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ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴏғ ɴᴏ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ

Something was off when Morozov called and suggested they met in London for an update. It wasn't unlikely that the Russian had some business in his city, but something told Race that shit was about to hit the proverbial fan.

The met up was an upscale night club his family owned, safe enough to secure a private booth in the vip area where no one would dare to talk about whatever they saw or heard there. All the staff were bound by NDA the moment they signed the contract. Yet, Race had arrived an hour early, to make it look as if it was just a coincidence the Bratva heir was in the same place that same night. One that would make any staff member who recognized his friend wonder if Race knew who he was sharing a drink with.

Cold. Calculating. Efficient.

The fact that Morozov had been sitting in front of Race for twenty minutes and did nothing but update him about him taking over his father didn't do much to ease the feeling that something wasn't right. His gut feeling was confirmed when his friend gestured to one of his guards, who took out a tablet and played a video for him.

Another snippet of what was going on back in NY. Another grainy video from a security camera, at a hotel lobby. There was no sound but the transcription was embedded in the image, making his jaw clench and his fists twitch with the need to punch the asshole in the fucking face.

Race kept staring at the screen when the video stopped, reining in his temper to not cause a scene. But when Morozov spoke, the blood in his veins turned ice.

"She's been seen getting cozy with someone else, we got pictures of a kiss. Got a full file on the other girl, but there's nothing of use."
His ears filled with static. Hard eyes met his friend's when he spat. "Drop the tail."
"Are you sure?" Morozov asked tentatively, as if unsure he meant it.
"Positive."

A line had been crossed, and there was no coming back from there.