“Good,” I snarl. “They should be scared.”

She nods, knowing damn well that I can’t be swayed when I get in these moods. “Fine. Have it your way. But I’m telling you right now: if he gives us a location, we have to assume there’s a trap waiting for us when we get there.”

“Are you the don or am I?”

She smiles thinly. “I would make a fantastic don.”

I chuckle. “You would indeed. You’d also hate every fucking second of it.”

Before she can answer, Knox walks through the door with our unexpected visitor in tow.

The man is dressed in a brown sweater vest and a shapeless hat that’s seen better days. He’s short, bearded, scruffy-looking, and also bleeding from two badly bandaged wounds, just like Knox said.

“Who are you?” I demand.

The man takes a few steps towards my desk before Knox grabs him by the scruff of his collar and reels him backwards.

Milana gets up and glides over to him. The moment his eyes settle on her, he freezes. Milana has that effect on most men.

“I-I have information for your don,” he stammers. He’s sweating bullets, rivulets of the stuff running down from his forehead and getting lost in the matted tangle of his beard.

She glances at me over her shoulder. “You’re right, Don Uvarov—I was wrong to worry. This man isn’t a threat. Not unless there’s a buffet involved.”

Suppressing a smirk, I give her a nod. “You can go, Milana. I’ll handle this. Knox, you’re dismissed as well.”

She hisses in distaste, but both of them turn and slip out of the door. The moment it shuts behind them, I gesture for the man to come forward. I’m still holding out hope that this cheap lowlife has something I can use, but considering the look and smell of him, I doubt that.

One thing’s certain—this man is not Bratva.

“We’re alone now, ‘friend,’” I say. “So tell me: why are you here?”

He gulps, the sound of it audible and repulsive in the quiet of my study. “I got information for you. Heard there’s a girl you’re looking for.”

Blood thunders in my ears. But I keep my composure and lean back in my chair in a show of detachment.

“Go on.”

He nods. “I know where she is. Kinda.”

“‘Kinda’?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

“Well, yeah, she might’ve been moved. I can’t say fer sure.”

“Describe her to me.”

His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish for a few seconds. “Uh, well… she was pretty.”

I grimace. “Word of advice, ‘friend’: you don’t want me to get impatient. When I get impatient, I get violent.” I let my eyes fall to the gun resting on the surface of my desk at my fingertips.

He gulps again even louder than the first time. “Brunette girl. Soft skin. Pretty pale. She had l-light brown eyes… nice, like—and really pink lips. Oh! And her arm was hurting. Looked like she’d been shot or something. She was also pregnant.”