What the fuck am I doing?
Stalking toward the door, I try to shake off her warmth. Her scent. The way her body curves protectively around her son. The sight burns into my brain like a brand.
The door shuts. The walls seem to shrink as Dmitry strides down the corridor.
“Boss?” Dmitry steps aside, that knowing look in his eyes.
“Double the guard.” The words come out gravel-rough. “No one enters without my permission.”
“And the boy’s Pikachu?” He holds up a ratty yellow thing.
My fingers curl into fists. The toy’s dead eyes mock my weakness. “Leave it outside. What do I look like, a fucking babysitter?”
But as I stride down the hallway, that image burns behind my eyes. Clara fighting her nightmares. That familiar face on her boy. The way one tear felt against my thumb.
Sentimental piece of shit, I snarl at myself. Tomorrow, I’ll remember who I am. Tomorrow, I’ll make her talk.
Tonight… Tonight, I need a bottle of the good vodka. Maybe two.
The vodka burns like acid, but it’s not enough to erase her tears from my mind.Blyat.
I slam the crystal tumbler down on my desk, watching the liquid ripple. The massive screens covering my office walls paint everything in an eerie blue glow—satellite feeds, security cameras, stock tickers, crypto movements. Power at my fingertips.
But I can’t stop seeing her face.
The holographic display flickers as I swipe through files. There—Jake Caldwell. Every piece of intel I’ve gathered on the Caldwell family sits in my secure server. Know your enemy. Know their weaknesses.
“System, display file 2847-B.”
The crime scene photos materialize in the air before me. Blood soaking into forest dirt. Summer leaves scattered with red. And there she is—15-year-old Clara, covered in it, screaming as three officers try to pry her off her brother’s body. Her fingers leaving crimson streaks on Jake’s shirt.
My jaw clenches. That summer, I was halfway around the world cleaning up my father’s mess in Moscow. Some upstart thought he could take over our weapons pipeline while the old man was dying. Poor fuck learned the hard way why they called me The Raven.
I take another shot, memories of that bloody summer mixing with the image of Clara’s tears tonight. Everyone blamed The Raven for Jake’s death. Convenient. But I didn’t give the order. And I never kill children.
“Cross-reference location data, summer 2010.”
A ghost of a laugh escapes me. So that’s her game.
My fingers drum against the desk, an old tell I thought I’d killed years ago. She thinks The Raven killed her brother. That I killed her brother.
Fifteen years old, covered in his blood, and someone fed her my name.
The Raven’s reputation has served me well—kept rivals in check, territories secure. I never bothered clearing my name when shit went sideways. Let them fear the boogeyman.
But this…
I stand abruptly, the chair rolling back to hit the wall. Jake Caldwell’s death file hangs in the air, his sister’s screams somehow echoing in the pixels. Somemudakused my name, used The Raven, to destroy a little girl’s life.
And now she wants me dead.
My jaw clenches as I watch the footage loop. Fifteen-year-old Clara, screaming over her brother’s body. Today’s Clara, with murder in her eyes and poison in her pocket.
Both of them bleeding for a crime I didn’t commit.
Maybe it’s the vodka making me philosophical. Maybe it’s the memory of her tears on my thumb. Or maybe it’s because, for the first time in years, I actually give a fuck about clearing my name.
A strange twist of pain tugs at my chest, something foreign, almost unwelcome, as the young girl’s anguish claws at me. It’s like a punch I wasn’t ready for—sharp, deep, and settling uncomfortably under my ribs.
