Chapter 33
Raze
The Chernov outfit had not been large, but they had been disciplined, well-funded, and bold enough to test boundaries they did not understand. That alone made them powerful. By the time we were done, the bulk of their unit on my turf had been neutralised. Dead, captured, or scattered.
But I was not na?ve enough to believe the problem ended there.
Power vacuums did not remain empty for long.
The moment one outfit collapsed, another would circle in, sensing weakness, probing for an opening, looking to establish dominance over the region.
That was how these things worked.
Which meant dismantling Chernov’s presence was only the first step. Preventing the next opportunist from trying the same stunt was the real objective. And that required something far more permanent than a simple show of force.
Then there was the more immediate issue.
Nathan Azzopardi.
The parasite who had dragged Russian attention straight to my gates. The same man who had tried to reclaim what he once took for granted, as if Izzy were some misplaced possession he could simply retrieve when it suited him.
The audacity alone warranted correction.
I put out feelers that same night.
Discreetly. Thoroughly. Across every channel that mattered.
Word spread fast when the number attached to it was half a million dollars.
Five hundred thousand. The exact amount he had stolen from the Chernov outfit. A deliberate figure. A message to incentivize those willing to play.
Anyone who could lead me to his location would walk away richer than most men saw in a lifetime.
There was, however, one non-negotiable condition.
He was to be delivered alive.
Alive.
Because some debts required a personal resolution, and Nathan Azzopardi had earned that distinction the moment he brought foreign violence to my doorstep and dared to use Izzy as collateral.
While the hunt began, I addressed the more important priority.
Security.
Izzy and Tone were no longer staying at the estate.
Not while external threats were actively probing our perimeter. Not while opportunists were listening to criminal chatter and testing response times. The house was fortified, yes—but it was also known. Recognizable. Predictable in its routines.
I needed them somewhere untouchable.
So I moved them.
The safe house was one of our most secure properties, designed with containment and discretion in mind rather than comfort or appearance. From the outside, it looked like nothing more than a reinforced concrete structure with minimal windows and no distinguishing features.
Inside, it was something else entirely.
Steel-reinforced floors. Limited access points. Independent power systems. Internal surveillance on every level. No external signage. No obvious residential indicators.
The vehicle lift in the basement was the true safeguard.
I drove directly onto the steel platform, and once the plate sealed behind us, the system carried the car upward through the hollow interior levels of the structure.
Floor after floor passed in silence, empty shells of reinforced concrete designed purely as buffer zones.
No entry points. No usable access. Just layers of distance between the outside world and the actual living quarters above.
By the time the lift stopped, we were already inside the secured foyer of the private apartment level.
There was no exposed parking here and no street-level access. No predictable entry routes to speak of.
Penetrating the building would require A grade explosives or internal betrayal. And I trusted my men far more than I trusted chance.
It was excessive. It was also necessary. Only the best for my girls. Because that was what they were now—my responsibility. My priority. My line in the sand.
Izzy.
Tone.
Their safety came before strategy meetings, before business disputes, before territorial dominance.
Everything else could wait. Nathan Azzopardi could not.
Somewhere in the city, he was running. Hiding. Desperate enough to bargain with Russians, gamblers, and anyone willing to entertain his delusions of survival.
He had made a monumental mistake bringing himself to my attention. He had also made the fatal mistake of believing he could involve Izzy in his debts and walk away from it. That alone sealed his fate.
Now it was only a matter of time before someone followed the bounty, knocked on my door, and handed me the location of the spineless bastard who thought he could traffic what was mine.
And when they did, I intended to personally relieve the world of his special brand of stupidity.
My home.
My sister.
Izzy.
That invisible boundary between my life and my work had been shattered the moment Chernov’s men kicked in my door and opened fire like they were testing the strength of my response.
Now they would get it.
I stood over the layout Archie had provided, the club’s floor plan spread across the table under harsh overhead lighting. Entrances, exits, service corridors, private rooms, security points. Every detail marked in glaring, efficient ink.
“They rotate guards every forty minutes,” Archie explained, leaning on his cane beside the table. “Back rooms host their senior members. The public floor is mostly for revenue and cover.”
“And the head?”
“Sergei Ivanovich,” he answered. “Mid-level enforcer under Chernov. He’s ruthless, loyal, and ambitious enough to rebuild what remains of the outfit.”
My jaw tightened.
“And Nathan?”
Archie’s gaze flicked up.
“He’s been known to frequent the establishment,” he confirmed. “He’s keeping his head down, but I know he’s trying to reconnect with surviving contacts. He believes proximity to Ivanovich will buy him protection.”
A humourless laugh left my throat. Protection. From me.
“He chose the wrong shield.”
Atlas folded his arms across his chest, studying the plan.
“We go in fast. There’ll be none of the usual drawn-out engagement. Cut through what remains and collapse the structure.”
Marcello nodded once.
“Back corridors first. Civilian floor second.”
Gianni cracked his knuckles slowly.
“And if Ivanovich resists?”
I looked up.
“Did you not get the memo that no-one leaves that club alive? I’m going to fucking level it to the ground.”
The club was loud the moment we stepped inside.
Music thumped through the floor, the bass vibrating in my chest. Flashing lights cut through the dark red and gold interior, making everything feel hazy and overstimulating. From the outside, it passed as just another upscale nightlife spot for rich men with poor taste.
Half-dressed servers moved between tables carrying trays of expensive liquor, their expressions polite but distant.
Dancers performed on raised stages under harsh lights, their skin shining as men tossed cash without hesitation.
Private booths lined the walls, partly hidden by curtains that suggested privacy without truly giving it.
The air smelled like alcohol, cheap perfume, sweat, and money.
And underneath the noise and distractions, there was something else.
Structure. Order. Russian discipline.
Two men near the bar watched the crowd without drinking. Another stood near the hallway leading to the back rooms, posture too alert for security staff.
Chernov’s men.
“Front distraction,” I murmured into my comm.
“Ready,” Marcello rasped.
The signal came three seconds later.
Then everything moved at once.
The music cut mid-beat as our men surged through the main entrance and side corridors simultaneously. Patrons screamed. Glass shattered. Chairs overturned as the crowd scrambled away from the sudden eruption of violence.
Security reached for weapons.
But they were too slow and too unprepared.
The first shots rang out in regulated bursts, precise and deliberate, targeting armed threats only. Panic spread across the main floor as dancers fled the stage, servers ducked behind counters, and civilians stampeded toward exits under the direction of my men.
I moved straight through the chaos. I wasn’t running, but I was focused.
The back hallway was narrower, darker. Two guards stepped into view the moment we crossed the threshold.
They barely raised their guns.
Marcello dropped one cleanly. Gianni handled the second with brutal efficiency, disarming him and slamming him into the wall before finishing the job without ceremony.
We kept moving. Door after door opened.
Empty rooms, and those that looked like they were used for storage.
In one room, we found drugs packaged and ready for distribution.
Then came voices. Russian. Low. Urgent.
I pushed the final door open without knocking.
Sergei Ivanovich stood at the far end of the private lounge, thickset, shaved head, a thick gold chain resting against an open collar. His expression shifted instantly from irritation to recognition.
And beside him stood Nathan Azzopardi.
Alive. Pale. Sweating. Like he was coming down off an absolute high.
He froze when he saw me. His face drained of colour.
“Cavalho—” he started.
My gun lifted slightly.
“Silence.”
Ivanovich stepped forward, eyes narrowing.
“You bring war into my establishment,” he spoke in accented Russian.
“You brought it to my home first,” I returned evenly.
Nathan swallowed hard, taking a step back like he could disappear behind Ivanovich’s bulk.
“You promised you would protect me,” he hissed toward the Russian.
Ivanovich turned his lazy gaze toward Nathan.
“You failed to deliver collateral.”
Nathan’s breathing turned ragged, too loud for the size of the room. Each inhale sounded forced, uneven, like his body had finally caught up to the reality of where he was standing and who he was standing with.
Before he could say another word, Gianni moved.
Fast. Direct. Decisive.
Archie stepped in beside him without hesitation, the two of them closing the distance on the larger Russian with an efficiency that suggested this was not their first time dealing with men like him. Between Gianni’s raw force and Archie’s precise restraint, the situation was altered in seconds.
Ivanovich didn’t thrash. He simply turned his head slightly and looked straight at Archie. Recognition settled in slowly, visibly. His eyes narrowed just a fraction as he let out a low, thoughtful hum under his breath.
One of the few constants in the Russian underworld was simple—stay out of internal affairs unless you were prepared to face the consequences. Lines were rarely crossed so openly.
And yet, here was Archie. Standing with us. Acting against his own. That realization did not alarm Ivanovich. It interested him.
His brow lifted slightly, expression sharpening as something colder and more calculating settled behind his gaze, as though he were reassessing the entire situation in real time.
Nathan started to shake.
His entire body trembled, shoulders jerking, breath coming in short, uneven bursts that grew louder with every passing second. The composure he’d tried to wear in front of the Russians shattered completely the moment he realized there was no one left to hide behind.
He opened his mouth, words tripping over each other in a desperate rush.
“I— I wasn’t going to actually—”
My fist connected with his face before he could finish. Bone met knuckle with a dull, sickening impact. His head snapped to the side and he crumpled to the floor with a strangled gasp, one hand flying to his cheek as he sucked in air like it hurt to breathe.
“You spoke her name,” my voice was strained.
He scrambled backward on his hands, heels dragging uselessly against the floor as he tried to create distance that did not exist.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You tracked her.” My voice was low, steady, which sounded far more brutal than shouting.
He shook his head frantically, eyes wide, wet, unfocused.
“I swear, I wasn’t going to—”
“You brought armed men to my gates,” I finished.
His breathing broke entirely then, turning into shallow, panicked gasps.
“This is business,” Nathan choked out, blood smearing across his lips. “You know how this works—debts, leverage—”
“No.” I leveled the gun at him without raising my voice. “You made it personal the moment you turned up uninvited at my gate and spoke her name like it belonged on your tongue.”
Gunfire cracked through the hallway behind us as my men cleared the last pockets of resistance, the sharp bursts echoing through the walls before fading into composed silence.
Movement flickered in my peripheral vision.
Ivanovich.
Even cornered between Gianni and Archie, he still reached for his weapon out of instinct, slow and certain, like a man who had survived long enough to rely on reflex over hope.
He never drew it.
Two shots rang out. Clean. Precise. Final.
The force of the impact sent his body backward before he hit the ground heavily, lifeless before he fully collapsed.
Nathan let out a broken, animal sound from the floor.
The room went still, finally empty of resistance.
Only his ragged breathing remained, loud and pathetic in the silence.
I stepped over Ivanovich’s body without looking down and crouched in front of Nathan.
Up close, he looked smaller than I remembered. Greasier. Weaker. The kind of man who only survived by attaching himself to stronger predators.
“You chose the Russians.”
“I was desperate,” he whispered, voice shaking so badly the words barely held shape.
“You tried to sell a woman under my protection,” I forced out.
His face crumpled.
“You messed with the wrong family.”
Tears streaked down his face, mixing with blood as he shook uncontrollably.
I grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright. His legs barely supported him, knees buckling as he clutched at my wrist in blind panic.
“You brought war to my door.” My voice low enough that he had to lean in to hear it. “You endangered my family. My home. My life.”
“Please,” he rasped. “Please, Raze, I’ll fix it. I’ll disappear. I’ll leave the country. I’ll—”
My grip tightened until he winced.
“You involved my sister,” I persisted. “You involved my house. You involved men who thought they could breach my gates and walk away breathing.”
His teeth chattered audibly.
“I didn’t have a choice—”
“You always had a choice,” I said coldly. “You just chose the one that served your own selfish purpose better.”
He started crying then. Full, choking sobs that echoed embarrassingly in the ruined room.
“You wanted protection,” I leaned closer, forcing him to meet my eyes.
My hand tightened in his collar until the fabric strained.
“Now,” I finished, voice steady and absolute, “you have my full attention.”
Behind me, the club was being dismantled room by room. My men moved with ruthless efficiency, shutting down every remaining piece of the operation until nothing functional remained.
With no leadership and no structure, there was no future for the Chernov outfit. They were finished.
And Nathan Azzopardi—shaking, bleeding, and finally stripped of every shield he had tried to hide behind—was exactly where he belonged.