One of my men caught him under the arms and held him steady.
They kept him upright.
Barely.
He looked at me through swollen eyes.
Shame burned there.
“I’m sorry, boss,” he rasped.
His voice was broken — hoarse from pressure and possibly suffocation.
“I failed you.”
I stepped closer.
My expression did not soften.
“This isn’t the time for apologies.”
My eyes scanned him quickly — checking for fractures, internal bleeding, signs of deeper damage.
“Why did they send you back alive?”
Petros swallowed painfully.
His throat worked as if even swallowing hurt.
“They wanted me to deliver the message personally.”
My jaw tightened.
“They said you can’t afford to go to war.”
The words were delivered carefully — rehearsed.
“If you send even one man against them... they’ll kill Elena.”
His gaze flickered.
“Slowly.”
My fingers flexed around my weapon.
“On camera.”
His voice lowered.
“They said they’d make sure you watched every second.”
Silence settled heavily between us.
Rage built in my chest — cold, focused, strategic.
Not blind anger.
Calculation.
