As I leave the bathroom, sunlight spills across the floor, the house waking slowly. I move quietly, aware of every shift in the air, already thinking of him, wondering what he’ll see when he looks at me today.
Chapter Twenty-Four - Lukyan
The docks reek of salt, diesel, and gun oil—a sharp tang that clings to the back of my throat, familiar as blood. I stand before my men in the shadow of a rusted crane, the cold wind tugging at my coat. The water slaps against the pilings in restless rhythm, and seagulls wheel overhead, screaming like souls lost at sea.
My crew is tense, more so than usual. Ivan Belyaev has been too close, too quick. Someone’s feeding him information. I see it in the little failures: missed shipments, sudden changes in patrol, the way my men avoid my eyes when I mention the east docks. Rats are inevitable in this world. But I never thought it would be one of these men, not after everything we’ve bled for together.
I keep my face blank, voice calm as I run through the night’s assignments. Every question is a test; every answer, a puzzle piece. Most of the men answer without hesitation, hardened by loyalty and fear. But Pavel—young, thick-shouldered, usually reliable—fidgets too much, eyes darting to the far end of the pier, jaw working like he’s chewing gravel.
The air shifts. The rest of the crew feels it too. I let my gaze linger on Pavel a moment too long. He wilts beneath it, sweat blooming at his hairline despite the cold.
“Go check the container inventory,” I say to the others, nodding to Nikolai and Simon. “Just Pavel stays.”
Boots thump away on wet wood. Nikolai gives me a sidelong glance—sharp, knowing—but leaves without a word. Simon lingers a beat, his gray eyes warning me to be careful, then slips into the fog.
Pavel stands alone, breathing too fast, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
I take a slow step closer, boots echoing in the empty space. “There’s something you want to tell me, Pavel?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “No, Boss. Just tired. Didn’t sleep last night.”
“That’s funny.” My voice is soft, but the threat is there, pulsing beneath the words. “Neither did I. Too much on my mind. Too many questions.”
He shifts again, hand twitching in his jacket. “I—I can help—”
“No. You can’t.”
The words are the trigger. I see it in his eyes—panic blooming, calculation flickering. He bolts for the shadows, feet scrambling over slick planks. My gun is in my hand before he’s cleared the first stack of crates.
He gets off a shot—wild, snapping through the fog—but I’m faster. My bullet takes him in the shoulder, spinning him into a shipping pallet. He snarls, clawing for another gun, and the fight turns close, desperate. He swings a fist, grazes my temple. I ram my elbow into his jaw, shoving him back, pressing the muzzle of my pistol to his ribs.
“You sold us out,” I hiss, voice raw with betrayal.
His lip curls, blood bubbling between his teeth. “He paid more, Lukyan. You can’t win this war.”
He spits at my feet, defiance shining through pain. I punch him—once, twice, the crack of bone under my knuckles sharp and satisfying. The gun skitters away. He lunges for a knife, slicing at my side, but I twist, wrenching his arm until I hear the snap. He howls, swinging wildly.
I don’t shoot him. Not yet. This isn’t a clean kill. It’s personal. I want him to feel it.
We grapple on the boards, blood smearing underfoot. He curses me, curses my family. I knee him in the gut, slam his head against the crate, feel the fight start to drain out of him.
I pull him up by the collar, face inches from mine. His eyes are wide, full of terror and shame. “How much did he pay you to die for him?” I ask, voice cold.
He sobs, spits blood, tries to claw at my face. I squeeze the trigger. The shot echoes across the docks, louder than the gulls, louder than the wind. He jerks once, then slumps in my grip, blood pouring from the hole in his chest.
I hold him upright for a moment, knuckles split and dripping, chest heaving. The betrayal stings. I let his body slide to the boards, the life leaking out of him, staining the old wood darker.
I don’t look away. I never do. Every man I’ve killed leaves a scar, but it’s the traitors who linger longest. I wipe my hands on my coat, flexing my fingers through the sting, the blood sticky and bright against my skin.
The fog closes in, swallowing the sound, the body, the memory. I stand over him, heart pounding, letting the cold bite into my wounds.
Nikolai and Simon return, eyes sweeping over the scene. They know better than to ask questions.
“It’s done,” I say, my voice flat, hollow. “Burn the body. Clean up the blood. No one ever mentions his name again.”
Nikolai nods, jaw set, and drags Pavel’s corpse into the shadows. Simon lingers a moment, his eyes meeting mine. There’s understanding there, and something like pity. But I don’t want it. Not tonight.
As the blood seeps into the docks, I turn toward the water, letting the salt and rot and wind wash over me. Another friend gone. Another piece of my soul chipped away. I wonder how many more I can lose before there’s nothing left but the man Ivan wants me to be.
