The burner phone buzzed at eight AM sharp. Klaus. His voice was weaker than yesterday but still triumphant, sick satisfaction bleeding through every word. "Clean work, son. No headlines. No loose ends. Police ruled it suicide within hours. You did good."
No praise beyond that. The Bratva didn't coddle. They tested, they used, they discarded. I'd seen it in the files Lori sent me years ago—the organizational structure, the turnover rate, the bodies that turned up when someone stopped being useful. I was useful now. But for how long?
"Come to the penthouse," Klaus continued. "Debrief. One hour."
The line went dead.
• • •
The drive was silent. Handler at the wheel, same dead eyes that never blinked, never showed emotion. Two guards in the back seat flanking me like I was a prisoner being transported. Which, essentially, I was. One of them had a tattoo snaking up his neck—Cyrillic script I couldn't read but recognized as Bratva. The other kept his hand near his jacket. Gun. Always a gun.
My mind raced the whole way—flashes I couldn't stop. The target's limp body slumped in that office chair, head lolled forward like a broken puppet. The syringe empty in my hand, clear liquid gone, replaced by death. The staged suicide note in his own handwriting: I'm sorry. I can't live with what I've done.The irony wasn't lost on me. I couldn't live with what I'd done either. But I didn't get the mercy of an ending.
Guilt gnawed at the edges of my thoughts, trying to claw its way in. Was it really "easy" like I'd told myself? Or was I just numb? Had I broken something inside myself that couldn't be fixed? The pit fighter in me—the one who'd learned to take pain and keep moving—whispered that I could endure this. That I'd endured worse. But that was a lie. I'd never killed before. Never looked into someone's eyes and decided they didn't get to see tomorrow.
And the worst part? I'd do it again. For her. Without hesitation.
At the penthouse, Klaus waited in the same high-backed chair, facing those massive windows overlooking CentralPark. He looked frailer than two days ago—cancer eating him faster now, oxygen tank hissing louder beside him, each breath accompanied by a wet rattle that sounded like drowning from the inside. The swelling from where I'd headbutted and punched him had bloomed into spectacular purple bruises across his face—jaw, cheekbone, the bridge of his nose. But he wore them like badges of honor. Proof his son had fire in him.
I studied him as I crossed the room. Really looked. The man was dying. Weeks, maybe a month if he was lucky. The oxygen tank wasn't cosmetic—it was his lifeline. His hands shook slightly when he reached for the tablet on the side table. His skin had that translucent quality that came right before the end, veins visible like roadmaps under parchment.
Weakness. Everywhere I looked, weakness.
And yet he still held all the power. Because he had men. Loyal men. Men with guns and no conscience. Men who'd survived him and would survive me if I made the wrong move.
I filed that observation away. Catalogued it like I used to catalogue opponents in the pit—strengths, weaknesses, patterns. Klaus was dying. But his infrastructure wasn't. Not yet.
"Sit," he rasped.
I sat.
He picked up the tablet. Tapped the screen with a finger that trembled slightly. Turned it toward me. "Before we discuss business," he said, "I thought you'd want to see how she's doing."
My blood turned to ice.
The screen showed a live feed. Alena. In her London flat. Curled on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, face buried inher hands. The apartment looked like a war zone—broken glass still glittering on the floor, wine stains dark on the walls, shadows pooling thick in every corner like they were alive.
She was shaking. Crying. Alone.
The timestamp in the corner read: LIVE.
My heart stopped. Every muscle in my body locked up. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just stared at her broken form on that screen and felt something inside me shatter.
"No," I breathed.
Klaus smiled—slow, satisfied, cruel. "Oh yes. We've had eyes on her since you left London. Very easy to install cameras when someone's… distracted." He let the word hang there. Distracted. Like what we'd shared that night was nothing. Like her vulnerability was just an opportunity he'd exploited.
I couldn't look away. Couldn't breathe. She lifted her head slightly, reaching for something on the coffee table. A bottle. Empty. She threw it against the wall—weakly, like she barely had the strength. It shattered. She didn't even flinch at the sound. Just curled tighter into herself, pulling something around her shoulders. My hoodie. The one I'd left at her place months ago. She was drowning in it.
"She's been like this for days," Klaus said conversationally, like we were discussing the weather. "Barely eating. Drinking herself unconscious. Calling your phone over and over. It's quite sad, really."
My hands clenched into fists on my knees, nails digging into my palms hard enough to draw blood. I forced my face to stay blank, forced my breathing to stay even. But inside I was screaming. Inside I was ripping this room apart with mybare hands, tearing Klaus's throat out, burning this whole fucking empire to ash.
This is my fault. I did this to her.
"Why are you showing me this?" I asked, voice flat.
"To remind you of the stakes." Klaus tapped the screen. The camera angle shifted—closer now, zoomed in on Alena's face. Tear-stained. Hollow-eyed. Broken in ways I'd never seen her broken before. "Right now," Klaus continued, "she's safe. Suffering, yes. But alive. Breathing. Untouched." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "That can change very quickly if you stop cooperating."
