"You'll what? Kill me?" More laughter. "You're welcome to try. In fact, we're counting on it. The Pakhan wants you alive, but accidents happen. Especially in our line of work."
"Where?" I growl more animal than human.
"The old meatpacking plant, you know the one. Come alone, unarmed, and maybe your friend lives long enough to watch you die. You have two hours."
The line goes dead. I sit motionless, phone still pressed to my ear, mind racing through scenarios. It's obviously a trap. Going alone is suicide, but its the only choice I have.
Angel's screams echo through my mind, mixing with my own from that night. I can't abandon her. I won't let her suffer for my mistakes, my obsession, my need for revenge that's consumed everything else.
Two hours.
I dress quickly, black jeans, heavy steel-toed boots with hidden blades, a black long-sleeve shirt that will hide blood and provide some minor protection to my arms. The Sig goes in my waistband, a backup pistol in an ankle holster, three knives distributed across my body. The garrote from tonight's planned outfit wraps around my thigh. I catch my reflection in the mirror and see a ghost wearing my face. Ten years of training, preparation, and single-minded focus on this moment.
Except this isn't how it was supposed to happen. This wasn’t my plan.
The meatpacking plant looms against the dying light, all rusted metal and broken windows. Abandoned for years, it's exactly where Father's men would choose for this. Father had it remodeled years ago as the perfect hideout location. It’s remote, soundproof, plenty of space for the things they do in shadows. They even added small apartments for the torturers to rest in between their dirty work.
I park three blocks away, approach on foot, every sense screaming danger. No guards visible outside, which means they're all inside. Waiting.
The door hangs half-open, an invitation. I slip through, gun drawn, eyes adjusting to the dim interior. The smell hits first: old blood, decay, and underneath it something fresher. Recent violence.
"Right on time." Anatoly steps from behind a concrete pillar, grinning. He's aged badly, face bloated from vodka and excess, a pot belly where he once had abs and muscle. But his eyes retain that same sick gleam. "Drop the gun. And whatever else you’re carrying. We all know you wouldn’t come with just one weapon."
I hesitate.
"Drop them or Ivan to starts cutting pieces off your friend." He pulls out his phone, showing me a video feed. Angel, bound to a chair, face already bruised, Ivan standing behind her with a knife.
My weapons clatter to the concrete.
"Good girl." Anatoly moves closer, circling like a predator. "You know, I've been looking forward to this." He reaches out, running a finger down my cheek. I flinch. "You grew up nice. Real nice. Shame we didn't get to finish what we started."
"The Pakhan wants me alive."
"ThePakhan,” he says the title like its a slur, “doesn't always get what he wants." His smile widens. "Besides, by the time we're done, you'll beg me to finish it. Just like last time."
Movement behind me, and I spin, but I’m too slow. Ivan emerges from the shadows, arm wrapping around my throat, cutting off air. I struggle, but he's stronger, bigger, trained in the same brutal efficiency I've spent years trying to match. Anatoly produces zip ties and binds my wrists behind my back with practiced ease. "The Pakhan’s birthday party starts in six hours. We have plenty of time for fun first. Then I'll tell him you tried to escape, fought back and lost. An unfortunate accident." Anatoly’s face is a mask of mock contrition.
They drag me deeper into the building, through corridors stained with decades of slaughter. Animal blood, I tell myself. Just animals. But the distinction feels meaningless now.
We stop in a large room, hooks still hanging from the ceiling and drains set into the floor. Angel sits bound in the center, head hanging, blood trickling from her nose. Her eyes widen when she sees me, filling with tears.
"Sofiya," she whispers. "You shouldn't have come."
"Touching." Anatoly shoves me forward, and I stumble, barely catching myself before face-planting. "The whore and her pet stripper reunited. Too bad it won't be a happy ending."
Ivan hauls Angel up, forcing her to watch as Anatoly advances on me. His fist connects with my stomach, driving air from my lungs , and I double over, gasping.
He grabs my hair, yanking my head back. " You should have never come back. Never have crawled out of hell to find me. Well, here you are. And you know what? You were right to be afraid. Because everything we did to you before was mercy compared to what's coming. Igor was weak, but me? I’m ready for you." He hits me again. And again. Methodical, brutal, each blow calculated for maximum pain without killing me orknocking me unconscious. Ivan watches, holding Angel's head, forcing her to witness every moment, though I see her close her eyes often.
Between strikes, my mind fractures. This is how it ends. Not in glory, not completing my revenge, but broken and bleeding in a slaughterhouse while my only friend watches. Father wins. Anatoly wins. They all win, and I'm just a stupid girl who thought she could challenge men who've been playing this game since before I was born.
Why did Volk abandon me? If he knew, if he cared, wouldn't he be here? Or did he set this up, trade my location for favor with Father? That makes more sense than any alternative. Mercy was a one-time gift, not a promise of protection. I'd been a fool to think otherwise. To let myself feel anything but hate. To imagine that his eyes on me in that parking lot meant something beyond hunter recognizing prey.
Anatoly pauses, breathing hard, knuckles split and bloody. My blood. I taste copper, feel blood running down my chin, soaking my shirt. Everything hurts. Ribs aching, maybe broken. There’s something wrong with my left knee, and my face is swelling so badly I can barely see.
"Please." Angel begs, voice broken and desperate. "Please stop. I'll do anything. Just don't hurt her anymore."
"Your turn soon, beautiful," Ivan croons, releasing his hold on me. "Don't worry, we haven't forgotten about you."
