The thought of him waiting cuts through the violence like a blade of light. I have blood on my hands and a crown of violence on my head, but I also have him. And for the first time, I believe I might be able to keep both.
The Young Menace has grown up.
And the city will learn to fear the man he has become.
* * *
The adrenaline is still roaring through my veins as Viktor and I slip out of the Presko building through a service exit, leaving chaos and one very dead Don Presko shattered on the ground.
Ivan and Kirill have already melted back into the night to handle cleanup and misdirection. The four of us have become something real tonight—a unit.
But my mind keeps circling back to the reason we’d been out there in the first place.
The street spy.
We’d never reached him.
The ambush had hit just three blocks from the old warehouse where he was supposed to be waiting with fresh intel on Presko’s movements. Four Presko soldiers had come out of nowhere, guns blazing, clearly tipped off that someone was sniffing too close. We’d handled them, but the spy…
I need to know.
“Circle back to the warehouse,” I tell Viktor as we climb into a stolen nondescript sedan a few blocks away. Blood is still dryingon my hands and collar. “I want to see what happened to our man.”
Viktor doesn’t argue. He drives in silence, both of us scanning every shadow. The city feels different tonight,heavier, like it knew blood has been spilled at the top and the balance is shifting.
The warehouse district is quiet when we arrive. Too quiet. We park two blocks away and approached on foot, guns drawn, moving like ghosts. The side door we’d planned to use is hanging open, one hinge broken. A bad sign.
I go in first, Viktor covering me. The smell hits immediately: copper, shit, and fear. A single hanging bulb still swings gently in the middle of the space, casting long, sickly shadows.
Our street spy, a wiry man in his late thirties named Razor, one of Padraig’s most reliable assets, is slumped against a stack of rotting pallets. His throat has been cut ear to ear. The blood pool beneath him is already congealing. His eyes are wide open, frozen in terror. A crude message had been carved into his chest with a knife:
TRAITORS DIE SCREAMING
I stare at the words for a long moment, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Razor had a wife and young daughters. He’d been feeding us information for years, always careful, always paid well. Tonight he’d been waiting to tell us something important enough that Presko had sacrificed four soldiers just to silence him.
Viktor crouches beside the body, checking for any hidden message or note. Nothing. They’d been thorough.
“Poor bastard,” Viktor mutters. “He held out long enough for us to get away, at least. Gave us the window we needed.”
I nod once, but the rage inside me is cold now. Sharp. Focused.
Presko is dead. Thrown from his own balcony like the garbage he is, orwas.
But the rot he’s left behind is still spreading. Razor’s death was just the latest symptom. There will be more bodies if we don’t move fast to consolidate power and crush whatever remained of the Presko machine.
I pull out my phone and send a quick message to Padraig…
KANE: Viktor is gone. Presko handled. Tell his family the usual — full support, no questions. Double the pension. Make sure the boys never want for anything.
Padraig’s reply comes almost instantly…
PADRAIG: Already on it. The streets are whispering. Word of Presko’s fall is spreading. Some crews are celebrating. Others are nervous. You good?
I don’t answer right away.
Am I good?
I look down at Viktor’s ruined body one last time. Another loyal man lost because of the same old game. Because someonealways wants more. Because trust is a luxury men like us can rarely afford.
