Page 208 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
The driver doesn’t answer. He only presses harder on the accelerator.
The city changes around us. Clean streets give way to narrow roads, rusted fences, broken loading yards, old warehouses with windows boarded up or smashed out. The canal runs alongside the district, gray and slow, reflecting nothing.
When we turn onto Krestov Lane, I see the warehouse immediately.
The loading bay door hangs open. A black car sits near the side entrance, abandoned at a bad angle. No guards. No movement. No Dmitri standing outside to enjoy his own trap.
That’s wrong.
The car stops before Viktor finishes telling the driver to slow down.
I’m out first. Gun in my hand. Viktor and two men move behind me, spreading out without needing instruction. Another car turns into the lane behind us, tires skidding on loose gravel.
I enter through the loading bay.
The warehouse smells of dust, damp brick, and old oil. Pale daylight falls through broken windows, slicing the floor into dirty rectangles. Crates are stacked along one wall. Torn plastic hangs from rusted beams. Somewhere water drips steadily into a metal bucket.
“Anya,” I call. My voice carries through the empty space.
No answer.
I move deeper.
There are marks on the concrete. Fresh scuffs. A heel dragged through dust. A dark smear near one of the support columns.
Blood.
My body goes still.
Viktor sees it at the same time. “Yaromir.”
I crouch and touch two fingers to the stain.
Fresh.
Not much, but fresh.
My chest tightens so hard it feels like my ribs are being pulled inward.
“Search,” I say.
The men scatter. Viktor moves toward the office at the back. Another man checks behind the machinery. Someone kicks open a side door hard enough that the sound cracks through the warehouse.
Nothing.
No Anya. No Dmitri. No Sergei.
Only blood on the ground and silence.
I stand slowly. There’s a second smear leading toward the side exit. I follow it.
Outside, the air is colder. The service road behind the warehouse slopes toward the canal. The river wall is low here, old stone slickwith moss and rain. Beyond it, the water moves dark and heavy between the warehouses.
I see the scarf first. Her scarf. Caught on a piece of rusted wire near the edge of the path, the dark fabric torn at one end.
My throat closes.
Then I see something on the ground near the river wall. Each step feels wrong. I already know before I bend down.
