Page 130 of Legacy
She doesn’t ask where I’m going.
And I don’t tell her.
I just grab my gun, my coat, and leave—quietly, like the man who once lived in this house doesn’t anymore.
***
The warehouse sits dead quiet under the haze of midnight fog.
Too quiet.
I’m crouched behind a crate, gun steady in my hand, eyes locked on the shadows slipping toward the delivery dock. Four of them. Armenians. No sign of hesitation in their steps. No fear.
They should’ve brought more men.
Beside me, Maksim holds his gun like he’s bored. Vaska, his right hand stands behind him, silent, eyes sharp, waiting. His presence is almost spectral—coiled danger in a leather jacket. His long fingers flex and shift around the blade he’s known for. That man’s hands were made for cutting.
Pietro, a bratva grunt, lingers near the back, light blond hair tied in a tight top knot, his frame deceptively relaxed, but his eyes anxious.Vasilisa’s former guard.I didn’t know he was back in town. He nods at me like we saw each other yesterday.
He’s been gone for months.
The Armenians approach the truck.
That’s all I need.
I give the signal.
I move first. Silent. Precise.
One shot—center mass.
I hit the second, headshot as he turns. Third grabs for a weapon—too slow.
The fourth runs. My bullet tears through his thigh, dropping him like a sack of meat. He screams, crawling.
“Leave him,” I mutter to Gio who steps forward, voice clipped. “He’s Maksim’s.”
“Spasibo,” Maksim says coolly as he saunters toward him, Vaska already shadowing his movements.
“Vaska, bag him,” Maksim orders.
Vaska doesn’t speak. He crouches low, grabs the man with brutal ease, zip ties and a black hood already in hand.
I barely glance at them.
I walk straight to the back of the truck.
Pietro is already there, crowbar in hand. He pries it open, grunting under his breath.
What’s inside still manages to punch the air from my lungs.
Not weapons.
Drugs.
And not just drugs.
Girls.
