He punches me—a hard, short hook to the ribs.
It finds the wound.
White light explodes behind my eyes. The pain is blinding, a supernova in my side. I feel the stitches tear. I feel the wet warmth of blood spreading across my stomach, soaking the waistband of my trousers. The breath leaves my lungs in a harsh whoosh.
I roar. It’s a sound of pure agony and rage.
I grab his head. I slam it into the concrete. Once. Twice.
His resistance stops. He goes limp.
I scramble up. My side is on fire. Every movement feels like tearing paper. I stumble, catching my balance.
Volkov is at the harbor edge. He is reaching for the iron ladder that leads down to the water.
I reach him.
My hand closes on the back of his expensive wool coat. I haul him back. He spins, his elbow driving backward.
It connects with my injured side.
The pain drops me to one knee. I gasp, my vision swimming with black spots. It feels like he just drove a spike into my kidney.
He kicks me in the chest. I fall onto my back, the air wheezing out of me.
He draws a knife from his belt. A combat dagger, matte black, serrated.
He lunges.
I catch his wrist. My grip is slippery with sweat and blood. The blade hovers inches from my left eye.
He is strong. Older, but trained. He presses down, his weight behind the knife. His face is a mask of cold concentration.
"Die, boy," he hisses.
I look at the knife. I look at him.
I twist my hips. I bridge my back, using the wrestling move Da taught me when I was twelve. I throw him over me.
He lands hard on his back, the air leaving him in a grunt. The knife clatters away across the concrete.
I scramble on top of him. I pin his arms with my knees.
I punch him.
Right in the face. I feel his nose break under my knuckles. Blood sprays across my hand.
I punch him again. And again.
The rage takes over. The Reaper takes over. I am not thinking. I am not strategizing. I am destroying the thing that hurt my family. I am destroying the thing that shot my father and tried to kill Alessandro.
His head bounces off the concrete. His eyes roll back. He goes limp.
I stop.
My fist is raised for another blow. My breath is tearing at my throat, harsh and ragged.
I look at him. His face is a ruin. Blood masks his features. He is unconscious.
