The bathroom door is closed with light visible underneath.
I move toward it, gun raised.
The door opens.
Boris walks out, zipping his fly, and freezes when he sees me.
For a second, we stare at one another. His nose is still bandaged from yesterday. His right hand rests in a thick cast. He looks older. Diminished.
I raise my gun and point it at his chest.
"Ivan!" He tries and fails to look surprised. Complete bullshit. "I was just investigating?—"
"Really? You like to test the bathroom of wherever you're 'investigating'?"
The pretense drops. He knows there's no talking out of this.
His left hand moves to his belt, reaching for his knife. Not his gun—the cast makes drawing impossible.
Stupid. Bringing a knife to a gunfight.
"You chose that American whore over everything," he says, hard and bitter. "Over your father's legacy. Over us. Over everything we built together. Three generations, Ivan. Three generations of Petrovs building this empire, and you're throwing it away for some whore."
"Never liked you, Boris." The words come easily. "Always talking. Always judging. Acting like you knew my father better than his own son."
"I knew him well enough to know what’s become of you would disgust him."
"My father's dead because of men like you." I step closer. "Following old rules, old ways, making enemies everywhere. He died because he couldn't adapt."
"He'd be rolling in his grave right now." Boris's voice rises. "You're destroying his empire. Your father's and grandfather's empires. DONE. All of it is finished. Because of diner pussy."
"Oh yeah? So you work for Dmitri now? That's how you help the Petrov empire and honor their memory? Fucking hypocrite."
"Dmitri's not the enemy. He was never supposed to destroy the Petrovs. His family has been keeping the peace for decades.He's just doing his job. Trying to save you from yourself before you destroy everything."
"You're too smart to believe that nonsense." I shake my head. "You're a fucking hypocrite, Boris. Preaching about honor while working for a roach."
Boris moves closer, knife raised in his right hand. Clumsy, hampered by the cast. The blade catches the light—a cheap hunting knife. "Did you completely forget honor? To fight a knife-wielding man with a gun? Your father would have given me a fair fight."
"You're a fucking rat, Boris." My finger tightens on the trigger. "Don't lecture me about honor."
The shot echoes. A single bullet enters his forehead and drops him instantly. The knife clatters on the floor. No fight. No struggle.
I stand over him for a moment, staring down at the man whom I've known my entire life.
It would've been wrong to give him a warrior's death. Traitors don't get honor.
But still, my chest twists.
Not guilt. Not regret.
Finality.
The last of my father's generation. The last man who remembered my grandfather. Gone. Shot dead by me.
I radio Misha. “Status report.”
A crackle of static. “Copy. Chemist secured. North cabin.”
