Chapter 150

Sofia. There was no calm before the storm. No quiet anticipation. No room for hesitation. By the time we left Petrov’s lifeless body cooling in a puddle of his own blood, the only thing left was the pulse of war thudding through my veins. One more. Vladimir Mikhailov. I could already see his name carved into his gravestone, already hear his screams before we sent him to rot in the ground. The ride back to the safehouse was silent, thick with something heavy, something sharp. Luca drove again, his grip tight on the wheel, knuckles white. Nadei sat beside him, eyes fixed on the road ahead, his body coiled in quiet tension. Renzo was wiping his blade clean, slow and methodical, like he was already picturing the next throat he’d slit. Nikolai sat beside me, his arm slung lazily over my shoulder, his fingers trailing idly along my collarbone—a contrast to the bloodlust still simmering in his gaze. We weren’t done. Not yet. Mikhailov was the last one left. And when I found him, I wouldn’t ju