He snaps his fingers. "Smart man. You were in the way. Strong-arming Milo… poor sap folded like wet paper when I leaned on him. Set up the meet, knew you'd show. Hired guns to clean house. Simple. And nothing personal."
I spit more blood. "Why tell me? Dead men don't talk."
He leans in, smile fading. "Because I'm not unreasonable. I have an offer."
I bark a laugh. "An offer? Afterthis?"
"Sign over your properties. All of them,” Caulfield demands. “The portfolio… downtown holdings, warehouses, the works. Do that, and you live. Your family works for me in the city. You keep the Pakhan title… on paper. I pull the strings. You get rich, stay alive. Win-win."
Bullshit.
I see it in his eyes—the lie.
Sign my properties over, and I'm dead before the ink dries. But he needs the signature for a legal, clean transfer.
I meet his gaze. "Go fuck yourself."
Caulfield’s face hardens. "You'll change your mind. They always do."
He stands, nods to the thugs. "Turn the music back on. Resume. Break him… but keep him conscious. And make sure his right hand still works. I need that signature. I'll be back."
The door closes behind him.
The stereo roars to life—techno assault resuming, bass vibrating my teeth. The first thug grins, cracks his knuckles.
I grit my teeth.
No weakness. Survive. Wait.
Hold on. For Eddie. For the family.
Caulfield and his thugs will slip.
And when they do... the Devil will rise again.
TEN YEARS EARLIER…
The safehouse was an old brick two-story on the edge of Belarosa Beach, windows boarded, front door reinforced with steel plating.
No sign out front, no mailbox. Nothing. Just a rusted number 47 nailed crookedly beside the entrance. I stumbled up the cracked steps, duffel bag slung over my good shoulder, the weight of the money inside pulling at every bruised muscle.
My left arm hung limp, soaked crimson from shoulder to cuff. Blood dripped steadily onto the concrete, leaving a dark trail behind me like breadcrumbs no one would follow.
I knocked twice—short, then long.
The door opened before the second knock finished. One of the pakhan’s lieutenants—Grisha, broad as a doorframe, eyes flat—looked me over, then stepped aside without a word.
Inside smelled of cigarette smoke, vodka, and rotten carpet. A dim overhead bulb gave decent enough light. A long table in the living room, half a dozen men seated around it, cards and empty glasses scattered met me with curious looks. And needless to say the conversation died the moment I stepped through the doorway.
At the head of the table sat the pakhan—Maxim Volkov, mid-fifties, silver hair cropped military-short, face carved from granite. He didn’t rise. Just lifted one eyebrow, waiting.
I dropped the duffel onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud. Bills shifted inside, a faint rustle of paper.
Maxim’s eyes flicked to the bag, then back to me. “You’re bleeding on my floor.”
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, smearing more blood. “Sorry, Pakhan.”
He waved it off. “Sit before you fall.”
