at Anya. “You set us up, you little?—”

“Disrespect my wife, and you’ll lose that tongue,” I warn. I reach for a butcher knife and wield it. Ready. “Hard to eat pussy without a tongue, O’Rourke, mmm?”

He clamps his mouth shut. I don’t bluff.

“This isn’t a pissing contest, boys.” I shake my head. “Now,” I say in a conversational tone. “We talk.Keenan McCarthy won’t be too happy your work was so sloppy, will he?”

Their patriarch is well known for his ruthlessness and fastidious methods.

“You were the ones who came into Moscow. You blackmailed my wife and tried to take what wasn’t yours.” I shake my head. “We do this my way, or not one of you leaves here alive.”

Silence.

Then the sound of slow, deliberate clapping.

---