The one who's still bleeding from wounds no one else can see.
13
MAKSIM
I remove my cufflinks with deliberate precision. First the right, then the left. The gold catches fluorescent light as I set them on the metal table beside me. Two soft clicks echo in the warehouse silence, small and final as a judge's gavel.
The man kneeling in front of me bleeds from his nose. The blood runs over his lips, drips onto concrete already stained dark from previous conversations held in this space. This warehouse on the Calumet Docks has hosted many such discussions. The walls have absorbed screams. The floor has darkened with confessions.
Tonight will be no different.
"You're doubly unlucky tonight," I say, voice measured and calm as I begin rolling up my shirtsleeves. The fabric is crisp against my forearms, the ritual soothing in its familiarity. Right sleeve, then left, folded precisely three times each. "Not only did youget caught stealing from the Severyn Bratva, but you had the misfortune of doing it on a night when I'm in a particularly foul mood."
I hit him before the last word fully leaves my mouth.
Clean strike to the jaw. Professional. Efficient. His head snaps to the side with satisfying force.
The impact travels up my arm, through my shoulder, grounds me in the physical world. Pulls me away from the phantom sound of piano keys that's been haunting me since we left the Palmer House. Away from the memory of Chopin's Nocturne played with technical perfection that felt like a knife sliding between my ribs.
Away from the ghost of who I used to be before fire and blood and broken bones rewrote my future.
There are two ways to purge this particular rage coiled in my chest like ash from a funeral pyre. A good fuck or fucking something up.
And since the first option became impossible the moment a certain sensual brunette walked into my life and made every other option fade to irrelevance, violence it is.
I need this. Need the simplicity of flesh meeting flesh, of problems that can be solved with fists instead of strategy. Need to feel the sting in my knuckles instead of the uncomfortable pressure in my chest that appeared when Victoria leaned towardme in her bedroom, lips parted, eyes half-closed, offering a kiss I wanted so badly I had to reject it or lose myself entirely.
We'd barely walked through the door, coming back from the Gala, when Alexei called. Mission successful. Target acquired. Caught red-handed with Severyn property in his possession.
And I was more than happy to get back in the SUV and drive to the docks in the middle of the night. Grateful for the excuse to channel this restless, destructive energy into productivity.
Violence is an excellent outlet for emotions I refuse to name.
For weeks now, certain crates from our shipments have been going missing. Not enough to cripple operations, but enough to be noticed. Enough to be insulting. Small losses that add up to substantial theft over time, and more importantly, suggest someone inside our organization is feeding information to outsiders.
I put Alexei in charge of finding who was responsible. Gave him resources, manpower, and explicit permission to use whatever methods necessary.
Tonight, he and his team caught this piece of shit red-handed, loading Severyn merchandise into an unmarked van at three in the morning.
The warehouse reeks of oil and salt and iron. The particular smell of industrial spaces near water. Rust and brine and the metallic tang of old blood that never quite washes away. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting strobing shadowsacross concrete that make everything look like broken film footage.
Somewhere in the darkness, water drips in steady rhythm. A leaking pipe or condensation from the ceiling, marking time like a metronome.
I study the man kneeling before me. He's wiry, young, with the kind of muscle you get from hard labor.
His eyes carry defiance even through the pain. Tough. Used to taking hits. This won't be easy, but I prefer it that way.
"Who are you working for?" I ask, keeping my voice conversational. Polite, even.
He spits blood on the floor between us. The gesture is deliberate. Contemptuous.
"Get fucked," he says.
"I wish I could," I reply honestly, and hit him again.
Right fist to the face, connecting with his cheekbone. Then left to the gut, driving air from his lungs with the kind of precision that comes from years of practice.
The second strike forces a wet exhale from his throat. He doubles over, gasping.
