“Now that’s the spirit,” Lev chimes in, stepping away from the car. He looks toward the harbor bar, his expression shifting into something colder. “Sergei’s lapdog has been comfortable for too long. He thinks he’s safe because he’s got Sergei’s checkbook in his pocket.”
“He isn’t safe,” I remind him. “He never was.”
“Better hope your aim is better than your mood,” Nikolai jokes, though he’s already dropping the cigarette and crushing it under his boot. “Sasha reports the back entrance is clear. Let's go before the Maserati attracts any more low-lifes. I don't want to spend tomorrow scrubbing grease off the door handles.”
“You’re the one who told me to drive it,” I point out, straightening my jacket.
“I told you to drive it because it makes people look at the car instead of the men getting out of it,” Nikolai retorts. “Distraction is a tactical advantage. Though, in your case, it just makes you look like a prick with a fast car.”
“It’s a good car,” Lev adds, his grin widening. “Maybe I’ll take it for a spin when the blood is dry.”
“Over my dead body,” I snap.
“Careful, Vitya,” Nikolai warns, his eyes narrowing as he looks toward the entrance of the bar. “Don't let the car distract you from the fact that the man in that basement is the reason you were bleeding out a week ago.”
The reminder hits me like a bucket of ice water. The humor vanishes, replaced by the familiar, heavy burn of revenge. My hands stop twitching. I’m not the man who was just feedingJonah fruit. I am the man who came back from the dead to finish a job.
Sokolov thought he was meeting Sergei. I eye my Maserati, the paint gleaming even in this shithole harbor. The car is too clean for a place like this, a loud reminder that I’m back in control of my own property. I can still smell Jonah on my wrists, a soft scent of soap and sweat that doesn't belong near the diesel and salt of the docks. I shove my hands into my pockets, burying the memory. I have a debt to collect.
“Have someone guard the damn car because there are too many eyes on it.”
We walk in through the back. Lev and a guard move ahead of me while Nikolai is by my side and Sasha brings up the rear. The five of us cut through the narrow hallway without a word. The place looks like the kind of port bar where no one looks up unless they’re paid to, and tonight, everyone’s already been paid. The manager freezes when he sees us, his spine snapping straight and his eyes dropping to my shoes.
Nikolai steps into his space and his presence is looming. “Where are they?”
“Already d-downstairs, sir.”
“Good.”
We take the stairs and Lev goes first. I can’t wait to fucking end this man’s life. This man who still believes he owns any part of me. Every step down the narrow stairwell is a reminder of the basement where they held me. This time, I’m the one holding the keys.
The basement smells like damp concrete and stale copper. A single bulb hangs overhead and throws a sick yellow circle across the room. One guy is slumped into a chair with his eyes wide and glassy, and blood is dripping from a single gunshot wound split open on his forehead. Another lies crumpled on the floor. Sokolov sits in the middle of it with his wrists tied behind thechair and his ankles bound to the legs. He’s the only one still alive. When he sees me approaching, he lifts his head and gives me a crooked smirk.
“Privet, prince.”
“Prince, huh? If that’s who I am to you, you sure have a way of showing it.”
He shrugs, though his eyes are tracking my every move. “You know how it is. I was following orders.”
“Nah, I don’t.” I kick a dead body aside and the corpse makes a heavy, wet thud against the concrete. Pulling a chair to face him, I sit and lean back with a casualness that clearly unnerves him. “See, I don’t follow orders because I give them. And you know what I ordered for today?”
Sokolov blinks, his cruel smile twitching at the edges.
“I can see on your face that you know exactly what I mean. Clever man. But…” I glance at Nikolai. “I’m a fair man, right?”
“Da.” Nikolai’s grin is as sharp as a razor.
“That means you get to choose, my dear Sokolov. Isn’t that generous of me?” Opening my jacket, I draw a small, serrated blade. I let the yellow light catch the steel. “This one is for a slow death. It’s personal and it lingers.”
Sokolov flinches and his throat is jumping as he swallows hard. “You think I’m afraid of you?”
“You tell me.” I let the knife linger in the air between us. “Are you?”
He clicks his tongue, trying to find his bravado. “Your father was a good man. I served him for years, but he never truly appreciated my value.”
“No?” I lift a brow. “That so?”
Sokolov shakes his head. For a moment, his voice goes soft and almost distant. “I did everything for him. Every job. I was loyal. Always. And the one time I needed him—the only time—he wouldn’t help. My daughter needed surgery. I begged, but herefused.” His jaw clenches with twenty years of kept fury. “Sergei didn’t. Sergei gave me the money. I saved her life and I paid for it with mine.”
