Chapter 41
DROGO
The city blurs past the window—streetlights, empty roads, London at its quietest hour. I'm in the back seat, different driver this time—Alexei, younger, doesn't talk unless necessary. Konstantin stayed behind with Oliver.
My phone buzzes. Klaus. Of course.
I answer on the second ring. Don't say anything. Just wait.
"Drogo." His voice is strong. Clear. No oxygen tank hissing in the background anymore.
The cancer went into remission eight months ago—miracle the doctors still can't explain.
Now he's healthier than he's been in years.
Walking more. Working more. Living when he should be dying.
"The accountant. Mikhail. Why hasn't he given up the money yet? "
Straight to business. No pleasantries. That's how I know he's worried.
"Complications," I say flatly.
"What kind?"
"The kind that require more time." I lean back against the leather. "He's holding out. Thinks he can bargain. He's wrong."
Silence on the other end. I can hear him breathing—steady now, healthy, the sound of a man who's supposed to be dead but refuses to die. "How much more time?"
"Twenty-four hours. Maybe less."
"Drogo—"
"It's handled." My voice drops. Cold. Final. The tone that makes men twice my age shut up and listen. "I said it's handled. Unless you don't trust me anymore?"
Another pause. Longer this time. "No," Klaus says carefully. Too carefully. "I trust you."
Liar. He's terrified of me. Has been since I put that first bullet between Viktor's eyes at the conference table. Since I showed him exactly what kind of monster he created. Good. Let him be scared.
"Then let me work," I say.
"Of course. Just… keep me informed."
"Always."
I hang up before he can say anything else. "Fuck," I mutter, tossing the phone onto the seat beside me.
Work never stops. Not even when I'm trying to reclaim the only thing that matters.
Alexei glances in the rearview. Says nothing. Smart.
We drive in silence for another twenty minutes. East London gives way to industrial sprawl—warehouses, shipping yards, places where sound doesn't travel and people don't ask questions.
Alexei pulls up to a nondescript building. Corrugated metal. No windows. Single door. Guard posted outside—one of ours, ex-Spetsnaz, doesn't speak unless spoken to.
"Wait here," I say.
"Yes, boss."
I step out. The night air is cold, sharp, cuts through the lingering warmth of the car. The guard nods as I approach. Opens the door without a word.
Inside smells like rust and old concrete.
Single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Shadows pooling in corners.
Oliver is in the center of the room—zip-tied to a metal chair bolted to the floor, duct tape over his mouth, eyes wide with terror that's had forty minutes to ferment into pure panic.
Konstantin stands off to the side. Arms crossed.
Watching. Oliver's jacket is gone. Shirt half-unbuttoned.
Shoes removed. Barefoot on cold concrete. Vulnerable. Perfect.
I walk in slowly. Let my footsteps echo. Let him hear me coming. His eyes track my movement. Pupils blown wide. Breathing fast through his nose—the only airway he's got with that tape over his mouth.
I stop a few feet away. Hands in my pockets. Casual. Study him. Venture capitalist. Old money. The kind of guy who's never been told no in his life. Who thinks the world exists to serve him.
And he thought he could have her. My jaw tightens.
"Oliver." I say his name like it tastes bad. "Do you know who I am?"
He shakes his head frantically. Tries to talk through the tape. Muffled sounds. Desperate.
I smile. "No? Let me introduce myself."
I pull out my phone. Swipe to a photo. The one from two years ago—me and Alena, her laughing at something I said, my arm around her shoulders. Happy. Together. I hold it up so he can see.
His eyes go wide. Wider. Recognition and horror mixing into something beautiful. Then something else flashes across his face. Annoyance. Frustration. Interesting.
"That's right," I say softly. "I'm the ghost you thought you'd replaced." I pocket the phone. Take a step closer. "Let's establish some ground rules. I'm going to ask you questions. You're going to nod or shake your head. Lie to me, and this gets worse. Understand?"
He nods. But there's something in his eyes now. Not just fear. Something harder. Angrier.
"Good." I reach up. Grab the edge of the duct tape. "Let's have a chat." I rip it off in one motion.
He gasps. Chokes. Sucks in air. Then—
"You fucking psycho! DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!"
Not what I expected. His face twists with rage—not fear anymore, but pure entitled fury. The kind that comes from a lifetime of never facing consequences.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" he repeats, spittle flying. "My family will bury you! The Sutherlands don't just disappear! We have connections! Lawyers! People in Parliament! The fucking Prime Minister owes my father favors! You think you can just—"
I laugh. Can't help it. "Your family?"
"Yes! My family!" His voice rises. "We OWN half of London! My grandfather was knighted! Do you understand what that means? You're NOBODY! Some tattooed thug who thinks—"
I crouch down. Eye level with him. Still smiling. "Oliver. Let me explain something. Your family? Your connections? Your lawyers? The Prime Minister?" I lean closer. "They mean nothing here. This isn't the world you know. This is my world. And in my world, you're just meat."
His face reddens. "Fuck you! You can't touch me! When I get out of here—and I WILL get out—I'll have you hunted down like a dog! I'll—"
"When you get out?" I tilt my head. "Interesting assumption."
"She was MINE!" he shouts. "I found her first! I courted her! I played the game! Do you know how exhausting she is? The drinking. The pills. That fucking car crash. The ghosts. All that horror writer drama queen nonsense! I was PATIENT!"
There it is. The real Oliver. The one hiding under the charm and the expensive suits.
"Keep going," I say quietly.
"I played the perfect gentleman!" He's yelling now.
Full volume. "Opened doors. Bought flowers—that stupid black rose I thought would impress her Gothic ass.
Listened to her ramble about her fucked-up childhood and her dead people stories.
Do you know how BORING that shit is? How much effort it takes to pretend to care? "
Konstantin shifts behind me. I hold up a hand. Wait.
"I put in the WORK," Oliver continues, anger overriding survival instinct.
"Months of it! And she barely let me touch her!
Cold as ice until tonight when she finally—FINALLY—spread her legs.
And then YOU—" He glares at me with pure hatred.
"You fucking RUINED it! I was this close to closing the deal! "
"Closing the deal," I repeat slowly.
"Yes! I had a bet with my mate Harrison. Five thousand pounds that I'd fuck the ice queen horror writer before New Year's. Do you know how hard it is to seduce a woman that broken? That damaged? She's a MESS! But I was winning! I was—"
Silence. I stand slowly. Turn to Konstantin. "Did you hear that?"
"Yes, boss."
I turn back to Oliver. "A bet. You had a bet."
His face flushes. "It was just—I mean—look, she's hot, okay? But she's also insane. Everyone knows she's a mess. I was doing her a FAVOR! Giving her attention. Making her feel wanted. She should be GRATEFUL—"
I punch him. Hard. Right in the mouth. Feel teeth crack under my knuckles. The impact sends shock waves up my arm. Warm blood sprays across my face—his blood, coppery and thick.
He screams. Blood pours from his split lips, dripping onto his expensive shirt.
"Grateful," I say. "She should be grateful."
"Fuck you!" He spits blood. Teeth fragments. "Fuck you and your psycho bitch! She's probably crazy in bed but is it worth THIS?! She's a WHORE! Used goods! You think you're special? You think—"
I hit him again. And again. Methodical. Controlled.
Breaking his nose with a wet crunch. Splitting his cheek.
Blood and snot mixing. The metallic smell fills the air—copper and fear and violence.
Each punch punctuated by his words echoing in my head.
Ice queen. Damaged. Insane. Whore. My knuckles split open but I don't stop.
Konstantin steps forward. "Boss. Careful. You'll kill him before we're done."
I stop. Breathing hard. Knuckles bleeding. Oliver's face is hamburger meat—blood and tears and snot mixing together. He's sobbing now. The rage gone. Just terror left.
"Please—" he chokes out. "Please—I didn't mean—she's not—I was just angry—"
"Angry," I repeat. "You were angry. Because she wouldn't fuck you fast enough for your bet."
"I'm sorry! I'M SORRY! PLEASE!"
I crouch again. Grab his hair. Yank his head back so he's looking at me.
Blood streams down his face, dripping onto the concrete.
"You called her a whore," I whisper. "You called her crazy.
Damaged. A mess. You said she should be grateful you paid attention to her.
You had a bet. To fuck her. For five thousand pounds. You were doing her a favor."
"I'm sorry! I'M SORRY! PLEASE!"
I let go of his hair. Stand. Wipe the blood off my face with my sleeve. Walk toward the door. "Konstantin."
"Yes, boss?"
"Take care of it."
Konstantin nods. Reaches for the knife on his belt.
"Wait—WAIT—" Oliver's screaming now. Full panic. "I'LL LEAVE! I'LL GO! PLEASE! I HAVE MONEY! I CAN PAY YOU! NAME YOUR PRICE! ANYTHING!"
I stop at the door. Don't turn around. "There is no price for her. There never was."
"PLEASE! SHE'S JUST A WOMAN! JUST A FUCKING—" He chokes. Sobs. "JUST A WHORE! A CRAZY WHORE WHO—"
I turn. Fast. Pull my gun. Aim. Fire.
The shot cracks through the warehouse. Oliver's scream is immediate—high, animal, the sound of agony beyond comprehension. I shot him in the dick. Direct hit. Blood blooming through his expensive trousers.
"AHHHHHHH! FUCK! FUCK! OH GOD—"
I walk back. Slowly. Deliberately. Stand over him while he writhes and screams and bleeds. Look down at him with complete calm.
"Mate," I say quietly. "I've been killing people left and right for two years. Tortured men. Broke bones. Burned flesh." I crouch down. Press the gun barrel against his forehead. "But I never—NEVER—disrespected a woman like that."
"Please—" His voice breaks. "Please I didn't—I'm sorry—"
"Too late."
I pull the trigger. The shot echoes. His head snaps back. Blood and brain matter spray across the concrete. Then silence. Just the ringing in my ears and the smell of gunpowder and the body slumped in the chair.
Dead.
I stand. Tuck the gun back in my waistband. Look at Konstantin. "Clean this up. Make sure he's never found. If anyone asks about Oliver Sutherland, he went on holiday. Extended trip. Lost contact. Family can speculate all they want."
Konstantin nods. "Understood, boss."
I wipe my hands on a cloth Konstantin gives me. Blood—his and mine—staining the fabric. The metallic smell clings to my skin. Good. Let it remind me what I'm capable of. What I'll do to anyone who disrespects her.
I walk to the door. Don't look back at the body. Don't need to. The image is burned into my mind—Oliver's terrified face, the hole in his forehead, the justice delivered.
Outside, the night air hits me. Cold. Clean. I breathe it in. Let it wash away the gunpowder smell.
Walk to the car. Get in the back seat. Alexei glances in the mirror. Sees the blood on my face, my hands, my clothes. Says nothing. Smart.
"Drive," I say. He pulls away. The warehouse fading into the night behind us.
My phone buzzes. Text from Dmitri at the house: She tried to leave. We stopped her. She has a gun. Pointed it at me. She's back inside now.
I read it twice. Then I smile. Of course she has a gun. Of course she pointed it at someone. That's my girl.
I text back: Good. Keep her there. I'll be back in an hour.
Then I lean back. Close my eyes. And let the city carry me home. To her.
Always to her.
Because she was mine before she knew it.
And she'll be mine long after she remembers.