Vadim’s dirty, always has been. He gouges for my eyes, claws at my face. I catch his wrist, twist until his knuckles pop, force him to let go. I slam his head into the floor, dizzy with fury. He laughs, coughing blood, the sound empty of anything human.
“Do it, Leon,” he taunts, eyes flashing. “Finish it. I’d rather die than rot.”
I don’t want his death. Not today. I want him to feel what I felt—the slow, merciless end of everything he thought he owned. I want him to understand what it means to be left behind.
We stagger to our feet, circling the wreckage. The office is unrecognizable—papers shredded, furniture smashed, the window cracked and leaking cold dawn light. Our breathing is thunder in the small space.
“You always thought you were better than the rest of us,” Vadim sneers, spitting blood. “A little more control, a little more class. You’re just a dog on a tighter leash.”
I rush him, tackling him into the wall, the old rage burning through my bones. “I was better because I never forgot who I was fighting for,” I growl. “You forgot. That’s why you lost.”
We trade more blows, each strike heavier, slower, exhaustion creeping in. I see the moment Vadim realizes it’s over. His punches weaken, his balance slips. I hook his leg, drive him down, pinning him with my weight.
He struggles, but I’ve got him—one arm twisted behind his back, his face grinding against the cracked tile. The old brotherhood is gone; all that’s left is this: two broken men, fighting for the last word in a war that ended years ago.
He groans, defeated but still spitting defiance. “You’ll regret this, Leon. The world forgets the merciful.”
I lean close, my own blood dripping onto his neck. “You want mercy? You should’ve remembered it before you turned on me.”
I drag him up, half carrying, half throwing his weight, leading him out through a hidden service door in the rear of the warehouse. We emerge into the gray hush of dawn, the air stinging my lungs.
My men wait, watching, silent.
I don’t speak as I shove Vadim into the back of a waiting car. He’s barely conscious, every breath a rattle, blood matting his hair. I don’t kill him. I don’t let him off so easily. Instead, I drive him—alone, fast and silent—to a stretch of forgotten country north of the city.
The old hunting cabin, windows shuttered, no cell signal for miles. I leave him there, half awake on the filthy mattress, a jug of water, a bandage for his wounds. Enough to survive, if he has the will. Not enough to escape.
As I turn away, Vadim’s voice is a whisper, bitter and broken. “You’re not a brother. You’re nothing.”
I pause, feeling the truth of it burn in my chest. “Maybe,” I say quietly. “I’m still alive. And you’re finished.”
The drive back is silent. Every muscle in my body aches. The victory is hollow, every mile home heavy with memories I can’t kill. I should feel relief—triumph, even—but there’s only a bitter ache.
Vadim was the last piece of a past I tried to bury.
Now, all that’s left is the weight of my choices.
When I reach the Sharov house, my mind drifts not to the men I command, not to the empire I’ve defended, but to the one person I can’t forget. Suzy. Her face, her voice, the look in her eyes when she thinks I’m not watching.
For reasons I can’t explain, her presence is the only thing that still feels real. The only thing that anchors me to this life I’ve fought so hard to hold.
Chapter Seventeen - Suzy
I wake with the sun streaming gold across my face, sheets tangled at my waist, resolve pulsing beneath my skin like a secret.
Today, I tell myself, will be different. I can’t let myself be ground down by this house, by his rules, by my own fear. If I can find one piece of normal, one hour that feels real, maybe I can breathe again.
I skip the staff that hovers at my door, ignore the breakfast set out on porcelain trays in the formal dining room.
Instead, I wander toward the kitchen, drawn by the sound of laughter and the faint, sweet scent of cinnamon drifting down the hall.
The kitchen is always warmer than the rest of the house—sunlight pouring in, kettles whistling, knives clattering on chopping boards, and the steady, reassuring hum of people who have a purpose.
When I slip inside, the staff is already in the middle of their morning routine—prepping for lunch, stacking fresh bread on cooling racks, trading quiet jokes and complaints about the boss’s newest security rules.
Nobody stops what they’re doing when I enter. For once, no one straightens nervously, no one averts their eyes.
Maybe it’s because I’m barefoot, hair in a loose braid, wearing a faded tee I dug out of the bottom of a forgotten suitcase—anything but the careful silk and diamonds the house expects.
