He drove it straight into my father’s left eye.
The sound was grotesque. Wet. Violent.
The blade sank to the hilt with a sickening resistance.
For a fraction of a second, everything froze.
Then my father’s scream erupted.
High. Animal. Unrestrained.
It ripped through the music and shattered the controlled environment around us.
Ruslan didn’t flinch.
He gripped the knife and yanked it free in the same controlled motion.
Blood sprayed outward in a bright arc.
It splattered across the bar. Across my sleeve.
Across the polished floor.
My father staggered backward.
Hands flying instinctively to his face.
Fingers pressing against the empty socket.
Blood poured between them — thick and uncontrollable.
“I kept you alive because of our agreement,” Ruslan said calmly.
His tone was almost conversational.
As if discussing business terms. “But touching my wife?”
He tilted his head slightly. “You went too far.”
The blade dripped steadily.
Red liquid traced down the metal before falling to the floor in rhythmic drops.
Ruslan made a small gesture with his free hand.
Two men emerged from the shadows almost instantly.
Petros.
I recognized him immediately.
Built like a tank. Expression unreadable.
He and another operative seized my father by both arms before he could collapse fully.
“I swear on everything,” my father choked out, one hand still clamped over his bleeding eye socket.
“You’ll regret this—”
