The shot is clean. Professional. Artur slumps forward, the zip ties the only thing keeping him from hitting the concrete face-first. Blood pools beneath him, dark and spreading, and I feel nothing except grim satisfaction that the leak is plugged.
Andrei pushes off the wall, grinding out his cigarette under his boot. “The others?”
“Bring them in. One at a time. I want to look each of them in the eyes and know if we’ve got more rats.”
He nods, already pulling out his phone. Within ten minutes, the basement door opens again. Faddei enters first—early thirties, ex-military, one of my best surveillance guys. His gaze lands on Artur’s corpse, and his face goes white.
“Sergei—”
“Faddei.” I gesture to the chair I’ve positioned in the center of the room, far enough from the body that blood won’t spatter his shoes but close enough that he can smell death. “Sit.”
He obeys, hands steady despite the corpse cooling five feet away. Good sign. Guilty men shake.
“You’ve been with me how long?”
“Five years. Since you went into independent security.” His voice doesn’t waver. “I’ve never given you reason to doubt me.”
“No. You haven’t.” I circle him slowly, letting the silence stretch. The Wolf testing for cracks. “Which is why I’m askingyou directly: Has anyone approached you? Offered money for information about my operations? About my family?”
“No.” Immediate. Firm. His eyes track my movement, but there’s no fear in them, just confusion and something that might be anger. “If someone had, I would’ve reported it. You know that.”
I stop in front of him, studying his face. Reading micro-expressions, the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing stays controlled. Twenty years of interrogations taught me how to spot lies. Faddei’s telling the truth.
“Matthew Ashford had a mole in our organization.” I gesture toward Artur. “He’s been feeding him intel for weeks. Maybe longer. If there are others, I need to know now. Before my wife walks into that gala and gets killed because someone on my payroll sold her out.”
Faddei’s jaw tightens. “There aren’t others. Not on my watch. But if you want, I’ll help you dig. Interview everyone. Run financial checks. Whatever you need.”
“Do it.” I step back, letting him stand. “And Faddei? If you find even a hint of betrayal, you come to me first. No exceptions.”
“Understood.” He glances at Artur’s body one more time. “What do you want me to tell the others?”
“The truth.” I holster my gun. “That loyalty is rewarded. Betrayal is death. No negotiations. No second chances.”
He leaves, and the next man enters. Then the next. Five more interviews, each one ending the same way—clean, loyal, horrified by Artur’s choices. By the time I’m done, it’s pastmidnight and I’m covered in Artur’s blood from dragging his corpse to the van.
Andrei’s arranging disposal. Somewhere in the Hudson, probably, or in one of the industrial furnaces he has access to. Artur will disappear like he never existed, and Matthew will know his inside man just went dark.
Good.
Let him panic. Let him wonder if we’re coming for him. Let him sweat.
My phone buzzes. Isabelle.
Where are you? Mila’s asking about you.
I stare at the text, at the innocence of domestic concern, and feel the disconnect like whiplash. One world where I’m The Wolf, executing traitors in basements. Another where I’m Papa, reading bedtime stories and helping with homework.
The same hands that just pulled a trigger need to tuck my daughter in tonight.
On my way. Twenty minutes.
I scrub Artur’s blood from my hands in the industrial sink, watching red spiral down the drain. Three washes, and it’s still there, caught under my nails, staining the creases of my palms. Evidence of what I am underneath the domesticity.
The drive home takes thirty minutes through empty Brooklyn streets. By the time I pull into the garage, my hands are clean and my expression is neutral. The mask slides into place with practiced ease.
Inside, the house smells like vanilla and something baking. Cookies, probably. Izzy’s been stress-baking since we started planning the gala, producing enough chocolate chip disasters to feed a small army. Mila loves them, anyway, burnt edges and all.
Despite the late hour, I find them in the kitchen. Mila’s at the table with her puzzle, tongue between her teeth in concentration. Izzy’s at the counter, flour dusting her black hair.
