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Alexei’s smile is charming, and his dark eyes are flat. “The past is the past, Zevran. I feel no need to hang onto petty grudges.”

My eyes narrow. Alexei only ever smiles like that when he’s dangerously, sociopathically angry.

We met in maximum security seven years ago—him serving a life sentence for a brutal double murder, me doing nineteen months for aggravated assault. My fellow vor v zakone cultivates a charming, easygoing manner, but it’s a lethal trap. I’ve watched him turn that warm, charismatic smile on enemies, lulling them into a false sense of security, and then drive a shiv through their throat before they can even blink.

That fraction of a second when a man realizes that he’s been tricked and that his life is over is the moment Alexei lives for. He’s committed more than enough murders to earn his sentence ten times over. Just not the two the state pinned on him.

I drop my wrench onto the bench with a loud clatter. “You lying bastard. What are you planning?”

Alexei continues wiping his hands, utterly unfazed by my tone. “How are the Raskolnikovs these days?”

And there it is.

The Raskolnikovs are the reason he lost two decades of his life. His ex-wife, Valeriya Raskolnikov, handed the state the fabricated evidence that put him away. When she was executed by a sniper a year later, everyone assumed Alexei pulled the strings from inside his cell. He still denies it, but God knows she gave him every reason to want her dead.

“The Raskolnikovs are doing just fine, as far as I know.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” he purrs, his voice dropping to a dark, velvety rumble.

“No, you’re fucking not. You’re planning a massacre, aren’t you?”

He considers me with those flat, terrifying eyes, speaking slowly. “I’ve been looking for someone, Zevran.”

I spread my arms. “Fucking hell, Alexei. Finding people is my specialty, as you well know. Who are you hunting?”

“Thank you, my friend, but I’ve already found her. And if I’m right…” He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as though savoring the very thought of this woman. “She’s going to be absolutely perfect.”

“Who is she?”

His eyes lock onto mine, devoid of all humanity. “A pretty little bird I found in a dark place.”

“You know, you’re pretty fucking scary sometimes. Remind me never to make an enemy of you.”

He laughs, a rich, charming sound that adds no warmth to his cold, predatory eyes. “You’re safe, Zevran. The Raskolnikovs, however…”

He picks up a steel wrench, fitting it over a brass thread on the carburetor. His grip tightens, driving the wrench past the natural stopping point. The thick brass gives way with a metallic pop, the threads shearing completely off the housing.

He doesn’t pause. He unscrews the ruined piece, drops it into the metal waste bin, and reaches for a fresh fitting.

“Wouldn’t want to be a Raskolnikov,” I mutter under my breath, turning back to my work.

Twenty minutes later, I wipe my brow and take a long sweep around the warehouse floor, observing the mechanics working in rows. A dark shape parked in the dimly lit far corner catches my attention.

It’s a matte-black Mercedes-AMG.

My heart gives a violent thud.

“Is that my fucking car?”

Alexei looks over his shoulder, a faint frown line between his brows. “It’s got out-of-state plates.”

“I changed those plates myself,” I growl, already stalking across the grease-stained concrete toward the vehicle.

The car is unlocked. I pop the trunk, shoving aside the spare tire and ripping the false floor away. There they are. A familiar set of plates tucked underneath.

I hold them up to Alexei, my blood turning to ice.

“Holy shit,” Alexei says, stepping up beside me. “I had no idea.”