Chapter 6
SIX
The stench of rust and blood hits me the moment we enter the warehouse. Industrial lights hang from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across empty space. No windows. There’s one exit at the back, guarded by two of Enzo’s men.
And in the center, tied to a metal chair with zip ties cutting into his wrists, is Viktor Sokolov.
He looks smaller than I expected. Older. And from the looks of it, someone really worked him over before we arrived. Blood drips from a split lip, and his left eye is already swelling shut.
His good eye tracks us as we approach. Focuses on Enzo first, then slides to me. Something sparks in his expression. Recognition, maybe. Or just the calculation of a man who knows he’s already dead, trying to figure out how to take someone down with him.
“Enzo.” Sokolov’s voice is rough, strained. He spits blood onto the concrete. “Should’ve known you’d bring backup. Getting soft in your old age?” He inhales, lips curling. “You brought an omega as backup? Cute.”
A broken laugh rattles out of him. “What is he, your new fuck toy? You bring him so we can share a hole one last time before I die?”
Enzo doesn’t respond. He just keeps walking forward, hands in his pockets, completely relaxed. Like this is a business meeting and not an execution.
I follow a few steps behind, heart hammering against my ribs. My hands ball into fists, nails biting into my palms. Every nerve in my body is screaming at me to lunge at the bastard in the chair, wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until nothing comes out.
Enzo stops about five feet from Sokolov. Studies him like he’s a particularly unpleasant specimen.
“How long did you think you could get away with it?” His tone is almost conversational. “Stealing from the family. From our partners.”
Sokolov starts to laugh, but it breaks into a wet, choking cough. “Took you long enough to figure it out. Getting slow, boss?”
Enzo lets the insult hang in the air for a beat. Then shrugs, unbothered.
“Ah, you know me. I like to be as thorough as possible. I wanted to make sure I had everything I could have on you. Every account, every shipment, every lie. I don’t do things halfway. You know that.”
Sokolov’s expression contorts into something feral. “Fuck you. You don’t know shit.”
“I know enough.” Enzo chuckles darkly. “I could spend the next hour walking you through it all. The offshore accounts in the Caymans. The falsified delivery records. The partnerships you brokered with the Bratva behind my back.” He pauses, letting each word land.
“But we both know why you’re here, tied to that chair.
Innocent men don’t run to private airfields. ”
Sokolov says nothing.
“So I’m going to skip all the details. There’s only one thing I actually want to know.” Enzo leans forward slightly, his eyes cold. “Why? You’ve been with the family for two decades. We trusted you. Why betray us like this?”
Sokolov works his jaw, then spits. The thick, bloody glob lands on Enzo’s polished shoe.
“Why?” he sneers, lips splitting in a bloody grin. “Because you got weak.”
His good eye flicks to me, then back to Enzo.
“The second you took over, half the street knew you’d never measure up to your father.
But I still stayed. I still held your shit together.
Then you had to go and bring on fucking Carlo Messina.
I told you I hated the guy, told you he and I have personal issues, but you didn’t listen. No loyalty.”
He gives a wheezing laugh, ugly as the blood seeping from his lip. “So yeah. The Bratva offered me a better deal. Can’t blame a man for jumping ship when the whole damn boat is sinking.”
“Sinking.” Enzo repeats, voice going dangerously soft.
He looks down at the blood, then up at Sokolov. He walks forward without breaking eye contact, wipes the blood splatter from his shoe on the hem of Sokolov’s pants. Then steps back like nothing happened.
“You think we’re sinking?”
“I know you are.” Sokolov snaps. “Valerio power ain’t nothing like it used to be.”
“So you steal from me. Frame innocent men. Give orders under my name to do your fucking dirty work?”
Sokolov’s head snaps in my direction so fast it almost throws me. “Who the fuck are you again?”
Enzo answers before I can. “Marco Moretti. Ring a bell?”
The bastard had the nerve to shrug, but there’s a brief flash of recognition across his face, gone as fast as it came. He knows exactly who Enzo means.
“Just business as usual,” he rasps. “Can’t be sentimental about every motherfucker we put in the ground, can we, boss?”
“You murdered an innocent man,” Enzo says quietly. “Framed him for your theft and had him beaten to death.”
“Innocent?” Sokolov snorts. “Marco Moretti was a fucking rat waiting to happen. Kid saw too much, asked too many questions. I did you a favor—”
I don’t remember moving.
But suddenly my hand is slamming across his face. The crack echoes off concrete and steel. His head jerks sideways, and when he turns back, there’s fresh blood painting his mouth.
“Keep my brother’s name out of your mouth.”
For a second, he just stares at me. Then he grins, slow and nasty, like he’s just found something to twist the knife deeper.
“Oh, I get it now. The little brother.”
He wipes the blood on his cheek across his shoulder, dragging it down the collar of his soaked shirt.
“Gotta say, kid, you’re prettier than Marco. What’d you do, huh? Sell your ass to Enzo just to stand in the room?”
He snickers, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “All for some pretty little revenge?”
I hit him again. Closed fist right in his already-swollen eye. Pain shoots up my arm, but I don’t care. I hit him again. And again.
“Luca.” Enzo’s voice cuts through the red haze. “Not yet. Let him talk.”
I stop, chest heaving, arm drawn back for another swing. It takes a second to get control, but I step away, breathing hard. My knuckles throb, one already splitting open.
Sokolov coughs, then spits a mouthful of blood and what looks like a tooth onto the floor. He glares at me through it, face twisted into a pained frown.
His gaze shifts to Enzo. “Protective, I see. Didn’t think you had it in you. Your father would’ve fucked the omega and killed him after. But you, you’re keeping him. Like a pet.”
“My father was a paranoid sadist who got himself killed by his own paranoia,” Enzo says calmly. “I’m not him.”
Sokolov throws his head back and laughs, teeth pink and gleaming. It’s not like the pained wheeze from earlier. He laughs like something has unspooled inside him, the sound bouncing off the walls.
Then he levels that good eye at me.
“Don’t know what he told you, but I swear it wasn’t my intention to kill your brother.”
What?
“Yeah, I did all the other shit. Fine. I’ll own that. But killing Marco is on Enzo. He ordered that hit.”
I whip my head toward Enzo, but his gaze is fixed on Sokolov, with that same cold expression that gives nothing away.
I look back at Sokolov. The smile on his face is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.
“Why would I lie now?” He meets my eyes. “I’m dead either way. A dying man’s got nothing left to gain. I’ve got no reason to lie, kid. But he—” He nods toward Enzo. “He’s still got plenty to lose.”
Static rings in my ears. My throat goes dry.
“Enzo?”
Even I hate how unsure I sound.
“He’s lying,” Enzo says, way too calm for my liking. “He’s trying to mess with your head before he goes. That’s what cowards do.”
Sokolov barks another laugh.
“Yeah? Then tell him the truth.” He jerks his chin toward me. “Tell him who greenlit the cell beating. Go on. I’ll wait.”
I swallow hard, pulse thundering. “Enzo?”
“He’s lying.”
He looks at me when he says it. And that’s the problem.
Because I’ve seen Enzo lie before. I’ve seen him wear that same calm, unflinching face while he had me playing the fool as David DaCosta. Like he hadn’t known who I was from the start.
And now he’s looking at me like I should believe him. Like his words alone should be enough.
But I can’t tell if what he’s saying is the truth, or just another version of it.
Sokolov’s grin widens. “You hear that? He won’t deny it.” He leans forward as far as the restraints allow, blood dripping down his face. “Guess that tells you everything you need to know.”
My vision wavers. The warehouse tilts, and suddenly I can’t breathe. Every inhale feels like pins in my lungs.
Marco. The lies. The truth. The man standing beside me. The man tied to the chair.
It all spins like a sick carousel.
Enzo finally moves.
His hand slips inside his jacket. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going for a gun, but instead he produces a folded piece of paper. Opens it and holds it up so Sokolov can see.
“Prison transfer logs,” Enzo says. “Showing you personally arranged for Marco Moretti to be moved to a cell block controlled by the Bratva. The same Bratva who owed you a favor for helping them move stolen merchandise through my territory.”
Sokolov’s face goes blank. “Proof of nothing.” But there’s an uneasy edge to his voice now.
“Bank records showing payments from your offshore accounts to a corrections officer, and the amounts you sent to the boys you hired to plant drugs in Marco's storage unit to frame him for trafficking.” Enzo folds the paper and tucks it away. “Should I go on?”
I want to believe him. God, I want to.
The evidence is there. Black and white, a trail that leads straight to Sokolov’s door. It should be enough to settle the sick churning in my gut and quiet the voice in my head that’s still whispering what if.
What if the evidence is real, but incomplete? What if Enzo ordered the hit and Sokolov just carried it out? What if they’re both guilty, and I’m standing here like a fool, choosing to believe the one who fucks me over the one who’s about to die?
Sokolov must’ve seen the uncertainty play on my face, because his grin turns vicious. “Still not sure, are you?”