Easy isn't in my blood. The family's business is at stake. Generations of Volkovs have fought for what we have—territory, respect, power. If I fold now, it crumbles. Rivals swarm like wolves. The name Volkov becomes a joke whispered in back rooms.
No.
A pakhan fights until the end and never, ever backs down.
I am the Devil of Downtown. I don't yield.
The thug winds up for another—stomach this time. His partner, leaner with a scar across his cheek, watches from the corner, arms crossed, waiting his turn. They've got rhythm, these two: punch, pause, taunt, repeat. Trying to wear me down for when Caulfield returns with his bullshit offer again.
The blow lands low, just under the ribs.
Air whooshes out of me, but I clench my core, absorb it. I use the momentum to test the ropes again, making subtle twist of my wrists behind the chair. They've loosened a fraction over the hours, fibers fraying from my constant, hidden work.
I’m not free yet, but close.
Close enough that hope flickers, sharp as a blade.
Scarface checks his watch. "I'm stepping out. Two minutes. Don't kill him yet."
Baldy snorts. "Wouldn't dream of it. Boss wants him talking."
Scarface leaves, door clicking shut. The music throbs on—synth screams over bass that vibrates the chair bolts.
Baldy circles me, cracking his knuckles. "You know, Russian, you could make this easy. Sign the papers. Get it over with."
I don't answer. Just stare.
He laughs. "Tough guy.Fine."
He steps in for the gut again. I brace—then use the impact. As my body jerks forward from the punch, I yank hard with my arms, hiding the motion in the flinch. The ropes give—a snap of fiber, not full, but weaker.Muchweaker. Blood slicks my wrists now, lubricant from the chafing.
One more good pull might do it…
“Come on,” I provoke. “Is that your max? Pffft. Caulfield really went for the budget option with you…”
But rather than lose his cool, Baldy steps back, wiping sweat from his brow. His eyes narrow. He’s suspicious. Did he feelsomething? Hear it over the music? Or does this neanderthal actually have a gut instinct that something is up?
I can’t risk it.
It’s now or never.
I tense, ready to rip free. The chair might break, but surprise is on my side. One thug. Neck snap or choke. Then the door.
But just as I coil to act, the side door way on the other end of the room swings open with a bang. Two figures burst in, wild-eyed, dancing, waving their arms and kicking their legs like they’re at a rave.
What the hell?
It’s Eddie and Robbie.
Baldy whirls, perplexed. "Who the fu?—"
The split second is all I need. I yank—ropes tear free. The chair cracks as I lunge. Baldy turns back too late. My fist connects with his solar plexus—hard, driving up under the ribs. Air explodes from him. He doubles over. I grab his head, twist… sharp, final. The piece of shit’s neck breaks clean and he crumples like a dropped puppet.
Eddie stares, eyes wide. "Viktor!"
I cross to him in two strides, pull him into my arms. He’s really here… warm, trembling, his heart hammering against my chest. "What are you doing here? How?"
Robbie has moved back to the door, peeking out. "We came to save you. Alexander helped. But hurry. We won’t have long."
