You’re mine. Nobody gets to take what’s mine.
Not Irina. Not Tatiana. Not the fucking devil himself.
50
Konstantin
It starts at a train station. One of those half-forgotten ones outside the city where the streetlights flicker and the schedule boards buzz with static.
It’s nearly midnight. The platform is nearly empty—only a few stragglers huddled on benches, a couple of tired commuters shuffling past, heads down, lost in their own exhaustion. The kind of place where large men lingering in the shadows should scream danger. Should scream Bratva. If Irina were paying attention—if she were still the woman she once was—she might have smelled it. Might have known.
It’s been twelve days since Timur picked up the first whisper.
Two weeks since Arseny traced the burner trail to a cash-for-gold pawnshop on the wrong side of town. Less than a day since they boxed her in so tight that she had nowhere left to run.
My men don’t miss. Not when it matters.
Timur stands to my left, Arseny leans against a rusted support beam, one hand casually tucked into his jacket, the other texting updates like he’s ordering pizza instead of closing a perimeter.
Irina doesn’t see them.
She’s too busy scanning the arrivals board, clutching a cheap knockoff purse like it holds the keys to her redemption. Hood up. Head down. A threadbare scarf wrapped high around her jaw, hood yanked down to her eyebrows, hiding the wreck she’s become.
“She’s rattled,” Timur murmurs without moving his mouth. “Five different burner phones. None of them clean.”
Arseny’s phone vibrates once. “Another cash withdrawal flagged two miles from here. She’s desperate.”
I already know.
The first sight of her—hair brittle, coat two seasons too old, that air of rotting ambition around her—tells me everything I need to know. Irina Mikhailova used to wear her beauty like a weapon. Tonight, it’s a rusted blade.
A drunk stumbles out from behind one of the cracked vending machines, waving a bottle in one hand and slurring something unintelligible. He veers toward her, hand outstretched.
Irina recoils. Shoves him hard in the chest.
“Get the fuck away from me, you piece of shit!” she snaps.
The drunk stumbles back, muttering curses, and lurches toward the stairwell.
Arseny lets out a low chuckle under his breath. “Still got those charming people skills, doesn’t she.”
I don’t respond. Just roll my shoulders back once, slow and deliberate, like shaking off the instinct to snap the drunk’s neck just for breathing in her direction.
Irina pulls her scarf higher, glancing around, paranoid now.
“Fuck,” she mutters, eyes darting to the dim tracks. The arrival board buzzes again, flickering. No train yet.
She fumbles with her purse. Drops a prepaid MetroCard. Curses under her breath and ducks her head lower.
I watch her.
Not because I want to. Because once, years ago, I made her a promise. Because once, she carried my child.
Because once, she carried my name.
A soft click sounds in my earpiece. Timur’s voice follows a beat later, low and clipped.
“Clear. No eyes on us.”
