Page 189 of Porcelain Lies

There’s a beat of silence, then Sasha exhales sharply. “Fuck. We should have dealt with him by now.”

“Da.We should have.” I resist the urge to tear him a new asshole for not finishing the job yet. “This might be your chance to make it right. Now head in the game. We’re not leaving anything to fate this time.”

“Got it,” Sasha says, his tone shifting to one of grim determination. “Meet you outside.”

The line goes dead, and I clench the phone in my fist, already calculating our next move as I sprint to the gun room and get myself tooled up. Flack jacket, assault rifle, blades, and an extra handgun join my regular piece as I make my way back to my car. By the time I get outside, Sasha is there with the engine running.

I give a curt nod as I climb into the passenger seat beside him. I’m not in the mood for small talk, so we race through the city in silence as we follow the GPS coordinates Vasya sent me. I feel each mile as if I’m being dragged face-first along the asphalt.

By the time the car screeches to a halt in the warehouse district, the air thick with the stench of oil and decay, I’m ready to wage war. Sasha and I leap out, Kalashnikovs slung over our shoulders, and race across a parking area where a black SUV is parked in front of a derelict warehouse.

Khoroshiy.This has to be it.

Sasha flanks me, his movements swift and silent, a shadow in the dim light. The air is thick with tension, every breath sharp and deliberate. Adrenaline spikes in my veins, but I force myself to stay focused, to push aside the fear clawing at the edges of my mind. Stella’s in there. And if Maranzano has hurt her—

Not now, mudak.

Stay sharp.

We’ll use the element of surprise to our advantage. Maranzano has no idea we were able to track Stella and we’re going to keep it that way for as long as possible.

I gesture toward the side entrance of the warehouse, and Sasha positions himself beside me, his expression hard, eyes scanning the area for threats. The door is slightly ajar, and I can hear muffled voices inside. My grip tightens on my rifle as I edge closer, listening.

The place reeks of motor oil, sweat, and cheap cigarettes. Sasha clears the door silently, moving like a ghost, while I follow close behind. We’re barely inside when I spot them — four menmethodically checking their weapons in the dim light. Two more stand guard near a rusty staircase leading to a second level.

The glint of metal catches my eye. AR-15s, Glocks, tactical knives. These aren’t street thugs — they’re hired professionals.

A floorboard creaks beneath my boot. A head snaps up, eyes widening.

“Suka!”I mutter.

“We got company!” someone shouts, voice echoing through the cavernous space.

I drop to one knee as bullets rip through the air above me. The Kalashnikov kicks against my shoulder as I return fire, dropping the first man with two center-of-mass hits. The satisfying thud of his body hitting concrete barely registers as I pivot toward my next target.

Blyad.

So much for sneaking in unnoticed.

Gunfire continues to crackle in the air. Sasha engages the two by the stairs while I roll behind a stack of oil drums, hot lead pinging off metal inches from my head. The smell of gunpowder fills my nostrils, sharp and familiar.

A shadow moves to my right. I whip around and fire, catching a bearded man in the shoulder. He staggers but doesn’t fall. I leap forward, driving my knife deep into his throat before he can recover. Hot blood spurts across my hand as I twist the blade. His eyes bulge, then go vacant.

“Poshel na khuy,” I growl, pushing the corpse aside.

Two more emerge from behind a forklift. One fires wildly, forcing me back into cover. I empty my magazine in theirdirection, buying time to switch to my handgun. When the first man reloads, I surge forward.

The pistol barks twice in my hand. The first round takes him in the chest. The second punches through his eye socket, spraying brain matter across the concrete.

His partner lunges at me with a tactical knife, slashing wildly. Lousy. I catch his wrist mid-swing, twisting until bones crack. Before he can scream, my forehead smashes into his nose. He staggers back, dazed and bleeding. I finish him with a brutal hook kick to the temple that snaps his neck.

“Clear!” Sasha calls from across the warehouse.

I stand amid the carnage, chest heaving, scanning for more threats. Six bodies litter the floor. A couple more by the staircase. Blood pools beneath my boots.

Too fucking easy.

Where’s Gianni?

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