"Pakhan." Sasha's voice was steady as always. "We got the rat. He's in the safe house downstairs."
"Handle it." Standard protocol. Usually, I'd let Sasha or another guy take care of this kind of dirty work.
Silence on the other end. Sasha understood. Sometimes I didn't like delegating these jobs.
"Understood," Sasha said. "Anything else?"
I glanced at Kostya on the platform, drinking water, looking relaxed. Then down at my still-trembling hands. The violence churned through my veins like lava.
"No." I changed my mind. "I'll handle him myself."
I hung up. Turned to Kostya. He leaned against the ropes smoking, smoke curling around his weathered face.
"If you really think this little firecracker works," Kostya exhaled a smoke ring, squinting at me, "give it a shot. I don't want to be wiping your ass when you're old."
I ignored him. Works? I didn't believe anything "worked" in this world. I threw on my jacket and walked out without looking back. Love was poison, marriage was a grave. My mother proved that with her life. I'd never make the same mistake.
Back at my base by the Potomac, the basement carried the faint, lingering smell of old blood.
The rat sat tied to a chair, face white as paper. One of Yuri's men. Short-sighted fool.
I said nothing. Just walked up, picked up the blade we used for traitors. The edge caught the dim light, reflecting my cold face.
"Does Yuri know you ran your mouth?" I asked. My voice was terrifyingly calm.
He shook, teeth chattering, the rag stuffed in his mouth reducing him to muffled whimpers.
I had no interest in begging. I raised the knife. No hesitation. Sliced off his left pinky with precision.
Blood sprayed from the severed joint like a fountain, spattering the cold concrete floor. His scream was muffled by the cloth, but his body convulsed violently.
Next, the index finger.
I picked up the still-bleeding digits and dropped them into a velvet box I'd prepared. A gift for the old man. Pain delivered by my own hand spoke louder than wordsever could.
"Tell your boss," I wedged the blade back into the collar of his shirt, locking it in place, "if he reaches into my business again, next time I'll mail the box to whatever mistress's bed he's hiding."
I turned and left. Didn't want another look. The violence I'd been carrying since the gym finally eased—just a little—with those two severed fingers.
Sasha followed behind me, tablet in hand.
"Pakhan," Sasha reported, "per your orders, we've been hitting several of old Volkov's associates. The Seventh Street underground casino, the smuggling warehouse at the docks. We didn't touch their core operations, but we cut off a few revenue streams. They've gone quiet. No one's making moves for now."
"Not quiet enough." I adjusted my cuffs, the black onyx cufflink cold against my skin. "Keep eyes on the old bastard. And Derek. Before the wedding, I don't want any surprises."
"Understood." Sasha swiped the screen, frowning slightly. "One more thing. About the woman you had me look into."
My steps stopped. "Go on."
"When I traced the card transactions, I found something interesting." Sasha handed me the tablet. "The woman, Vivienne Cole. She's not just a writer."
I took the tablet. An encrypted file filled the screen.
"She's Derek Volkov's ex-fiancée." Sasha read the name, his tone carrying a hint of hesitation. "Your half-brother's. The civilian girl he was supposed to marry."
My breath hitched—just barely.
"What did you say?"
