Men passed us in the halls, some nodding to Dmitry with respect, others pressing themselves against walls to let him pass. They all had the same look—that particular combination of violence and control that marked career soldiers or lifetime criminals. Most had tattoos visible on hands and necks—similar to the ones which marked Dmitry’s body.
One door we passed was reinforced steel with a small window. I made the mistake of glancing through and saw a room that could only be a holding cell—drain in the floor, hooks in the ceiling, dark stains on concrete that no amount of bleach would ever fully remove. My step faltered, but Dmitry's hand on my lower back kept me moving forward.
"Interrogation," he said quietly, like naming it would make it less horrific. "Sometimes information requires special encouragement."
Encouragement. Such a clean word for torture.
I knew violence intimately—had dodged it, endured it, occasionally delivered it when cornered. The difference here was the organization of it, the way violence was systematic rather than chaotic. These men didn't hurt people in anger or desperation. They did it as methodology, with the same casual precision the mechanic used to repair bullet holes.
We stopped at a door that looked different from the others—reinforced steel with both a keypad and what I recognized as a biometric scanner. Dmitry pressed his thumb to the scanner, typed a code that his body blocked me from seeing, and the lock disengaged with a sound like bones breaking.
"My brothers are expecting us," he said, but hesitated before opening the door. "Eva, you need to understand—Alexei and Ivan aren't like me. They're . . . colder. More calculating. They'll test you, push to see if you're a weakness or an asset. Don't let them intimidate you."
"Are they going to hurt me?"
"Never." The word came out sharp enough to cut. "You're mine, which makes you family, which makes you untouchable. But they need to assess you, understand what you mean for operations."
I shifted Bear to one arm, freeing my hand to touch Dmitry's face. His skin was warm under my palm, that familiar sandpaper of stubble that I'd felt against my thighs just this morning.
"I’ve survived for years alone on the streets," I reminded him. "I can handle meeting your brothers."
Something shifted in his expression—pride maybe, or recognition. He turned his head to press a kiss to my palm, andfor a moment we stood there in that corridor of violence, holding onto each other like we were the only thing in the world.
AlexeiVolkovsatbehinda huge desk, his stillness so complete he might have been carved from ice. Everything about him screamed control—the perfect knot of his tie, the way his hands rested precisely parallel on the desk surface, how his eyes catalogued me in a single sweep that felt like I was being x-rayed.
"You're early," he said to Dmitry, voice carrying that particular authority that didn't need volume to command attention. Then those arctic eyes shifted to me, and I understood why men called him Pakhan. This wasn't just Dmitry's brother; this was an apex predator in Armani. "We're just finishing some business."
That's when I noticed the other brother—Ivan—at his bank of monitors, fingers flying across keyboards while screens showed what looked like surveillance footage, financial spreadsheets, and—my stomach clenched—photos that might have been of me. But even Ivan's cold focus wasn't what made my blood freeze.
It was the man in the corner.
He knelt on plastic sheeting, hands zip-tied behind his back, blood running from his nose in thick ribbons that dripped onto the carpet. His left eye had swollen shut, purple-black like rotten fruit, and when he breathed, it came out wet and whistling through broken teeth.
Bear stirred in my arms, nose twitching at the scent of blood, and I held him tighter.
The man's good eye found mine, and he started babbling in Russian, words tumbling over each other in what was clearly begging. His voice pitched higher with desperation, and even without understanding the language, I could hear him sayingplease, please, please in the universal tone of someone who knew they were about to die.
Alexei responded with two words. Just two, delivered without emotion, without even looking at the man.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Ivan stood from his monitors with the fluid grace of a dancer, reaching into his jacket to pull out a knife that looked medical in its precision. Not a weapon for fighting but for cutting, for specific, surgical work. The blade caught the light as he moved toward the kneeling man, and my brain finally understood what was about to happen.
"Wait—" I started, but Dmitry's hand on my elbow stopped me.
At the last moment, Ivan took a gag from his pocket and shoved it in the man’s mouth. He put the knife back in his pocket and raised a finger to his lips.
Thank god.
"The USB," Alexei said, his attention fully on me now like nothing significant had just happened. "Dmitry tells me you've been quite cooperative in returning it."
I couldn't form words. I kept glancing over at the man.
"He sold information about our shipments," Dmitry said quietly, his voice close to my ear. "Three of our men died because of him. Two more are in intensive care. One has a family—wife, three kids. They'll never see their father again because this man wanted a bigger cut."
The explanation should have made it worse, but somehow it clarified things instead. This wasn't random violence or cruelty for its own sake. This was consequence. Brutal, horrifying consequence, but consequence with logic behind it.
"He betrayed family," Alexei added, still watching me with those evaluating eyes. "In our world, that carries a specific price. A price he will pay when you are not here."
