Chapter 1
Konstantin
Thebloodonmyknuckles had started to dry, pulling at my skin every time I flexed my fingers. Alexandr Topov hung from the chains in the basement interrogation room, his head lolling forward, blood from his broken nose painting abstract patterns down his cheap polyester shirt. Two hours we'd been at this. Two hours of me doing what I did best—breaking things that needed breaking.
The Besharov compound's basement smelled like all interrogation rooms eventually did—copper and piss and fear-sweat. The concrete walls down here were thick enough that no sound escaped. Not that anyone upstairs would care.
This was Tuesday for us.
This was business.
I grabbed Alexandr's hair, yanked his head back. His left eye had swollen shut, purple-black.
The right one struggled to focus on my face.
"Let's try again," I said in Russian, keeping my voice conversational. "You were moving medical supplies through our territory. Surgical equipment. Refrigerated transport units. Very specific shopping list for someone who claims he's just a courier."
He spat blood. Some of it landed on my shirt. I'd have to burn it later—blood never really came out, no matter what the washing powder companies promised.
"I told you," he wheezed. "I don't know anything. Just moving boxes."
I released his hair, let his head drop. Walked to the metal table where I'd laid out my tools in neat rows. Not because I was particular about organization—that was Nikolai's thing. I did it because the sight of instruments arranged with surgical precision made men's imaginations run wild. They'd invent tortures I'd never bother with.
My hand hovered over the pliers. Alexandr made a strangled sound.
"Your employer," I said, not picking up the pliers yet. "Anton Belyaev. He's rebuilding his operation from wherever rock he's hiding under. Impressive, considering we exiled him. Must be desperate for money if he's sending bottom-feeders like you into our territory."
"Please." The word came out wet, broken. "I have a family."
Everyone had a fucking family.
It was the first thing they all said, like it was some kind of magical protection. Like I'd suddenly remember my humanity and let them go.
I didn't pick up the pliers. I picked up the hammer instead.
"So do I," I said, and brought it down on the table hard enough to make everything jump. Alexandr flinched so violently the chains rattled. "And your boss tried to hurt them seven monthsago. So you'll forgive me if your family doesn't factor into my calculations."
I walked back to him, hammer loose in my grip. The monster in my chest stretched, eager. It wanted more blood. It always wanted more blood.
"Three seconds," I said. "Then I start on your knees. You know what happens when kneecaps shatter? The pieces float around under the skin. Even with surgery, you never walk right again."
"Wait! Wait, please—" His good eye rolled wild, tears cutting tracks through the blood on his face. "It's not just Belyaev. There's a doctor. At Brighton Medical Center."
I stopped. Kept my face blank even as my mind started calculating. Brighton Medical was massive, legitimate. If the Belyaevs had infiltrated it . . .
"Keep talking."
The words poured out of him like water from a broken dam. "Dr. Brand. He runs some kind of ring out of the hospital. Organ trafficking. They take them from immigrants, people who won't be missed. The Belyaevs provide security, transportation. Brand provides the medical side, the buyers."
"How long?"
"A few months. Since Anton had to leave the city. He needed money fast, and Brand needed muscle."
I processed this, filing away every detail for Nikolai. Organ trafficking was a different level of evil, even for the Belyaevs. It meant civilians were being hunted. It meant our territory wasn't just being violated—it was being used as a hunting ground.
"Routes?" I asked.
"I don't know, I swear. I just picked up the cooling units from a warehouse in Brooklyn, delivered them to a clinic in Sunset Park. That's all."
