“And you confirmed it.”
A sob. A nod.
“For your family.”
I stare at him. I can see the hope behind his swollen eyes. He thinks the family angle will save him. He thinks I’ll understand because I’m a father of a little girl, and surely the Pakhan who braids his little girl’s hair has a soft spot for a man protecting his sons.
He’s wrong.
Not because I don’t understand. I understand perfectly. If someone threatened Anya, I would dismantle the world with my bare hands and use the wreckage as kindling. I understand love and fear so well that they’ve burrowed into my bones.
But understanding and mercy are not the same. Understanding is information. Mercy is a luxury. And in my world, the moment you show mercy for betrayal, no matter the reason, you’ve announced to every man in your organization that the cost of loyalty is negotiable.
“I believe you,” I say.
Viktor’s face changes. The flicker of hope intensifies, flaring brighter. “Mr. Belov, thank you. I’ll do anything, I’ll?—”
“But it doesn’t matter.”
The hope dies, extinguished by the breath carrying my words.
“You know why.”
He does. He’s been in this organization long enough. He’s seen what happens. He’s probably cleaned up after it.
“My boys,” he whispers. “Please. Whatever you do to me, my boys had nothing to do with?—”
“Your sons will not be touched,” I assure him. “Your wife will receive a severance. Enough to cover university fees and any mortgage for five years. Your family will be protected.”
He stares at me. Processing.
“Thank you,” he finally sighs.
I stand and button my jacket. The chair doesn’t scrape when I push it back.
“Alexei.”
Alexei Petrov steps forth from the wall he’s been leaning against for the past hour.
He’s thirty-five, built like a concrete pillar. A scar slices through his left eyebrow. His eyes are dark gray and flat. They don’t miss anything.
I don’t need to utter another word. Alexei knows.
We barely exchange a glance as I walk out. Silence fills the cold building.
The warehouse door closes like a coffin lid behind me.
2
ELLIE
I’m going to die tonight.
This wine is going to kill me.
It’s terrible — truly horrendous. It tastes like someone drowned a grape in a bottle of rubbing alcohol and then tried to cover up the crime by slapping a French-sounding name on the label.
But it’s four dollars a glass at Rosie’s, and four dollars is all I can afford to spend on anything that isn’t keeping me alive right now. So, I take another sip and pretend it’s a Pinot Noir from a vineyard where people wear linen and talk about tannins and earthy notes.
