Page 47 of Claimed By the Pakhan

Luka frowns, crossing his arms over the table. “That sounds very unlike him.”

“Exactly.” I cross the kitchen, grabbing my sharpest kitchen knife and sheathing it under my belt, patting the area. “I’ll have the truth extracted from him in no time.”

I return to the dockyard, gulls cawing as they perch on the top of cranes.

A cold wind blows through the expanse, strong enough to shift metal. Old cables clang, accompanied by the sounds of howling wind, giving the place an eerie edge.

Not much these days causes the hairs on my arm to stand on end. Shoving my knife into warm flesh brings me joy, not suffering, but the thought of my late father’s spirit floating through this place gives me the creeps, as he witnesses me save a woman and turn a blind eye to business.

Balancing the two is possible, until it comes to a situation like this where both are on the line.

I maneuver around warehouses and rusted shipping containers, left abandoned for decades, and head up to the operations room where Alexander Kuzmin has asked me to meet him, not like this is my dockyard or anything…

I slip into the elevator, the old mechanics screeching as it spits me out at the top of the watch tower.

Wind shudders the glass panes, teasing the highly vulnerable infrastructure. Not only is this tower incredibly high, but its foundations are also older than time itself.

“What an honor,” starts Alexander, turning around in the seat he has decided to help himself to.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I say, stepping into the room.

The control panel behind him can disable all active cranes in the yard. Emergency alerts can also be activated here, the alarms loud enough to silence the entire dockyard and scare away the fog.

Access into this room is extremely restricted. Only twenty men in my Bratva have the keys into this room, and yet Alexander is here, swinging around on my chair, his cockiness already crawling under my skin.

“Are you going to tell me how you got in here?” I ask, ghosting my hand over the knife.

Alexander swivels around in the chair, tapping his nose like this is a game.

I’ll win the game by pushing him into the bay. I guarantee he’ll lose in under a minute.

“What fun would that be?” he says, the control panels flashing at his back. “Relax,” he sighs. “I’m not here to blow up your dockyard.”

Of course. How else would this bastard be able to take over?

I fold my arms over my chest, exhausted from the games. Alexander’s face displays similar feelings of exhaustion. The dark circles under his eyes look more like storm clouds, draggingdown his entire face. Alexander has always been cursed with a long, flat face, lacking a lot of structure.

Old age is making him look even more depressed.

The bastard has been lacking fulfillment his entire life, my success the only thing he’s ever been counting on. The failure shows more on his face each time we meet, his cheeks more sunken than the ships he’s lost over the years, his soulless eyes barely resembling a human, or anything living for that matter.

“A ceasefire?” I snort. “Why would I agree to that when I find you in my operations room, treating this place like your own?” I look down at the man, amusement toying with the corners of my mouth. “You’re a walking joke.”

“Who has access into a highly restricted part of the dockyard,” says Alexander, winking. He twirls around in the chair, an orange hi-vis strung over the back of it, which he should consider wearing if he wants to own this dockyard. Everyone has to pull their weight at some point, understanding what it means to be a leader.

Success is never handed down on a silver platter, it’s earned, and Alexander strikes me as the kind of man who has never worked a day in his life.

For someone of his age, his hands should be weathered, full of cracks and scars. My lower grade lieutenants have been in more fights than him.

Alexander Kuzmin comes from a wealthy family in Moscow who knows everything about generational fortune and networking events, but nothing about the real world.

And the real world is fucking gruesome.

“Tell me how you got in here.”

“Like you don’t already know,” snorts Alexander. “Keep your enemies close, but your comrades closer.”

“Will you tell me who sold information to you, or will I have to pry the answers out of you myself?” I slip my knife, teasing it over Alexander’s sunken face. Some plastic surgery with this blade might make him look more appealing.