But I know addicts. I know the itch. Once the chips are down, once the desperation sets in... that deed won't be proof. It’ll be currency.
"He’s here," Lev says from the shadows behind me. My Lieutenant’s voice is a low rumble. "Right on schedule."
"Of course he is," I reply, not turning away from the glass. My reflection hovers over Arthur’s figure, a predator looming over its prey. "We starved him. Now he’s here to beg."
I adjust the cuffs of my tuxedo. Under the tailored wool, the tattoos on my wrists are hidden—the eight-pointed stars.
Tonight, I’m not Konstantin Morozov, the most feared enforcer of the Bratva. I’m merely Mr. Volkov, a wealthy foreigner with too much oil money and a drinking problem.
A "whale," as the pit bosses call men like me.
Arthur Blackwood thinks he’s walking into a game of chance. He thinks bad luck froze his shipment this morning. He thinks it’s a cruel coincidence that his biggest client, Apex Heavy Industries, threatened to sue his company.
He doesn't know that I’m the client. He doesn't know I ordered the hack.
He thinks he’s dealing with a faceless company. He has no idea that the company is nothing more than a weapon I bought three months ago, so I could hold a knife to his throat.
I watch him walk to the VIP table. He grabs a drink from a waiter, his hand shaking violently. He downs it in one gulp. He looks desperate. I like them that way.
"The room is safe?" I ask, keeping my eyes on Arthur.
"Ivan has disabled the cameras," Lev says. "The dealer is ours. The other two players at the table work for us. They’ll fold when you signal. There’s no way out."
"And the drink?"
"The best scotch. Just the way he likes it. We’ll keep his glass full."
I turn from the window and look at my reflection in the glass. The scar running from my jaw to my collarbone is hidden in the dark, but I can feel it itching. It always itches when I’m close to him. It’s a memory of the fire.
My hand moves to my chest, touching the spot where the metal hit my father.
I remember the smell of the hospital room. I remember the way my father gripped my hand. He was weak, but his eyes burned with the only thing that kept him alive: Hate.
The piece of metal in his chest had poisoned him slowly, turning a lion into a husk, but his anger was still alive.
"Take everything from him, Kostya,"he whispered, his final command branding my soul.
I made a vow that night. I promised the corpse of my father that I would not just kill him.
Death is too easy.
I promised I would break him. I would take his name, his legacy, and pride, until he was begging for the bullet.
"It’s time to collect," I say.
I step out of the shadows.
The VIP room smells of expensive cigars and whiskey. The poker table glows under the light.
When I sit down opposite my father, he doesn't even look at me. He’s too busy staring at his chips, his hands trembling as he shuffles them.
He sees the expensive suit and the watch. He sees the arrogance I project like a shield.
What he doesn't see is the truth and the thirteen-year-old boy who watched his sister burn alive because of his greed.
"Mr. Volkov," Arthur says. He forces a smile, but his eyes are terrified. "I hear you enjoy high stakes. The boss tells me you’re looking for action."
I signal the waitress to pour him another drink. She obeys instantly, filling his glass to the brim.
