A HEIST GONE WRONG.
A GANG SHATTERED.
Volya Angelov, known by the public as the Priest for his cult-like following, knows how to make a deal and take what's rightfully his. He and his criminal prodigies have siphoned Gorod Krestov's wealth for years...
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
♰ NOVYYE SAINTS 07: BLACK ——————————————————
The thieves, volunteered by Brother Anatoly for the escape, stand before Mysh and Dima in the study, arms behind their backs, heads high.
They had left that morning for the East Corner on a test of their so-called abilities. To see if they could steal an item before trusting them to do the same with a man.
Their prize? Lyubov Lisitsyna's ruby.
"Were you successful?"
The taller of the two, Grishin, shakes his head and grazes the scratch on his cheek. "She put up a fight."
"Of course she did," snaps Mysh, a pang of concern shooting up her throat. "A fox doesn't die in a snare: the hunter has to shoot it first."
"You wanted us to shoot her? To exact your revenge?" He tongues the inside of his check and looks down on his counterpart. "Leon could have placed a hit, you know. You should see him with his revolvers; he's like an American cowboy."
Anatoly's condensed man grinds his teeth once, then twice at the compliment. He and Mysh share a frame: lean, with gloved hands sewed to their hats as they often tipped back their heads to talk with the Dimas of the world.
"Can he steal as well as he shoots?"
"Leon," Anatoly calls from the overlook. "Speak, little lion. She's a mouse, you eat her in the fairy tales."
But he doesn't need to. He leans over Mysh's shoulder and dumps the sunset stone and gold chain into her pocket with a muffled tink.
"It's Leva, actually," he says, lips retreating past her ear. "And I don't want to eat anyone."
She nods and squeezes the cool stone—their second piece of issuance. "That's fine by me. I have no interest in being eaten."
"Who does?"
"Then it's settled," Dima says, scowling at the little thief and his askew humor. "I told Nikolai Ushakovo to be here at eleven. He's done time in the Crosses so he will supply you with insider information."
"How do you know the man?" Anatoly asks from the doorway. "Is he an informant?"
"One of Volya's best."
"Very well. Grishin will bring him to us."
Mysh staggers back to Volya's chair to wait. Dullness in her knee makes her walk stiff, clunky, and not at all silent.
If only she had a cane like Ded.
"Not a word," she mutters.
The men's pity was worse than the pain. As was the threat of an intervention.
Only Dima continues to stare with a face steeped in worry. He slips between her and Kirill's portrait, motioning to the others to step out.
