I text back. "Good. Keep distance. Don't let her see you."
"Da, Boss."
Boss. Not Klaus. Me. The hitmen call me now when Klaus orders them to do something. They still follow his commands—stalk her, monitor her, report back—but they tell me first. Every movement. Every order. Every threat.
I've turned Klaus's own surveillance network against him. He thinks his men are watching her for him. They're watching her for me.
I swipe through the latest footage. Alena in her new house. Suburbs. Clean. Safe. She looks better than she did six months ago—healthier, hair longer, eyes clearer. She's movedon. Built a new life. Sober-ish, according to Yuri's reports. Shooting range three times a week. Writing again. The latest book is a bestseller. Film adaptation in production.
She's thriving without me. Good. That was the point, wasn't it? Keep her safe. Keep her alive. Even if it meant she forgot I existed.
I zoom in on her face in one frame—smiling at something Lucy said. Real smile. Not the hollow one from two years ago. I touch the screen. Trace her cheek with my finger. Face blank. Heart empty. I feel nothing. Haven't felt anything in months. Just this… void. Where emotions used to be. Where the man I was used to live.
Now there's just the work. The kills. The stars. And her face on a screen I can't stop looking at.
I close the tablet. Set it aside. Get dressed for the club.
• • •
The club is in Chelsea. High-end. Exclusive. The kind of place where oligarchs and criminals and politicians all pretend they don't know each other. Owned by the Bratva, of course. Everything is.
I arrive with Klaus in a black SUV. Guards flanking us. People part when we enter—recognition, fear, respect. Klaus Müller and his heir. The son who's already more dangerous than the father ever was.
They call me Solnechny Volk—Sun Wolf.Because I'm Klaus's son (sun), but I hunt alone (wolf). Because I'm more brutal than the old guard ever expected. Because in two years, I've built a reputation that makes grown men flinch.
We're led to a private room on the top floor. Leather couches. Glass table. Dim lighting. Bass from the club below vibrating through the walls.
Other men are already here—lieutenants, captains, Klaus's inner circle. Suits. Cigars. Glasses of vodka that cost more than most people make in a month.
Klaus settles into the head of the table. I sit to his right.
Cocaine on the glass table. White lines already cut. Offered like appetizers.
I don't hesitate anymore. Take the rolled bill. Lean down. Snort.
The burn is immediate. Familiar. Clarifying.
Two years ago, I would've refused. Would've thought about what Alena would say if she saw me. Now I don't think at all. Just take what's offered. Feel nothing. Move on.
Klaus watches with that proud, dying smile. Murmurs, "Good. You're finally learning to enjoy the life." He raises his glass. "That's my boy."
I lean back on the couch. Let the coke hit my system. Numb and sharp at the same time.
The door opens. Music floods in for a moment—heavy bass, synthetic beats. Then the women enter. Six of them. All in black leather. Heels. Dark lipstick. Professional smiles that don't reach their eyes.
Hookers. High-end, but still hookers.
Two kneel between my legs immediately. Hands on my thighs. Looking up at me with practiced seduction.
A new lieutenant—Dmitri, mid-thirties, scar across his jaw, eager to prove himself—grins at me from across the table. "Good, no?" he says in heavily accented English. "Best in the city. Klaus's gift. For completing your stars."
I look down at the women. One blonde. One brunette. Both beautiful in that expensive, manufactured way. They smile. Waiting for permission. For instruction.
I feel nothing. No desire. No disgust. Nothing. Just the coke in my system and the bass vibrating through the floor and the void where my heart used to be.
"Private room," I say. "Upstairs. Both of you."
Klaus raises his glass. Approving. Then he laughs. "That's my boy."
