I'd done it for her. For Alena, who had no idea where I was or why I'd disappeared.
Klaus should be dead by now. Stage four cancer, months to live—that's what the doctors said six months ago. But the universe has a sick sense of humor. The cancer went into remission three months in. Some miracle the doctors can't explain, some experimental treatment his money bought. Now he's walking more, oxygen tank gathering dust in a corner, voice stronger, eyes sharper. Watching me like a hawk that's finally caught its prey and isn't letting go.
They moved me out of the safe house three months ago—into this penthouse Klaus calls a "gift." Midtown, floor-to-ceiling windows, views of a city that doesn't give a fuck about the blood on my hands. Guards outside the door 24/7. "Protection," they call it. Prison, I call it. But at least it's a prison with internet access. A laptop. Resources I've been using carefully. Quietly.
I sit on the edge of the bed, tablet in hand. Klaus's torture device. Live feeds. Photos. Updates on everyone back in London. Proof they're still breathing. Proof I have to keep obeying.
I tap the screen. Alena. The latest photo loads—timestamped yesterday. She's in her flat, curled on the couch, face buried in what looks like my old hoodie. Shoulders shaking. Crying. Again.
I don't scroll through the archive anymore. Don't torture myself with weeks of surveillance showing her spiral. But also, my little girl is trying. Yes, she drinks her ass off, but she stands. Writes. She has started shooting lessons and fuck me that woman can use a gun like she was born with one in her hand. Also, now the feedback says she drives faster and faster. Like she has no patience to wait in line or at lightsanymore. She smiles less. A lot less, but she smiles. She tries to eat at least once a day, and she is avoiding the places in her apartment we used to sit together. In six months, she has never slept on her bed. Like she is avoiding the last place we were together and made her mine. Probably now, that bed feels like the last place I lied to her. It’s better than the first photographs of her in the archive. That’s why I avoid it. I know what's there. Her at her desk, back bandaged, blood seeping through. Her drinking alone. Her on the floor surrounded by broken glass. I've seen it. Memorized it. Used it.
Rage is better fuel than guilt.
I close the app. Drop the tablet on the bed. Get up.
Morning routine: shower to wash off last night's blood that is not mine, black shirt to hide the collarbone star, coffee black as my mood. I don't think about who I was six months ago. That man is dead. Buried under Bratva ink and Russian consonants and bodies I've stopped counting.
• • •
The guards drive me to the "office"—Queens backroom that looks legitimate on paper but bleeds Bratva underneath. Concrete floors. Metal desks. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The hacker is already there when I arrive, sitting off to the side with his laptop open, fingers flying across keys. He glances up when I enter. Nods once. I return it.
The lieutenants are waiting. Four mid-level guys in cheap suits that don't hide prison ink or shoulder holsters. Six months ago, they tested me. Now they wait for me to speak first.
I sit at the head of the table. They look to me for orders before checking with Klaus's second-in-command. The shift happened gradually—so slow no one could point to a single moment. But it's there now. Undeniable.
Six months ago, I was an architect. Now I'm this.
Status?I ask in Russian. "Chto po otgruzke?"
Sergei answers. "Problema na dokakh."Problem at the docks."Albanskaya banda snova leezet."Albanian crew trying to muscle in. Again.
"Reshit'," I say.Handle it.My tone leaves no room for discussion.
"Vziatki ili tela?" Sergei asks.Bribes or bodies?
I don't hesitate. "Tela, esli oni soprotivliautsya."Bodies if they push back.
The words come easy now. Too easy. Like flipping a switch I can't turn off anymore.
A new guy—young, cocky, fresh tattoos on his knuckles still red and scabbed—leans forward. "Boss, ya dumaiu chto my dolzhny—"
I cut him off. "Ty dumaesh'?"You think?I stand. Slow. Deliberate. Walk around the table. "Vot v chem problema."That's the problem.
He bristles. Opens his mouth.
I grab his collar, yank him up from his chair, slam him against the wall. The impact rattles the metal desks. Coffee cups jump. No one moves to help him.
"Ty ne dumaesh'," I say quietly in Russian, face inches from his.You don't think."Ty delaesh' to, chto tebe govoryat."You do what you're told."Ili ty zakonchish' kak posledniy durak, kotory dumal chto on znaet luchshe."Or you end up like the last idiot who thought he knew better.
I switch to English for the last part, voice dropping to a whisper. "And trust me. You don't want to know how that ended."
He nods frantically. "Da, ser. Da."Yes, sir. Yes.
I let go. He drops back into his seat, shaking. The room stays silent. I catch Viktor's eye across the table. He's watching me with something that might be respect. Or fear. I'll take either.
I sit back down. "Eshche chto-nibud'?"Anything else?
They shake their heads.
