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“And we crossed them.”

“Oh, you crossed them all right,” Malik said with a humorless laugh. “Word is the guys you knocked around were collecting street tax. You humiliated them. The nephew is pissed.”

“Good,” I said.

“It won’t stay good. Since you killed some of their men, they’ve been asking around who you are. They know you’re not civilians, but they haven’t figured out your identity yet.”

Yet.

I exhaled a long, freezing breath.

“That’s something,” I muttered. “Now we have the upper hand in knowing who they are.”

He nodded. “But not for long. Mancini’s nephew is ruthless but not stupid. He’ll keep digging.”

“You have any contacts in prison where Victor Mancini is?”

Malik turned fully toward me, eyes wide. “What do you need?”

“I need information to get to Victor that his nephew is messing around with the Zhukovskys.”

“You sure you want them to know who you are?”

“Victor Mancini is no idiot. With him in prison and their family reorganizing, he should know now’s not the time to start a war or to get noticed by the authorities. You spread word to him in there that if any of my men are hurt going forward, I’ll pick off his bloodline one by one. Once you’ve done that, report back to me if he makes any contact with his nephew, whether by phone or in person.”

Malik stared at the rink, at a little girl slipping and being caught by her father before she hit the ice. “Victor is family-oriented. It might work.”

“I know it will.”

He exhaled deeply and turned to me. “This life almost killed me, Mr. Zhukovsky. It took friends. Family. My sanity. I’m barely piecing myself together.”

“I’m not asking you to come back,” I said. “Just give me a thread to pull.”

“Tch.” He rubbed his forehead.

“I’ll make it worth your time. I have a daughter here, Malik, and a grandchild on the way. Before I leave, I need to ensure the Italians understand that they are protected under the Zhukovsky name. The Orlovs too. They don’t carry as much clout, but I’m sure they understand what a ruthless motherfucker the Orlov pakhan is.”

And yet so fucking sweet.

“I’ll reach out to someone,” he muttered. “But don’t expect an answer today. Mancini’s cautious.”

“Just don’t make me wait too long. I can’t afford for anything to happen to my only child.”

Malik swallowed. “I’ll contact you.” He stepped back, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

He walked off, blending into the Christmas crowd, but I stayed put. The rink noise swelled, children laughing, blades scraping ice, Christmas music swelling like a bad joke.

I stared down at my phone again, but I still had nothing from Yuriy. My lips curled into a snarl. “When I find him, I’m going to wring his damn neck.”

But the truth was uglier, raw, and terrifying.

When I find him… I’m not letting him out of my sight again.

It’d been forty-eight hours of silence. Forty-eight hours of calling Yuriy, only to hear it ring into the void. Forty-eight hours of replaying the look on his face when he walked out of my room, heartbroken, shuttered, alone.

I’d put out quiet feelers through my network, a missing-person alert disguised under other business, coded so only the people who owed me loyalty would understand the urgency.

My phone buzzed in my hand—three short vibrations.