The old bastard earned that much.
Dmitry circles him, knuckles split and bruised. For once, the Siberian Slaughterer isn’t smiling.
“Who sent you?” Dmitry’s fist connects with the old man’s ribs. A wet crack echoes through the basement.
The old man crumples, wheezing. Pushes himself up on shaking arms.
“Where’s Clara?”
Same fucking question. Always the same.
“Getting creative with retirement homes, boss?” Maksim pulls out his phone, snaps a picture. “Thought we had an age limit on sparring partners.”
“Shut up.”
The old man’s good eye fixes on me. There’s something in that stare.
“You,” his voice scrapes out. “You took her.”
I look over at Dmitry, who’s cracking his knuckles like he’s warming up for another round. This guy doesn’t know who the fuck he’s dealing with. Either that, or he’s too broken to care.
Maksim’s bouncing on his toes now, amused. “You think he’s had enough? Or should we let him keep asking dumb questions until he bleeds out?”
I shoot him a glance, but the truth is, Maksim’s right. The man’s barely holding on, his limbs trembling as he tries to stay upright. The ring reeks of sweat, blood, and defeat.
But thatlook. I’ve seen it before. In the mirror, five years ago, when Ludis appeared. Thelookof pure, unfiltered hatred. The kind that lives in your bones.
His good leg scrapes against the canvas. One step. Another. Blood trails behind him like breadcrumbs as he drags himself toward me, that dead-eyed stare never wavering.
“Where is CLARA!”
Dmitry’s boot comes down on his knee. Another crack.
The old man doesn’t scream. Doesn’t blink.
Dmitry takes a step forward, but I stop him.
“Wait.” I step closer to the ring. “Dmitry.”
“Boss?”
“Look at his hands.”
Maksim stops chewing. Moves in for a better look.
The old man’s fingers. Shamrock tattoo wrapped around his ring finger, edges faded to blue. Old school Irish mark. The kind they gave their most loyal.
“Der’mo.” Maksim whistles. “No wonder gramps won’t stay down.”
The old man spits blood. Tries to stand again.
“Clara.” His voice is stronger now. “Where is my—”
Dmitry’s fist cuts off the question. The old man finally drops.
“Dmitry.” I fix him with a hard glare.
Dmitry just shrugs, his expression blank, as if he didn’t just knock out a man twice his age. “He wasn’t going to say anything useful. You know it.”
