I silence him with my fist. The familiar crunch of bone grounds me, keeps the rage from consuming everything. They touched her. They dared to touch what’s mine.
“They sent you after Clara.” Another hit. My knuckles split further. “AftermyClara.” I don’t recognize my own voice anymore.
In my peripheral vision, Vic checks his Patek Philippe. Always precise, even now. His tech analyst whispers something and he tilts his head to listen.
“Leonid.” Vic’s Swiss accent sharpens my name. “The payment traced back to Caldwell Industries. Caribbean holdings.”
The smaller one, James Wilson—probably another fake name—pisses himself. The acrid smell mixes with blood and sweat.
“Please… we didn’t know she was a Caldwell. Just told to make it look like a robbery gone wrong.”
I go still. My fingers find Wilson’s burner phone. “Call your employer. Tell them it’s done.”
“What?”
“Tell. Them. She’s. Dead.” Each word feels like ice in my veins. “Or I’ll ensure your actual death takes significantly longer than hers would have.”
The phone rings three times. Static crackles.
Wilson croaks out the words, terror making him surprisingly convincing. “Job’s done. The woman… she’s taken care of.”
A pause that stretches like a garotte wire. Then: “Good. Confirmation photo within the hour.”
The line dies. The phone cracks in my grip.
I look at Vic. He nods—call traced. His tech team never fails.
“Thank you for your cooperation.” My Glock feels heavy as I draw it. The weight of what’s coming settles in my chest. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for your employer.”
His eyes widen. “No, wait—”
Two shots. Clean. Professional. More mercy than they deserve.
Vic’s tech guy interrupts us, “Sir, the call we traced… it came from the same account we tracked earlier. Caldwell Industries. But—” He hesitates, clearing his throat. “There’s another call on the same line, sir. I’m patching it through now.”
Vic smirks, clearly enjoying himself. “Old school burner phones,” he says, casually slipping his hands into his pockets. “They underestimated you, Leonid. Big mistake.”
The recording fills the concrete room. An unfamiliar voice, deep and sleek as black ice: “Clara Caldwell’s been taken care of.”
A pause.
“What about the boy?” My stomach churns as the second voice takes its time.
“Blyat,” I hiss. My father’s most trusted man. Aleksei.
Just like the ones in the photo Dimitri sent to me.
Ice clinks against glass. A soft chuckle scrapes my nerves raw.
“Elijah is now orphaned. Leonid’s done playing nice. No more leverage. No more loose ends. That boy is dead weight.”
“Tsk, tsk.” The sound crackles through the speaker, and for a moment, I’m back in Papa’s study, watching Aleksei’s thin lips curl as he whispered poison in Papa’s ear.
“You’re one coldsuka, Stephan. Thought you had a soft spot for that bastard boy. All those times playing uncle.”
“I should’ve put a bullet between her eyes when I took care of Jake. The stupid bitch doesn’t even know it was me, standing right in front of her at his funeral. Then again, she never met dear Stephan until after I put five bullets into her brother dearest.”
My knuckles crack as I clench my fists, the sound sharp as gunfire in the basement. For fourteen years. Fourteen fucking years Clara’s been hunting the wrong killer, while thissvolochplayed family friend. I force myself to breathe, to listen. To memorize every detail of how I’ll make him suffer.
