Agents had poured out in tactical formation.
Ruslan’s men — outnumbered and outgunned — had assessed the situation quickly.
They didn’t fire. They didn’t resist.
They stood down.
And when they cuffed him —
He had looked at me across the chaos.
Not with rage. Not with shock.
Not even with betrayal.
His eyes had held something heavier.
Acceptance.
Like he had always known this moment was coming.
I had smirked back at him then.
Victory tasted sharp and sweet.
After years of control.
After prison.
After manipulation.
I had finally turned the tables.
He deserved it.
He deserved consequences.
He deserved to rot behind reinforced walls.
That belief had carried me through the aftermath.
Through paperwork.
Through legal arguments.
Through the confirmation that he would never walk free again.
But now —
Sitting in a moving car.
Watching his son process power and inheritance like it was normal dinner conversation —
I wasn’t so sure anymore.
Yannis lifted his hands again.
“I’m beginning to study the kind of job my dad does...”
