I walk to the center of the space, just next to Viktor. I don't speak immediately. I let the silence build, let the tension ratchet higher. The low conversations slow and stop. All of the surrounding faces turn toward me.
"This morning," I say finally, my voice carrying in the quiet, "I gave a simple order to kidnap Volkov’s daughter and hold her for leverage." I pause, letting my gaze sweep across the assembled men. "Simple order, clear instructions. No room for confusion."
The three men shift nervously. Viktor’s impassive gaze holds mine, even as those three look at him for some kind of hint as to what’s going to happen.
"Instead," I continue, my accent thickening with anger, "I got the wrong woman. A billionaire's daughter. A complication, instead of a solution. A fuck-up.”
I turn to face the three men directly. "In this organization, we have rules. We have standards. We have expectations." My voice drops lower. "And we have consequences for those who fail to meet them."
The courtyard has fallen completely silent, now. I look at the older man and motion for him to step forward.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then his shoulders slump slightly in resignation, and he walks to stand just in front of me. To his credit, he doesn't try to run, and he doesn’t plead. He just stands there, his face pale but composed, and waits.
"You understand why," I say. It's not a question.
"Da." Mikhail's voice is steady. "I understand."
"You have anything to say in your defense?"
He shakes his head. "It was my operation. My responsibility. I accept the consequences."
There's a kind of dignity in it, I think. A recognition that in this world, failure has a price and that price must be paid. This man knows the rules. He's lived by them his entire career. Now he dies by them.
I pull my gun from the holster at my back. I raise it and aim at the older man’s head. Our eyes meet for a brief second. Then I pull the trigger.
The gunshot cracks through the air, sharp and final. The man drops, his body hitting the gravel with a heavy thud. Blood pools beneath his head, spreading darkly over the stones.
I stand there for a moment, the gun still raised, watching. Making sure. Then I lower the weapon and look at the other twomen. I motion to the one standing next to the young man. The younger one lets out a low moan from somewhere deep in his throat, and I see the legs of his pants darken.
No dignity for him, then.
The man I motioned to has gone completely white, his skin waxen. "Please," he gasps, and his voice breaks. "Please, boss, I have family?—"
"Everyone has family," I interrupt. "Everyone has reasons to live. But you failed. You fucked up a simple job. And in this organization, that has a price."
"I can do better," he pleads, backing up a step. "Give me another chance, I'll?—"
"There are no second chances for incompetence."
I raise the gun again. “Be a fucking man,” I tell him, and his eyes well, but he blinks rapidly. Without another word, he goes to his knees on the gravel, and I pull the trigger.
He falls forward, his body sprawling across the gravel. Two down.
The youngest of the three bolts in that instant. He’s surrounded by men on all sides, and there’s nowhere for him to run, not so long as no one moves. There’s a shift in the crowd—no one in particular for me to pinpoint, but somehow, there’s a thin space.
The younger man sees it. He turns toward me, as if hoping maybe he can get some forgiveness before he tries to flee in earnest. "I'm sorry," he gasps out. "I'm so sorry, boss, please?—"
"Sorry doesn't fix mistakes," I say, raising my gun. "Sorry doesn't undo fuck-ups. Sorry is just a word." I motion with the gun. “Come here.”
"I'll do anything," he begs. "Anything you want, just please?—"
My finger twitches, and he turns to run again. The sound of the third gunshot rings out, just as he tries to slip into that thinspace, and he drops instantly, his body crumpling like a puppet with cut strings.
Three bodies. Three men who failed, who fucked up, and paid the price for incompetence.
And a space in the crowd of my men that I can’t blame on anyone specific, but that tells me exactly what I’ve known for the last year—that under the surface, I’m being consistently undermined. They were going to give him a way out, despite my authority. Despite my clear intent to execute the three for their incompetence.
I stand there for a long moment, the gun still in my hand, looking at the bodies. I feel nothing. No guilt, no satisfaction, no emotion at all. This is just business. Just necessity.
