Page 8 of Heritage of Fire

The wind catches my suit jacket and it blows back, revealing my weapons. I swivel my head as I button up, making sure we haven’t been spotted. Igor is ahead of me, meticulously scanning the cracked brick and trash-lined walls.

There’s a lone door at the end of the alley. We approach with caution, and I notice that there’s a biometric scanner and key card access, similar to what we use at our weapons warehouses. Two recognizable letters have been etched into the door, the grooves deep and perfect. And their addition wasn’t a last-minute decision. This door was specifically crafted to include the outline of a square, with the letters EV dead center.

I pull out my phone and do a quick search for bars, clubs, or other facilities with the initials EV. Even with a fifty-mile radius selected, nothing gets a hit. Igor snaps a photo of the door and we both look at each other, neither of us saying a word but conveying our concern all the same.

The Bratva makes it their business to be familiar with the private, often shady clubs in the city—hell, most of our arms sales go down in these locations. This stop for Senator Hope has never been identified.

An elbow connects with mine and Igor flicks his head up to the corner of the door frame. Two micro cameras are pointed straight down at us, red lights on. Since they’re already aware we’re here, I figure—what the hell—and knock, three loud pounds of my fist on the steel door. We wait; nothing happens.

With Igor’s gun drawn, I raise my fist to knock another time, but the door glides open. A bulky man dressed in all black growls down at us, his hand going to his ear. Nope. An earpiece.

“Password,” he grits out.

The man shifts, only half a step, but I catch a glimpse of what’s beyond him. Dark lights, giving off a red hue, and velvety, intricately draped fabrics, cast shadows in the dim lighting. Sensual music sounds, low and quiet. Glasses clink, and hushed whispers filter out.

“We’re looking for our friend, Senator Hope. You’ve seen him?”

It’s the best I’ve got at the moment. I don’t know the password, and I’m not going to announce who I am, though I’m sure many here would know my face. Apparently, I’m not convincing, because the man scowls and slams the door.

Yeah, I wouldn’t buy my friendship with Senator Hope, either.

We head back to my car. Once inside, I send a message to Luka—a photo of the door along with a recount of what happened. Then I press the vehicle’s start button and sit back, pondering the dark alleyway and mysterious EV.

The files removed from Antonio’s office after his death flash in the back of my mind—the cufflinks. My chest tightens, and my grip on the wheel slips as the meaning behind the perplexing initials becomes clearer.

Each push-up I do is supposed to relieve tension, break down worry, and replace it with calm—it’s not working. Sweat dripping from my face makes my hands slip on my warehouse apartment concrete floor, and I smack into the hard surface.

Shit. I’m a mess.

Luka stopped by yesterday to show me the contract Salvatore Buscetta sent over regarding the arranged marriage. It was your standard agreement, both parties consenting—although it feels like the opposite.

There were other details concerning the wedding and the future of the marriage sprinkled in as well. However, the contract said nothing about consummating the marriage or whether the bride is a virgin. I don’t care either way, but often those specifics are addressed. Maybe Salvatore isn’t as archaic as he seems.

I snort and push up off the slick floor, then pad into the kitchen—newly renovated with sleek gray cabinets, as well as light-granite countertops that extend to the island. Design compliments to Kate.

This apartment was a project. One I enjoyed working on. It has an urban-industrial vibe, with several concrete pillars spread throughout. The whole place is an open concept studio, because—well, it’s a bachelor pad. I wasnotexpecting to have a woman here,ever.

The heart of the apartment has a sprawling living area where I spend most of my downtime. A plush sofa sits across from two leather armchairs, with a wooden coffee table between both seating options. All of the windows—except for the ones in theliving room, which look down into the warehouse—are framed by iron and give me a sick view of the surrounding woods.

After retrieving my blender, I gather ingredients from the freezer and my supplement drawer—frozen fruit, along with a couple scoops of protein powder. Vegetables aren’t usually my favorite, but I grab some fresh spinach. Before closing the refrigerator, I scan the shelves—there isn’t much here.

That’ll change soon. The woman I’m marrying—damn, I did it again.Lunawill likely fill the fridge with all her favorites.

I squeeze my eyes shut and slam the door. With a grumble, I dump my ingredients into the blender and switch it on, tensing as the sound amplifies my thoughts of her.What does she look like? Will she try to make this a real marriage? Will she replace my food with chick shit?

I shake my head, determined to knock the irritation away. She’ll have to deal. I’mnotbending to make her comfortable.

Buzzing on the counter rips me from my thoughts, and I reach for my phone at the same time I snag the top off my blender. The device slips from my hand, the word Boss flashing across the screen, as it takes a dip into my smoothie.

Damn it.

I scramble to rake it out, surprised it’s still ringing, and slide to answer.

“Yes, Boss,” I huff out.

“Nikolai, where are you? You sound like you’re underwater,” Luka barks out on the other end.

“Just making a smoothie,” I say, cold mango and spinach seeping into my ear and running down my face because, of course, I didn’t think to answer on speakerphone.

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