Of course he knows. Tennessee isn’t Bratva territory, but money bleeds through borders, and Joe’s name drifts through the Underground like oil on water. Impossible to catch, but contaminating everything he touches.
“I’m not here for your permission.”
“I didn’t offer it,” he replies mildly. “But it changes things.”
I pull a folded sheet of paper from my pocket and slide it onto the piano. “Walter Rutledge.”
My father’s brow arches as he unfolds it, revealing a photo, name, list of shell companies. No further explanation is needed.
“I know the name,” he says. “Old South money. Ghost stakeholder in security contracts and real estate from here to Atlanta. Why do you care?”
I walk to the window. Outside, the yard is too perfect. The courtyard too still. I used to practice disarming drills on those bricks. I can almost still see the blood all these years later.
“Joe’s still out there. I think this man’s helping him. Hiding him. Funding him.”
Silence.
I look back and see my father cross his arms. “The sheriff?”
I nod. He watches me, seeing more than I say. He always does.
“You’ve come to collect a favor,” he says finally. “How very Bratva of you.”
My jaw tenses. “I need information. Quietly. No names and no noise.”
My father nods slowly. “Walter’s smart. He’s not flashy. If he’s aligned with your sheriff, the motive isn’t money—it’s leverage. That means people. Cargo. Disappearances. Connect the bridges, Kolya.”
My fists clench. Everything is a game with him. It’s always puzzles and riddles.
“I’m not looking to play chess,” I say, stepping forward. “I’m looking to cut the king’s throat.”
There’s a pause as he analyzes me. It feels like he’s weighing my worth.
Then, with quiet satisfaction, he chuckles. “Now you sound like my son.”
He slides a burner phone across the piano.
“Call the number saved. Volk’ll get you what you need. If Rutledge is protecting the sheriff, it’s happening through Atlanta’s pipeline. That will lead you to Marcus.”
Something tightens in my gut.
“Who the fuck is Marcus?”
A grim smile. “Someone else you’ll need to bleed. But Kolya…”
I stiffen as he stands, his voice drops low.
“Once you step back into this world, you don’t get to keep one foot in and one foot out. You can’t carve furniture by day and carve throats by night. You want answers? You bleed for them.”
I meet his eyes. They’re cold and clear. Nothing like how I remember them.
“I never stopped bleeding,” I admit.
He nods once in approval.
“Good,” he says. “Then maybe you’re finally ready to come home.”
I don’t say ‘fuck that’ out loud. Instead, I pocket the phone.
