We hit the first safe house just after one. Two men outside, bored and smoking, dead before the cigarettes drop from their mouths. My gun is silent, swift, but the fury in me is anything but quiet. The door gives beneath my boot.
Inside, chaos. My enemies scramble, faces white with shock, voices cracking in languages I don’t care to learn. I give them no time to plead, no quarter for mercy. They are nothing. They tried to touch what is mine.
My men are efficient. I lead them room by room, clearing floors, bodies left as warnings. In the kitchen, one tries to hide behind a counter, pistol shaking in his hand. I step over the corpse of his friend, drag him out by the collar. He begs, stammering, “Please, Mr. Sharov. I didn’t know—”
I press the muzzle to his temple. “You know now.” The shot is final, blood painting the tile. His body crumples, a message written in red.
We don’t stop. Word spreads before us: the Bratva are on the streets, the old rules no longer apply. I want them afraid. Iwant them to taste dread on their tongues every time they think of Sera’s name.
In a warehouse near the river, I find the architect—Vasily, all gold rings and coward’s bravado. He tries to run, shoving one of his own men toward us as a shield. I put two bullets in the shield, then corner Vasily against a wall.
He squeals, hands raised, sweat slicking his brow. “Miron, this was a mistake! She’s just a girl—”
“She’s mine.” My fist splits his lip before he can finish. “Now I make you an example.”
They watch in silence as I carve my warning across his chest. Blood wells, letters jagged. No one touches her. I want this memory to linger.
When Vasily finally stops screaming, I leave him alive. Barely. Let his men find him. Let them spread the word.
We sweep the city, block by block. Every ally who stayed silent, every rat who fed information, every lieutenant who thought my attention had drifted—they all bleed tonight.
My phone buzzes, reports filtering in: Sera is safe, the house secure. No threats near the perimeter. Good. That is the only detail I care for.
My men say nothing as the night drags on. They see the cold in my eyes, the rage in my hands. Some look away from what I do to the men who touched her. Others learn, because they must. Mercy has no place here, not tonight.
We drag one survivor to the riverbank, make him kneel in the mud. He babbles names, pleads for forgiveness. I crouch, grip his jaw, force him to look at me.
“You tell them what you saw,” I say. “Tell them I will tear down every house, burn every haven, until none of you even think her name again.”
I press the knife to his throat, then let him go. He stumbles away, sobbing, shoes slipping in the filth.
Blood stains my hands. It doesn’t bother me. The city has always spoken this language—violence, fear, tribute. I am fluent, and tonight I write my own grammar across its bones.
By four in the morning, the air hangs heavy with gunpowder and terror. My men fan out, checking every known enemy haunt, burning what can’t be used. I call the house twice. Sera is still sleeping, sedated by exhaustion, guards tight as a fist around her. I tell them to let her rest. She doesn’t need to see what I’ve done for her.
We regroup at an old butcher’s shop, the last of the traitors huddled in the freezer. I go in alone. It is quick, brutal. When I return, my shirt is spattered, boots caked with blood. No one asks questions. They know my rules. They know what lines have been crossed.
The streets grow quiet as dawn approaches. Sirens wail in the distance, but no one dares get close. I drive the last miles home alone, windows open, blood drying on my skin. The city feels different, cowardly, cowed. My message is carved into every corpse: do not touch her. Do not dare.
At the mansion, the guards part for me, silent and tight-jawed. I leave my ruined coat on the floor, climb the stairs with boots still dirty, not caring who sees. I push open my bedroom door.
Sera lies curled on my bed, small and pale in the half-light, a bandage on her hand, hair spilling across my pillow. She stirs, sensing me, eyes wide and wary.
I sit on the edge of the bed, heavy with blood and exhaustion, and reach for her. She flinches, then relaxes when she sees it’s me. I stroke her hair, careful not to touch herwounds. She whispers my name, voice barely there, and I feel the knot in my chest loosen for the first time since the night began.
No one will touch her again. I will destroy anyone who tries. This isn’t just vengeance—it is a promise. The city bleeds, and it will remember. She is mine.
Sera yawns, rolling over in the bed. She sees the mess I’m in and goes rigid, hands rising halfway as if to stop me or steady herself. I expect her to run, to retreat back behind locked doors and thick curtains. Instead, she flies upright, nearly stumbling in her haste. Her eyes are wide, frantic, voice thin as paper when she speaks.
“You’re hurt—Miron, you’re bleeding—”
I can’t help the smirk, even through the pain. Her worry is a salve sharper than any needle.
“Don’t look so pale, little raven. It isn’t my blood that matters tonight.” I mean it as a joke, a shield. I don’t expect her to listen.
She ignores my deflection. “Sit.”
Her hands, shaking, tug me toward a bench beneath the staircase. I let her. She pushes my coat off my shoulders and begins unbuttoning my shirt, each movement tight with anger and care. “You could have died. What the hell were you thinking?”
