Going after Abram or anyone in Ruslan’s inner circle is suicide. They’re too protected, but Spider’s different. He’s not active in the Bratva anymore. According to the records I accessed, he’s living on a fixed income in a rent-controlled apartment in Brighton Beach.
I pull up his address on Google Street View and study it on my laptop screen. Run-down brown brick, three stories, rusted fire escape zigzagging down the front. Cracked concrete steps. The kind of place where forgotten people live.
A decade of arrest records shows why: three DUIs, public intoxication, disorderly conduct. The most recent was two years ago. Drunk and belligerent outside a liquor store, resisting arrest. Charges were dropped, but the pattern’s obvious.
He’s a liability. An addict. The kind of man the bratva cuts loose.
And tomorrow, he’s going to tell me everything he knows about what happened to Marina Voronina.
It’s nearly eleven at night by the time I reach the alley behind Spider’s building.
After finding his address, I hacked into the city’s CCTV network and pulled feeds from every camera within a three-block radius. Mapped his routine down to the minute: morning shuffle to the corner store for cigarettes and lottery tickets, evening run to the liquor store for vodka. Always alone. Always hunched like the weight of his past is crushing him.
I watched archived footage from the past week, studying his movements. His patterns. He returns home between nine and nine-thirty every night, plastic bags clinking with glass. By now, he’ll be half-drunk.
I also pulled the building’s schematics, utility records, anything that could tell me about the layout or security. There aren’t any. The place is a shithole, barely maintained, and definitely not monitored.
Black legging and a black hoodie keep me hidden as I move through the alley. My hair is braided tight and pinned under the hood. Nothing loose to grab if things go wrong. The knife at my lower back presses against my spine with each step. Another blade sits tucked in my boot, easy to reach if I need it.
I test the rear door to his building. The lock is old and flimsy. My pick set makes quick work of it, and thirty seconds later, I’m in.
The hallway is lit by a flickering bulb near the stairs that seems like it’s about to give up. It smells like cigarettes and old frying oil, the scent baked into the walls after years of neglect.
I take the stairs, moving fast but silently up to the second floor. Unit 2C at the end of the hallway.
By now, he should be three vodkas deep, half-conscious in front of his TV.
The deadbolt is newer than the rest of the building’s hardware. The only indication that the man inside was once someone worth protecting. But I came prepared.
I pull out the bump key and insert it into the deadbolt. A quick strike with the knife handle, and the pins jump into place with a series of soft clicks. I turn the key and the bolt slides free.
The door eases open and I pause inside, listening. Dead quiet except for the hum of a refrigerator somewhere above and the distant murmur of a television.
The apartment is dark except for the TV’s glow in the living room, casting flickering blue light across peeling wallpaper and a water-stained ceiling.
I slip inside and close the door behind me, adrenaline surging. The layout matches the schematics: small kitchen to myleft with a sink full of dirty dishes, bathroom to my right, door half-open, living room straight ahead. One bedroom at the end of the hallway, door ajar, darkness beyond.
My eyes land on Spider, slumped in a recliner facing the TV.
He’s smaller than I expected. Frail. Almost skeletal. Gray hair thin enough to see scalp underneath. Wearing a faded tracksuit that hangs off his frame and slippers with holes in the toes. A half-empty bottle of vodka sits on the side table beside him, surrounded by cigarette butts in an overflowing ashtray. His mouth hangs open, chest rising and falling in the slow, heavy rhythm of alcohol-soaked sleep.
I move closer, the blade steady in my hand. He looks pathetic and broken, but his weakness doesn’t soften me.
He ruined lives. Sold women like merchandise. Destroyed families for profit.
I reach over and turn off the TV with a soft click. The sudden silence makes him stir. His eyelids flutter open, unfocused and glassy. For a second, he looks confused, disoriented, like he’s trying to remember where he is or what year it is. Then he sees me standing over him in the darkness, and his eyes go wide.
His hand shoots toward the side table drawer, fumbling for something. A weapon, maybe. I step forward and press the blade against his throat before his fingers can close around the handle.
“Don’t even think about it,” I say softly in Russian. “Hands where I can see them.”
He blinks hard, trying to shake off the vodka fog. His breath comes in short, panicked gasps. Slowly, he raises his hands, palms up.
“Who the fuck are you?” His voice is rough and thick, heavy with an accent and years of drinking.
I smile down at him. “Nice to meet you, Spider. We have so much to talk about.”
Then I shove an ether-soaked cloth against his face and wait until he goes limp.
