Page 26 of Crimson Curse
Lex comes up beside me, his shirt streaked with ash. “Surveillance feed is still running off the backup system. I pulled it before the fire reached the servers.”
I nod once. “Show me.”
We step into what remains of the security office. Half the monitors are dark, their screens spiderwebbed with cracks, but one still flickers with grainy black-and-white footage.
The feed shows the loading dock at 2:14 AM. A delivery truck pulls in. There is nothing unusual until the rear doors swing open and four masked men spill out. They move with singular focus, each carrying a black case. No wasted motion or hesitation.
“Charges,” Lex murmurs quietly. “Shaped, directional. Same signature as the Dunkirk port hit last year.”
Lucien.
The men in the video work fast, planting the devices along the main support beams, then retreating in the exact order they entered. The first explosion detonates precisely eighty seconds later. The screen flares white, then goes black. This wasn't just sabotage. It was a message.
I step back out into the open air, where the smoke curls higher against the night. My men glance up as I pass, but they don'tstop working. I kneel beside one of the collapsed steel beams, gripping it with both hands, and heave. The muscles in my shoulders burn, my palms scrape against the twisted metal, but I keep going until the debris yields enough for Timur and Maksim to drag out the crushed remains of a cargo crate.
Inside is nothing but splintered wood and scorched packing material. But wedged in the corner, blackened and warped, is a plaque. I pick it up, the edges still hot enough to sting. The engraved letters are almost gone, but I know them by heart: Obsidian Vault International.
Lucien didn't just want to cripple my operations. He wanted me to see this. To understand that he can reach into the core of my empire, twist it in his hands, and throw it back at me in pieces. I close my fist around the fragment until my knuckles whiten.
“Pakhan?” Lex probes.
“He thinks this will make me hesitate,” I declare. “It won't.”
The night stretches on with the sound of generators and shouted orders, of beams being cut apart, and rubble being moved piece by piece. I don't leave. I dig until my shoulders ache, and my lungs burn from the smoke. Because if my men can stay here until the dead are recovered and the wounded moved, then so will I. And when the last ember dies, when the last body is taken away, I will decide how to answer Lucien Antonov. And I will make sure it's something he doesn't survive.
We're back at the estate before the sun comes up. The convoy rolls past the iron gates, the engines ticking as they cool, and my men getting out slowly, like every step pains them. Smoke clings to my clothes, and it'll be days before it lets go.
I don't send anyone to shower. I don't dismiss them. I take them straight to my office. Lex stands to my right, his jaw locked. Timur is all stone and bad weather. Roman keeps to the edge, his eyes on the doors and windows as if a scope sits between him and the world by default. Maksim paces until I look at him once sharply, then he stops.
No one utters a word. They're waiting for me to begin. I place the burned fragment of the plaque on the table. Lucien's calling card. It makes a clinking sound when it lands.
“Final count,” I demand.
“Two confirmed dead. Sergei and Anton.” Lex answers. “Four wounded. Three stable. One critical.” He pauses, dragging his hand down his face.
I nod once. The gesture tastes like failure.
“I sent the families your words and what’s owed,” Lex adds.
I nod. Compensation packages will be delivered to the families within the hour. Money can't bring back the dead, but it can ensure their families don't suffer twice.
Sergei had three children. Twin boys, barely eight years old, and a daughter who just turned five. Anton was unmarried but sent half his earnings back to his mother in Perm. Good men. Loyal. They trusted me to keep them alive.
The silence is filled with unspoken rage and grief. These walls have witnessed countless meetings and decisions that determined who lived and who died. But never like this.
“The wounded?” I ask.
“Pavel took shrapnel to the leg. Doctors expect full recovery. Dmitri has burns on his arms and chest, second-degree. He'll be out for weeks. Igor suffered a concussion and some internal bleeding.” Lex's jaw tightens. “Yuki is the critical one. Collapsed lung, and internal injuries. Touch and go.”
Each name hits like another strike to the ribs. These aren't just statistics or casualties of war. They're men who've shared vodka at my table, who've stood guard during family gatherings, and who've bled for the Zorin name because they believed in something larger than themselves.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under the strain of my body. The fragment of the plaque sits before me. Lucien's message is clear. He can strike anywhere, anytime. But messages run both ways.
“Double security on all remaining facilities,” I order. “I want armed patrols, surveillance upgrades, and random inspections. Anyone who isn't one of ours doesn't get within a hundred yards.”
“Da,” Lex confirms. “Nikolai is coordinating with our contacts in the police department. Any unusual activity gets reported directly to us.”
“What about the cargo?”
