I try to brush it off with humor. “Well, apparently his nickname is The Devil.”
I say it scandalously, expecting her characteristic naughty humor. Despite my complete lack of love life in the time I’ve known Kelly, it hasn’t stopped her from making the raunchiest jokes and telling me to “use it while I’ve got it.” I don’t think anything of telling her Samuil’s nickname, but she goes quiet. Uncomfortably quiet.
“Kel?” I say slowly. “It was a joke. You can laugh now.”
She inhales sharply. “It’s just…” she trails off, her breath catching. “I’m probably being stupid and paranoid. But what’s his real name?”
The alarm bells go off instantly.
“What?” I ask in shock. “Why?”
“Molly,” she says again, voice low now. “Tell me his name.”
A cold sensation crawls over my skin despite the warmth of the apartment.
I swallow. “Samuil,” I whisper. “His name is Samuil Volkov.”
The silence on the other end is suffocating.
Then, softly, barely audible, she says, “No.No, no, not him.”
My heart stutters.
“What do you mean ‘not him’?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. I hear her shuffling around, typing, maybe pulling something up.
“Molly, I’m sending you some links. Read them. Right now.”
“Kelly—”
“Please.”
My phone vibrates over and over. Five links come in, then six, then seven. My stomach twists before I even click the first one:
Ruthless Bratva Leader Suspected in String of Unsolved Homicides.
The headline punches me in the gut. The article talks about evidence that’s never strong enough to convict him, witnesses disappearing, prosecutors backing off cases at the last minute. There’s a photo of a charred warehouse and references to people burned alive inside. The wordallegedis used a lot, but never convincingly.
I click the next one:
Massacre of Rival Crew Leaves Nine Dead—Investigators Theorize Professional Hit.
There are pictures. Horrible pictures. And even though Samuil’s name isn’t printed outright, everyone knows. The comments section certainly does:
The Devil strikes again.
He won’t stop until he owns the whole city.
Don’t cross him unless you want to disappear.
My throat closes. I scroll faster. Another link:
Inside the Mind of the City’s Most Feared Crime Boss.
There’s a blurry photo of Samuil stepping out of a black SUV, sunglasses on, jaw set in that cold, unshakeable way of his. Beside it, a chilling quote from an ex-cop:
“He doesn’t kill for fun. He kills because he thinks it’s his purpose. And that’s worse.”
