Page 122 of Santa Daddy
That’s when I saw it.
Nailed to the largest pine at the boundary line was a round piece of wood. Old, dark, rough. About the size of a dinner plate. Carved into it were symbols I didn’t recognize, but someone had drawn over them recently in red.
The lines were still wet enough to glisten.
I shivered.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Bratva sigil,” Konstantin said.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
“It marks territory,” he added. “Or sends message.”
“What kind of message?” I asked, even though my stomach already knew.
We know where you are.
“‘Run if you want,’” he said. “Rough translation.”
“How long do we have?” I asked.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, fingers already moving, eyes flicking from the sigil to the far tree line to whatever information Alexei was feeding him.
“Not long enough,” he said.
It never was.
That was the story of us—stolen breaths between bullets.
25
BRANDED FOR DEATH
KONSTANTIN
The Bratva sigil was cold against my palm as I tore it off the pine.
The old wood splintered under my grip. Fresh blood-red paint smeared across my fingers, tacky and wet.
A message and a deadline, nailed to a tree.
“What does it mean?” Dani asked.
Her voice was steady, but I heard the tremor underneath. She stood a few feet away, arms crossed, chin tipped up like she could stare down fate if it had the decency to show its face.
I held the disc up so she could see the carved symbols. Old. Ugly. Familiar.
“It means we’re marked for death,” I said.
“And they’re not hiding it.”
I walked to the rusted fire pit beside the cabin and dropped the sigil in. Poured lighter fluid over it until the wood gleamed. Oneflick of the match and flames leapt up, eager and orange, licking at the edges of the symbol.
“It’s not safe to leave,” I said, watching the wood blacken and curl. “They could have the roads watched. Checkpoints. Spotters. And our phones are dead.”
