His wrists are zip-tied to the arms of the chair, ankles bound to the legs. He’s hanging limply, shirt clinging wet with sweat, eyes darting every time the bulb stutters. A bruise blooms purple across his jaw. And his pants… yeah. He didn’t make it. Dima did his work. Quiet, efficient. Just enough pain to break his bladder and leave him stinking like the coward he is. The sour stench hits the back of my throat the moment I open the steel door.
Pathetic.
But even pathetic men can burn down empires if they open their mouths to the wrong people. That’s the problem.
He jerks up when he hears my boots. “Anton! Please listen; it wasn’t me. I swear to God, I just did what I was told.” His voice cracks, raw from hours of begging. “You know me. You know I’d never cross Igor. Never. I was only moving numbers. That’s all. Just… just instructions.”
I don’t answer. I step closer, slow, deliberate, so he can hear the echo of my soles grinding against the concrete. Let him stew in it.
His breathing hitches.
“I’ll tell you everything. I’ll name names. Timofey. It was him. That Igor didn’t need to know—” His words spill out in a rush, sloppy, desperate. He’s already cut his own throat.
Because now I know two things: One, Viktor won’t make it to Igor alive. Not with that name on his lips. Two, Timofey will do whatever it takes to erase him before that happens.
And men like Timofey don’t fail.
Viktor’s head drops, shoulders shaking. He whispers something like a prayer, though I doubt God listens down here. Not with me in the room.
He keeps mumbling, rocking the chair like it’ll sprout wheels and roll him the fuck out of here.
“I just followed instructions… only instructions. I didn’t steal… I didn’t take…” His lips tremble, spit catching in the corner of his mouth. His eyes won’t stay still; they jerk from the floor to me,back to the door, like he’s measuring how far he’d get before my bullet reaches his spine.
I lean against the wall, arms folded. Silent.
Men break faster when they’re forced to fill the quiet with their own fear.
Viktor swallows hard, throat working. “Anton, please, you know me. You know I’d never—”
“I know you’re a thief,” I cut in, low. My voice bounces off the concrete, makes him flinch. “And a coward. And a liar.”
He shakes his head fast. “No, no, no—”
“Da. You think Igor gives a shit if you ‘just followed instructions’? Think Timofey will protect you once your mouth runs?” I tilt my head, watch his skin pale. “Suka, you’re already dead. You just haven’t figured out where your grave is yet.”
The chair squeals under his weight as he thrashes. “It was Timofey! He set it up! I was only the middleman! Please, you have to believe me, Anton—”
“Believe you?” I push off the wall, close the space in three steps, crouch so my face is level with his. He reeks of sweat, piss, terror. His pupils are blown wide, darting like a cornered rat.
“You shit yourself in the first hour. You’d sell your own mother for half a chance at another breath. And you want me to believe a single fucking word out of your mouth?”
His chin wobbles. Tears shine. He nods anyway, like a desperate child.
I study him, jaw tight. Viktor Kozlov was supposed to be a simple job. Drag him in, beat the truth out, follow the money, report back to Igor. Clean, efficient.
But now the truth’s bleeding out of him faster than his nose. The money trail is clear. Timofey’s prints are all over it. And that, Igor will never accept. He won’t believe his own blood could gut him from the inside.
Which means this isn’t a job anymore. It’s a fucking minefield. If Viktor makes it to Igor alive, it’ll be war inside the Bratva before we even hit the streets. If he dies too fast, we lose leverage. Either way, Timofey won’t let him breathe long enough to make the choice.
And yet—against my better judgment—my mind flicks somewhere else. Not to Viktor. To her. Mary.
The way her body trembled under my hands last night. The way she looked at me—half-fear, half-trust—like she didn’t know if I’d ruin her or save her.
Chyort.What the fuck is wrong with me? Thinking about her when I should be planning how to keep this bastard alive just long enough to be useful.
The door screeches open, metal grinding against metal.
Lev strolls in like it’s a Sunday matinee, flipping a knife between his fingers. The smell hits him, too, and he wrinkles his nose.
