I stayed inside the perimeter and moved on foot, keeping to the dark seams between properties where fences met hedges and cameras overlapped just enough to create blind spots. The neighborhood was designed for privacy, not defense. Wealth assumed immunity.
The house came into view through a break in the trees. Calling it a house was generous. It was a concrete palace, all sharp lines and glass, perched high enough to look down on the city as if it believed itself above consequence.
All that glass. All that arrogance.
I stopped well short of the property line and watched. I counted one camera on the front gate, two under the eaves. One was angled toward the driveway, and motion sensors buried at the corners, calibrated for vehicles and large movements.
If I’d been anyone else, it might have looked impressive. Instead, it was a pattern.
I pulled my knit cap lower and slid my gloves on, breath steady as I moved through the back lots. Snow and frost-covered manicured grass gave way to stone paths. It was clear this bastard’s money was spent for show, not survival.
The junction box was half-hidden behind landscaping meant to soften the lines of the building. I crouched, popped the panel, and studied the wiring. You learn certain things if you live long enough in the streets in this world. How to shoot, stab, and break a man without killing him.
I clipped the feed and looped it cleanly. The cameras froze on their last image, and motion sensors went dark. I had sixty seconds to get where I needed to with no one knowing. I moved to the side. The wall wasn’t smooth if you knew where to look. My fingers found the seams, the imperfections left by rushed construction. I climbed, flattened myself along the edge, and listened.
No dogs, or footsteps, or alarms. Just the distant whine of traffic and the steady hum of a house that believed itself safe filled the dead air. I dropped onto the inner lawn and crouched. The back of the house was all glass and steel. A terraced patio and a winterized pool with landscape lighting reflecting the area. He liked flaunting his wealth even when he slept.
I moved along the back of the house, staying close to the glass until I reached the service corridor tucked beside the kitchen wing. Builders loved hiding functionality behind luxury. The door wasn’t meant for guests. It was just a reinforced frame and a standard mechanical lock.
I applied steady pressure and felt the mechanism give with a soft pop. The door opened just enough for me to slip inside. Warmth hit me immediately; the air heavy with the scent of fresh floor wax, leather, and expensive cologne barely masking the cigar smoke.
I shut the door and stood still, letting the house speak to me as I breathed in deeply. Then I heard it. Snoring. It was low and rhythmic. The sound of a television upstairs filtered to where I stood.
I moved through the space without a sound. There was an open living area with art that cost more than most people made in a year decorating the grossly extravagant space. I kept moving and made my way upstairs.
Halfway up, I paused on the staircase, hand resting on the rail, and just listened. I couldn’t stop the memories of my mother and that godforsaken night playing through my mind. The man soundly sleeping just feet from me had paid to watch someone being killed. And Andrey had facilitated.
Everything had narrowed then. I felt no rage, not even grief. All I felt was clarity.
I didn’t believe in fate or destiny. I believed in revenge and vengeance, and tonight, I was getting the latter tenfold.
I followed the sound of snoring down a hallway lined with closed doors. At the end there was a set of double doors, slightly ajar, muted light from the television spilling onto the carpet. I pushed the door inward, and it cracked. I stood there a moment and just stared at the body on the bed.
I knew everything about him.
His shell companies, offshore accounts, and the men he paid to make problems disappear. I knew which charities he used to launder his money and which politicians owed him favors they’d never admit to in daylight.
Eighty-three years old on paper, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. Money had sanded down the years. Private doctors and experimental treatments created a life cushioned from consequences. His skin was smooth for his age, his hair only just starting to silver. And right now, he looked like a man who’d never missed a night’s sleep after watching women die.
He thought he was untouchable. I was going to rectify that tonight.
On the wall opposite the bed, a massive television looped news headlines. Markets are up, cities burning, and names scrolling past without meaning. He liked watching the world he helped poison keep turning.
I cataloged what mattered right here and now. Gun on the nightstand, cell phone beside that, half-empty glass of water, and a framed photo of him shaking hands with a politician all lumped together.
Evil loved proof.
I crossed the room in three silent steps and silently took the gun first, sliding it into my waistband. For a solid minute I just watched him sleep and counted his respirations. Enough with delaying the inevitable.
I grabbed his shirt and yanked him halfway off the bed.
He woke with a strangled sound, and I slapped his face, causing him to gasp and grow silent. I leaned down and snarled, “Quiet,” against his ear. “If you scream, I’ll make your death as slow as possible.” I was going to do that anyway, but compliance would make this easier on my part.
His eyes went wide, and sweat broke out instantly. “Get up.” He started murmuring incoherently, but didn’t move. I grabbed a chunk of his hair and forced his head back. “I said get up.”
He finally staggered to his feet, breath reeking of alcohol. I stared at him, seeing nothing but the man who paid to have my mother murdered. It was hard to see this old man as theperson who paid to see my mother killed for his sick pleasure, but I knew it was him. I snarled, “Ty ne muzhchina. Ty gnil’ s den’gami.”You’re not a man. You’re rot with money.
I pressed his own gun to his temple and leaned in close enough for him to feel my rage. “Move,” I said. I guided him down the stairs, keeping my body between his and the open spaces of the house, controlling his pace, his balance, his fear.
