Chapter 34
Sergei
“Tell me why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your head right now.”
The words come out soft, measured, the kind of calm that precedes violence. Artur’s on his knees in the warehouse basement, hands zip-tied behind his back, face already swelling from where I convinced him that talking was in his best interest.
He’s been on my payroll for four years. Good with surveillance. Better with keeping his mouth shut.
Or so I thought.
“Boss, please—I can explain—”
“Explain how Matthew Ashford knew we’ll be at the Plaza next week.” I crouch in front of him, letting him see the gun in my hand. “Explain how he knew about the safe house in the Hamptons. Explain how every move we’ve made for the past month somehow ended up in his fucking hands?”
Artur’s breathing accelerates, sweat dripping down his temples despite the basement’s chill. Behind me, Andrei leans against the concrete wall, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching with the detached interest of a man who’s seen this play out a hundred times.
“He—he offered me money. A lot of money.” The words tumble out fast, desperate. “Said all I had to do was report your movements. Nothing else. I swear I didn’t know he was trying to kill her—”
My fist connects with his jaw before I consciously decide to move. The crack echoes off concrete. Artur’s head snaps back, blood spraying from his split lip.
“You didn’t know.” I stand, wiping my knuckles on my jeans. “You took money from the man who murdered my wife’s father. Who tried to kill her multiple times. Who put a sniper’s scope on my daughter. And you didn’t think to ask questions?”
“I needed the money—my wife lost her job—”
“Everyone needs money.” I pace in front of him, the Wolf calculating how to make this hurt. How to send a message that resonates through every corner of my organization. “That’s not an excuse. That’s a choice. You chose Matthew’s cash over loyalty. Over family.”
Artur’s sobbing now, shoulders shaking with the kind of fear that comes from knowing death is inevitable. “Please, Sergei. I have a family—”
“So do I.” He raises the gun with the barrel pointed at his forehead. “You put them in danger. Every attack, every near-miss—that’s on you.”
“I didn’t know—”
“You knew enough.” My finger tightens on the trigger. “And now everyone else will know what happens to traitors.”
The shot is clean. Professional. Artur slumps forward, the zip ties the only thing keeping him from hitting the concrete face-first. Blood pools beneath him, dark and spreading, and I feel nothing except grim satisfaction that the leak is plugged.
Andrei pushes off the wall, grinding out his cigarette under his boot. “The others?”
“Bring them in. One at a time. I want to look each of them in the eyes and know if we’ve got more rats.”
He nods, already pulling out his phone. Within ten minutes, the basement door opens again. Faddei enters first—early thirties, ex-military, one of my best surveillance guys. His gaze lands on Artur’s corpse, and his face goes white.
“Sergei—”
“Faddei.” I gesture to the chair I’ve positioned in the center of the room, far enough from the body that blood won’t spatter his shoes but close enough that he can smell death. “Sit.”
He obeys, hands steady despite the corpse cooling five feet away. Good sign. Guilty men shake.
“You’ve been with me how long?”
“Five years. Since you went into independent security.” His voice doesn’t waver. “I’ve never given you reason to doubt me.”
“No. You haven’t.” I circle him slowly, letting the silence stretch. The Wolf testing for cracks. “Which is why I’m asking you directly: Has anyone approached you? Offered money for information about my operations? About my family?”
“No.” Immediate. Firm. His eyes track my movement, but there’s no fear in them, just confusion and something that might be anger. “If someone had, I would’ve reported it. You know that.”
I stop in front of him, studying his face. Reading micro-expressions, the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing stays controlled. Twenty years of interrogations taught me how to spot lies. Faddei’s telling the truth.
“Matthew Ashford had a mole in our organization.” I gesture toward Artur. “He’s been feeding him intel for weeks. Maybe longer. If there are others, I need to know now. Before my wife walks into that gala and gets killed because someone on my payroll sold her out.”
Faddei’s jaw tightens. “There aren’t others. Not on my watch. But if you want, I’ll help you dig. Interview everyone. Run financial checks. Whatever you need.”
“Do it.” I step back, letting him stand. “And Faddei? If you find even a hint of betrayal, you come to me first. No exceptions.”
“Understood.” He glances at Artur’s body one more time. “What do you want me to tell the others?”
“The truth.” I holster my gun. “That loyalty is rewarded. Betrayal is death. No negotiations. No second chances.”
He leaves, and the next man enters. Then the next. Five more interviews, each one ending the same way—clean, loyal, horrified by Artur’s choices. By the time I’m done, it’s past midnight and I’m covered in Artur’s blood from dragging his corpse to the van.
Andrei’s arranging disposal. Somewhere in the Hudson, probably, or in one of the industrial furnaces he has access to. Artur will disappear like he never existed, and Matthew will know his inside man just went dark.
Good.
Let him panic. Let him wonder if we’re coming for him. Let him sweat.
My phone buzzes. Isabelle.
Where are you? Mila’s asking about you.
I stare at the text, at the innocence of domestic concern, and feel the disconnect like whiplash. One world where I’m The Wolf, executing traitors in basements. Another where I’m Papa, reading bedtime stories and helping with homework.
The same hands that just pulled a trigger need to tuck my daughter in tonight.
On my way. Twenty minutes.
I scrub Artur’s blood from my hands in the industrial sink, watching red spiral down the drain. Three washes, and it’s still there, caught under my nails, staining the creases of my palms. Evidence of what I am underneath the domesticity.
The drive home takes thirty minutes through empty Brooklyn streets. By the time I pull into the garage, my hands are clean and my expression is neutral. The mask slides into place with practiced ease.
Inside, the house smells like vanilla and something baking. Cookies, probably. Izzy’s been stress-baking since we started planning the gala, producing enough chocolate chip disasters to feed a small army. Mila loves them, anyway, burnt edges and all.
Despite the late hour, I find them in the kitchen. Mila’s at the table with her puzzle, tongue between her teeth in concentration. Izzy’s at the counter, flour dusting her black hair.
She looks up when I enter. “You’re late.”
“Got held up.” I cross to Mila first, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “How’s the puzzle, ptichka?”
“Hard. There’s too much sky, and it all looks the same.” She holds up two pieces that are nearly identical. “Papa, which one goes here?”
I study the pieces, then the partially completed puzzle—a lighthouse on a cliff, storm clouds gathering over an angry sea. “Try rotating that one ninety degrees.”
She does. It fits. Her smile is pure triumph. “I did it!”
“You did.” I ruffle her hair, then straighten. “Bedtime in fifteen minutes. Go brush your teeth.”
“But I’m not tired—”
“Fifteen minutes.” My voice carries the weight of non-negotiation. “March.”
She grumbles but obeys, clutching her toothbrush like a weapon as she stomps toward the bathroom. The second she’s out of earshot, Izzy’s in my space, hands on my chest, eyes searching.
“What happened?”
“Found the leak. Artur was selling information to Matthew. Everything—the safe house, our movements, the gala plans. All of it.”
Her face goes pale. “Is he—”
“Dead. Andrei’s disposing of the body. The rest of the team’s clean. I checked everyone.”
“How do you know they’re not lying?”
“Because I know how to read people. And because the ones who’d betray me can’t look me in the eyes when they do. We’re secure now. Matthew’s blind. Whatever he’s planning for the gala, he’s doing it without insider intel.”
“That makes him more dangerous.” Her fingers curl into my shirt. “Desperate men make mistakes, but they also burn everything down trying to survive.”
“Let him burn. We’ll be ready. Andrei’s positioning men around the venue. Wesley’s monitoring every entrance. And I’ll be glued to your side from the moment we arrive until we leave.”
“Romantic.”
“I’m serious, Isabelle. No bathroom trips alone. No wandering off to network. You stay in my line of sight every second. Artur gave Matthew enough information to know we’re coming. That means he’s planning something. I won’t let him touch you.”
“He won’t. Because if he tries, I’ll shoot him myself.”
I’m proud that she’s learned to bare her teeth.
“My Wolf,” I murmur, leaning down to brush my lips against hers. The kiss is soft, brief, a promise more than passion.
She melts into it anyway, hands sliding up my chest to lock behind my neck. When she pulls back, her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want.
“After the gala,” she whispers. “When Matthew’s dead and we’re safe. I want—”
“Everything.” I finish for her. “I know.”
“Papa! I brushed my teeth!”
Mila wears pajamas covered in stars, hair damp from washing her face. She looks so small, so innocent, and guilt twists through my chest. This is the world I’ve dragged her into—where her father kills traitors in basements and her stepmother plans murder at charity galas.
But she’s smiling. Happy. Safe.
That’s what matters.
“Come on, ptichka. Bedtime.” I scoop her up despite her protests that she’s too old to be carried, and she wraps around me like a koala. Her strawberry shampoo fills my nose, sweet and clean and nothing like the copper scent of blood I scrubbed from my hands an hour ago.