22
KONSTANTIN
I don't sleep.
For four straight hours, I sit perfectly still in the leather chair behind my desk, watching my wife breathe.
The Meat Grinder is a cage of cold concrete and rusted iron, but inside this glass-walled office, the outside world doesn't exist.
The only sound that matters right now is the soft rhythm of Helena’s breathing. She's curled on her side on the leather sofa with her knees pulled up to her stomach, still wrapped tight in my ruined, blood-stained suit jacket.
Her face is pale in the early morning light that bleeds through the high warehouse windows. The dark bruises swelling along her cheekbone and the clean white bandage wrapped around her thumb are glaring reminders of my failure.
Every time she shifts in her sleep and lets out a tiny, pained breath, a fresh wave of self-hatred washes over me.
I stare at those marks until they're burned into the back of my eyelids.
For twenty years, I've been a patient man, but I’m done being patient. The cold, calculating Konstantin is gone. All that'sleft is the ruthless enforcer the streets forged me into. I'm not spending another second of my life waiting for shipping containers or decryption codes.
It’s time for vengeance.
At exactly 6:00 AM, the encrypted satellite phone resting on the edge of my desk starts vibrating.
It buzzes against the metal. The harsh sound shatters the quiet of the office. I snatch it so it doesn't wake her, my split and bruised hands aching at the sudden movement. I glance at the caller ID glowing on the screen.
Sokolov.The Head of the Bratva Council of Elders.
I press the phone to my ear. "Speak."
"You've made a grave, unforgivable error, Konstantin," Sokolov’s voice rasps through the speaker. It's thick with age and absolute authority. "Did you really think you could hide a slaughter on a public bridge from us? We have eyes inside your ranks. You command the men, but their ultimate loyalty is to the Brotherhood. We know the Italians took the master tablet. And we know you traded the keys to our greatest arsenal for the life of a woman."
"I secured what was mine," I reply.
"You compromised the entire Brotherhood," Sokolov snaps. The fragile, decades-long peace between us is finally cracking. "That shipment is the lifeblood of our operation. I don't care about your wife, and I don't care about your personal vendettas. You broke the fundamental rule of the Vory v Zakone. You put personal attachment above the Brotherhood. Hear me clearly. If you don't retrieve that tablet and regain full control over the Venezuelan shipment within forty-eight hours, the Council will formally declare you a traitor to the bloodline."
The threat hangs heavy in the air.
Being declared a traitor means excommunication. It means every Bratva soldier in the country gets a green light to put a bullet in my head.
"We'll vote for your execution. Your dream for the throne will be over,” Sokolov threatens, his tone like ice. "We'll hunt you down ourselves. The clock is ticking, boy."
The line clicks dead.
The phone lowers slowly back to the desk.
Forty-eight hours. A kill clock.
If I fail, the Italians will carve me up with my own weapons. If I run, my men will spill my blood in the streets.
There’s no fear in me. Not anymore. The unknown doesn’t claw at my ribs the way it used to. The rules are set now.
Win. Or die.
I rise from the chair and move across the room without a sound, my boots silent against the floor. The world has narrowed to one thing.
Her.
Crouching beside the sofa, I pull my suit jacket higher over Helena’s bruised shoulders, shielding her warmth with my own. She shouldn’t be cold. Not in my presence.
