Page 78 of The Bratva Sinner

“On it.”

We walk back toward the house in silence. "They didn't burn the stables by accident. Someone's been watching her."

An hour later, I’m in the basement, starting with the guards on duty. I pace slowly in front of them, studying each face. These are men I trust. Men who’ve been with me for years.

“Someone disabled the sprinkler system,” I say calmly. “Someone set that fire. One of you knows something.”

Silence.

“My wife could have died today.” My voice drops lower. “Three horses could have died. So, I’ll ask one more time. Who did this?”

More silence. But I see genuine confusion in their eyes. Fear, yes, but also confusion. They don’t know anything.

“Boss, we swear,” one of them says. “None of us would do that. No one got past us.”

"Then how did someone get into those stables?" I ask.

They exchange glances.

“There are blind spots,” Damien says quietly. “Near the eastern fence. The cameras don’t quite reach.”

I should have fixed that months ago. Should have upgraded the entire system. I thought what we had was good but it needs to be better. Someone is trying to kill me. Killher.

“Fix it. Today,” I order. “I want cameras on every inch of this property. Motion sensors. Thermal imaging. I don’t care what it costs.”

“Done,” Damien says.

I dismiss the men, and they file out quickly, relieved to escape.

“Who was at the house today?” I ask Damien. “Other than the guards.”

“A couple of the girls stopped by. Briar and someone else. The cook. Gus’ replacement—new guy we hired last week.”

“Background check on the new guy?”

“Clean, but I’ll dig deeper.”

“Do that.” I run a hand through my hair. “She’s not safe here. She’s not safe anywhere.”

“We’ll find out who did this,” Damien says.

But will we find them before they try again? Before they succeed?

My conversationswith the rest of the staff are not friendly. There are a few tears and a lot of shouting and threatening. And I got nothing. Worse, I believe all of them. I don’t think they would betray me.

I head back inside. The house feels different. It’s been violated. My home is my fortress. I want it scrubbed from top to bottom.

I should go to the club. There’s business to handle and operations to oversee. But I can’t leave.

Instead, I find myself climbing the stairs to her room.

The door is slightly ajar. I push it open quietly.

She’s in bed with the oxygen mask removed. Her face has been cleaned of soot, but the exhaustion is still etched into every line. She’s wearing clean clothes, the fan is on, and a blanket is pulled up to her neck.

She’s asleep.

I should leave and let her rest, but my feet carry me forward.