Everyone else had retreated—my men and even his people kept a respectful distance of at least ten feet.
The families on the island had fled entirely.
But Kazimir stood close enough to touch the fire, close enough that the heat must have been searing, and he stared into the blaze like he was watching the most captivatingly beautiful vision in the world.
Sick bastard.
He was massive and tall. Built like a bear, with shoulders broad enough to block out the sun. Today he wore black boots, black pants, a black long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms thick with muscle and tattoos. And I realized that this wasn't the Kazimir I was used to seeing—the one in tailored suits and silk ties, the one who looked like he belonged in a boardroom negotiating hostile takeovers.
The realization settled into my chest.
Why is he dressed this way?
Whatever had brought the Lion to my island, he hadn't come expecting peace.
His men—around twenty Russians in dark suits—stood in a line behind him. Still as statues. Eyes that tracked movement without appearing to move at all.
Why the hell would you come here?
As I got close, Kazimir reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar.
Next, he walked right toward the pyre.
Huh?
He got closer.
Closer still.
Until he was standing at the very edge of the flames. Heat shimmered around him. Ash settled on his shoulders.
And then Kazimir leaned in toward the fire and burning bodies and then crouched by one of the burning skulls.
What the fuck is he doing?
The skull sat low in the pyre—half-swallowed by stacked ribs, splintered femurs, and the other men’s torsos slumped. The heat had erased its identity. The skin was dark, crusted over, and cooked into a blistered lacquer. The man’s melted eyes had become glossy pits, the lids fused and cracking. The mouth hung open in a permanent, slack scream—gaping, black, rimmed with ash—teeth exposed like white stones in a burned-out cave.
Kazimir didn’t flinch as he crouched by that head. And with the calm precision of a man choosing a wine, the Lion reached out the hand holding the cigar and angled his wrist until his cigar’s tip hovered inches above the flaming skull.
What is wrong with him? Surely, he or his men had a lighter.
A tongue of flame curled up from the dead man’s brow and kissed his cigar.
The wrapper darkened.
The tip glowed.
Kazimir rolled it slowly.
A thin strand of melted flesh sloughed from the head’s cheekbone and dropped onto the coals below with a wet hiss.
The stench—fat and smoke—pushed into the air in a thick wave.
Satisfied with the light, Kazimir rose, put the cigar to his mouth, and drew in once. Deep. The cigar flared bright as a wound.
Then he exhaled, and the smoke left his mouth, drifting over along the heap of bodies.
My stomach clenched.
