Page 13 of Crimson Curse
The wild rage that threatened to consume me moments ago crystallizes into pure, controlled malice. This is how I built my empire, not with blind fury, but with violence applied precisely where it would do the most damage.
“Where?”
Maksim rattles off the address, his voice steady despite the excitement dancing in his eyes. He lives for moments like this and the promise of violence. Lex already has his phone out, his fingers flying across the screen as he maps the route, calculates logistics, and estimates response times for local law enforcement.
Roman appears in the doorway next, moving silently despite his wounded shoulder. The bandage beneath his shirt creates a slight bulge, but his rifle hangs steady in his grip. “What's the play?”
I straighten, my lips flattening into a tight line. “The play is we end this. Tonight.”
Lex tilts his head, studying my face with those analytical eyes that miss nothing. “You're certain it's her?”
“I don't need certainty. I need action,” I growl.
He doesn't argue. He never does when the decision has been made, and the only thing left is execution. Instead, he starts listing supplies, his voice steady. “Three vehicles. Suppressed weapons only to keep the neighbors quiet. Thermal goggles, in case the property's blacked out. Roman takes high ground for overwatch and cover fire. Maksim with me at the breach point. You lead the entry.”
The plan forms in my mind as he speaks, each piece falling into place. I've done this dance before, many times. The difference is that this time it's personal. It's not about territory, respect, or business, it's about the woman who somehow managed to slip past every wall I've built around myself.
“I’ll sweep the perimeter, and cut off exits,” Lex states.
“No one escapes to report back to Viktor or Lucien. This ends here, tonight, with no loose ends,” I grind out.
He nods once. “Understood.”
I turn to Maksim, whose grin has turned savage. The prospect of violence always brings out the worst in him, or the best, depending on your perspective. “You wanted fireworks. You'll get them. But this time, keep your head clear. No reckless shit that puts the mission at risk. We need her alive and unharmed.”
He presses a fist to his chest in the old gesture of loyalty, the one our fathers taught us when we were boys. “Da, Pakhan. You have my word.”
Roman meets my eyes briefly, a silent communication passing between us. He knows what I'm thinking before I voice it. “And Viktor?”
“If he's there, he doesn't leave breathing.”
The night air nips at my skin as we pull out of the estate. My SUV leads the convoy, armored glass and reinforced doors hiding an arsenal that could level a city block. Lex and Roman follow behind in a black van loaded with enough firepower to supply a small army. Maksim rides shotgun beside me, his energy crackling like electricity in the confined space.
The Illinois countryside rolls past in waves of darkness broken only by the occasional farmhouse light. Most honest people are asleep at this hour, safe in their beds, unaware that monsters like us prowl the roads between their peaceful towns. The road stretches empty ahead of us, asphalt gleaming silver under the moon.
Maksim drums his fingers on the dashboard, restless energy radiating off him like heat from a fire. He never could sit still before a fight. “You think Viktor's inside?”
“He's a rat,” I reply coldly, hands steady on the wheel despite the violence churning in my chest. “Rats run when they hear the trap closing. If he is there, he'll bolt the moment he realizes we've found him.”
“And Naomi?” His grin fades. “What if she's… hurt?”
I've been trying not to think about what Viktor might have done to her in the name of revenge. I clutch the wheel hard enough to make the leather groan.
“She's alive.” The words are absolute. I refuse to consider anything else. I can't. The moment I allow doubt to creep in or start imagining the worst, I'll lose the cold focus that keeps me dangerous.
We drive in silence after that, every mile bringing me closer to her. The headlights cut through darkness like twin blades, illuminating the road ahead while leaving everything else in shadow.
When we finally roll into the quiet Illinois suburb, the difference is almost obscene. White picket fences stand like sentries guarding manicured lawns. Sprinkler systems whisper across grass trimmed within an inch of perfection. A wind chime tinkles from a front porch as if the world isn't rotting beneath its surface.
This is where Americans hide from reality. Behind mortgage payments and homeowner’s associations. Behind the illusion that evil can't touch them if they just follow the rules and pay their taxes, pretending that men like me don't exist.
The house waits at the end of the cul-de-sac. Two stories of suburban anonymity. Beige siding that blends into every other house on the block. Garage door shut tight, hiding whatever vehicles brought death to this peaceful neighborhood. Lights glow faintly behind drawn curtains, suggesting occupancy without revealing details. It’s ordinary and forgettable. The perfect place to hide something precious, or someone.
I key the radio, my voice just above a whisper. “Roman?”
His response is immediate. “Two men at the back entrance. Armed, alert, but not expecting trouble. Thermal shows at least four more inside the structure. One on the upper floor, probably a lookout. One pacing ground level. Two in the basement level.”
My heart stops. Then restarts with the force of a sledgehammer. “And Naomi?”
