"But I need you to help me save her." My voice cracks on the last word, and I don't care. Pride means nothing now. Only Svetlana matters. "Please. I'll do anything. I'll accept any punishment, any consequence. You can take my life—I don't care. But please, help me get her back. Help me save our child."
The words hang in the air between us. I've laid myself completely bare, stripped away every defense, every bit of armor. I'm standing in front of him with my heart in my hands, begging for mercy I don't deserve.
Ilya studies me for what feels like an eternity. I can see him deciding my fate. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my eyes on his, refusing to look away.
"You understand there must be consequences," he says finally.
Relief floods through me so intensely I almost stagger. He hasn't said no. He hasn't pulled his gun. "Yes. I understand."
"Do you?" He moves past me, across the room, and takes a knife from the table there. He turns and holds it up, and the blade catches the light. "Because I'm not talking about a slap on the wrist, Kazimir. I'm talking about blood. About pain. About a reminder that will stay with you for the rest of your life."
I look at the knife, then back at him. My mouth has gone dry, but I nod. "Whatever you think is fair."
"Fair? Nothing about this is fair. What you’ve done changes things between us. It will change things going forward." He tilts the knife, ensuring that I’m looking at it. "But you're right about one thing—we need to move fast if we're going to get Svetlana back alive. So here's what's going to happen."
He motions for me to come forward. "You're going to put your hand on this table. I'm going to take one of your fingers. And then we're going to go get your woman back."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I expected punishment, but somehow the specific brutality of it makes it real in a way it hasn't been before. I'm going to lose a finger. Ilya is going to cut it off, right here, right now.
And I'm going to let him.
Because the alternative is Svetlana dying while I still have all ten fingers intact, and that's unthinkable.
I move to the table. My hand is steadier than I expected, though I can feel my pulse hammering in my wrist. "Which one?" I ask, surprised that my voice comes out level.
“Your choice. The right hand.” Ilya pauses, looking at me. “You don’t work for me after tonight, Kazimir. And you’ll hold a gun for no one else. In time, maybe there will be some other place for you. Some rebuilding of trust and friendship. But what you are,whoyou are, ends now. Tonight. Is she worth that?”
I know what he’s saying. I could say no. He would put a bullet in me then, if I’d rather die than be what I’ve been all my life, relinquish his trust and my work for him, and find out who I am on the other side of this.
If she isn’t worth it.
But she is… and she always has been. I just realized it nearly too late.
If I do this, it might still be too late… or it might not, if we can save her in time.
I put my right hand down, spreading them so that the index finger is isolated. "This one," I say quietly, my pulse throbbing in my throat.
Ilya nods. “Don’t move,” he warns, and he presses the tip of the blade to my finger, just below the knuckle of my ring finger. The metal is cold against my skin.
"For the record," Ilya says, his voice low enough that only I can hear, "I believe you. About your feelings for her. About being willing to die for her. That's the only reason you're not getting a bullet instead of losing a finger. Why I’m giving you a chance—so far as I can."
"I know," I say quietly. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet."
The knife comes down in one swift, brutal motion.
The pain is immediate and overwhelming, a white-hot explosion that radiates up my arm and into my brain. I feel the blade slice through skin, through tendon, through bone, and I feel the sickening separation as part of me is severed from the rest.
A sound tears from my throat—not quite a scream, but close. My entire body goes rigid, every muscle locked tight against the agony. Through the haze of pain, I'm distantly aware of Ilya barking an order, something about ice and a doctor. The words don't quite penetrate the roaring in my ears.
“It needs to be cauterized and stitched and bandaged properly,” I hear Ilya say, as someone hands me a wad of gauze to press against the spurting stump of my finger. I take it and press it there on instinct, and feel the whole world swim from the pain again.
"No." The word comes out strangled, but I force myself to focus through the pain. "No time. We need to move now."
"You're no good to anyone if you bleed out or pass out from shock," Ilya says. "Thirty minutes. That's all it will take. And we need that time anyway to gather intelligence, to figure out where they're holding her."
I want to argue, want to insist we leave immediately, but the rational part of my brain knows he's right. I can't save Svetlana if I'm unconscious from blood loss. And we need information, a plan.
