We reach the center of the floor, where a group of my men stands in a tight circle. In the middle of them, a man is on his knees.
He wears a torn suit, and his face is already bruised. His wrists are zip-tied behind his back.
As we approach, the men part for me, lowering their heads in deference.
"Who is he?" Helena whispers.
"This is Petrov," I say calmly. "He works for the High Council in Moscow. Or he did. Until they found out he was skimming off the top of the pension fund."
The man looks up, weeping. "Boss, please! I didn't mean to!"
The man whimpers through the gag as I take his hand again.
Helena’s voice is tight behind me. “What did he do?”
I don’t look at her.
“The Council sent him.”
I bend the finger slowly until the bone snaps. The man screams into the cloth.
I release his hand.
“They wanted him reminded of the rules.”
I stop in front of him and unbutton my suit jacket.
Shrugging out of it, I turn to Helena. "Hold this."
She takes it automatically, the expensive fabric draping over her arms.
Her eyes widen, taking in the scene before her. "Konstantin..." she whispers. "You don't have to do this."
"Watch," I command. "This is how order is kept."
I roll up my white sleeves in preparation for the hands-on demonstration.
I won't use a weapon. A gun is too merciful. A knife too swift. Effective pain requires contact.
As I step forward, Petrov tries to scramble backward, but Lev is there, planting a boot in the center of his back.
I descend on Petrov with brutal violence, grabbing him by the collar and driving my fist into his nose. A wet crunch fills the air, and blood sprays across the concrete.
Petrov screams. I strike him again and again.
This isn’t a loss of control. I’m calm, though the frustration of the last forty-eight hours goes into every blow. I’m punishing him, and myself, for the softness I felt in that bed.
I grab his hair, yanking his head back. He gasps, blood bubbling from his lips, one eye already swollen shut.
"Look at her," I growl, twisting his head until he’s facing Helena. "Apologize to the Director for your greed.”
She stands a few feet away. Her spine is rigid, shoulders squared like she refuses to give the room the satisfaction ofseeing her flinch. Her dark hair spills over her shoulders, her gaze sharp and unwavering as she watches the blood drip to the floor.
"I'm s-sorry," he chokes out, blood dripping from his chin onto his ruined shirt.
Looking up, I lock eyes with Helena. My hands are covered in blood. A man lies broken at my feet. I want to see if she breaks. I want to see if she runs.
I raise my fist and deliver a final, cracking blow to Petrov's ribs, with my focus still on Helena.
