She steps in, voice barely more than a whisper. “He could be wrong. Or Ivan could have something on him. You told me once—never trust anything that comes too easy.”
That was my rule, and hearing it from her lips feels like a wound opening in my side. She’s not wrong. I try to tell myself that Ivan is desperate, that the war has worn him thin.
Nothing in this world is given without cost, and the address feels too much like a gift.
Clara won’t let go of my wrist. Her hand is small, fingers digging in hard enough to leave a mark. “If you go, take more men. Take the whole damn army. Don’t walk in thinking it’s already won. Please.”
The please hangs there, heavy and raw. She never pleads. Not for herself, not for anyone. For the first time in years, I feel the urge to set the gun down, to listen not just to my gut but to someone else’s voice.
I take a breath, trying to clear the haze from my head. Anger tastes like copper on my tongue, bitter and bright, but beneath it is something colder. Fear. Not for myself, but for her. For what happens if I don’t come back.
Her eyes shine in the dim light, jaw set in that stubborn way I’ve come to know too well. I see the battle inside her—the instinct to run, to stay safe, to pull me back from the edge. I see something else too: the trust she’s given me, the hope that I might choose differently for her sake.
I let the gun rest on the desk. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
“Fine,” I say, voice low. “I’ll take more men. I’ll make sure it’s clean. If it’s Ivan—if it really is him—I finish it tonight.”
Her breath shudders, relief and fear mingling together. She loosens her grip, but her hand stays on my wrist, grounding me.
“Promise me,” she whispers. “Don’t go alone.”
I nod. I can’t give her more than that.
For the first time since Simon’s call, I let myself feel the danger—not just to me, but to everything I’ve built, everything I might lose. Clara’s logic cuts through the blood-haze, steadies my hands in a way nothing else can.
I watch her, heart pounding, and wonder if she even knows what she’s done. She’s not my weakness. She’s the reason I might survive.
I decide to play along. Paranoia, experience, Clara’s stubborn voice in my head—call it what you want. I don’t trust the address, but I trust the game, and I trust that Ivan is hungry enough to believe in the obvious.
My men get their orders before dawn. They scatter like crows, all shadows and whispers, each one told only what they need to know. One car—a black Mercedes, same plates as mine—slips out the front gate. Inside, a man who wears my build and my face from a distance, a Bratva brother who owes me more than his life. He’s nervous, but steady. He knows what’s at stake.
At the same time, I gather the rest of my crew. Half stay with the decoy, the others vanish into the city, every alley and rooftop watched, every approach covered. No word goes out, not even a hint of warning to the estate’s staff. The fewer who know, the less Ivan has to work with.
Clara’s presence stays with me. I taste her concern every time I check the cameras, every time I count the rounds in my magazine. I remember the way her hand gripped my wrist, thetremor in her voice. For the first time in years, I don’t want to lose.
The decoy car reaches the shipyard on schedule. Through a grainy feed, I watch from a secure room deep in the house. Ivan’s men are already there, lurking in broken shadows, guns drawn.
The moment the car door opens, the trap springs. Muzzle flashes rip the darkness, bullets chewing through the driver’s window, ricochets sparking off rusted metal. My “double” drops, the car door left hanging.
My men return fire, enough chaos to keep Ivan’s people pinned, enough to convince anyone watching that I walked right into their net.
I don’t move. I wait. Every muscle in my body is taut, every sense sharpened to the point of pain. This is what I’ve prepared for. Ivan isn’t the kind of man to let others do his dirty work—not when revenge is close enough to taste.
Alarms go off at the estate—piercing, insistent, rolling through the halls like thunder. For a heartbeat, the world narrows to sound and silence. My men move into position, silent as ghosts, locking down the house. Ivan’s men breach the gate, half a dozen masked, heavy, hungry for blood.
They never see me coming.
I leave the cameras behind, moving down through secret doors, tight stairways behind walls, every step mapped from memory. Ivan expects me at the docks. He expects Clara to be alone and frightened. Instead, I wait in the dark at the heart of the house. I smell oil and rain and blood—my father’s cologne, long faded, clings to the air in these old corridors.
The first two men go down fast, a knife to the throat, boots sliding on the tile. No time for noise. I drag them out ofsight, blood pooling under their collars. The third stumbles over his own greed, eyes wide as he sees me—too late.
My gun is quiet, the report muffled, but I see the recognition in his eyes before he drops. He thought Ivan would protect him. He thought this night would end differently.
Footsteps echo up the main hall. Ivan’s voice is louder than memory, raw and gloating.
“Lukyan! You run out of places to hide?”
I step into the light, gun at my side, knife in my other hand. Ivan stands in the foyer, his face older, harder, but that same sneer cut across his mouth. He’s holding a pistol, but I see the way his hand shakes.
