Chapter 20
CHAPTER
TWENTY
VIKTOR
“He’s already inside,” Nikolai says as we get out of the car. “The manager reported him coming in with two of his men.”
I don't answer him right away. The winter air at the harbor is a jagged knife against my skin, cutting through the lingering heat from the office.
Less than an hour ago, I had Jonah shaking in my lap, his skin slick and his breath hot against my neck.
Now, my hands are empty and cold. The transition is a familiar one, a hardening of the blood that happens every time I step out of the light and back into the shadow of the Morozov name.
“You’re quiet, Vitya,” Nikolai notes, leaning against the Maserati’s hood. He lights a cigarette, the orange glow catching the sharp line of his jaw. “Still thinking about the office?”
“Shut up, Niko,” I mutter, though I don’t look at him.
Lev laughs from the other side of the car, checking his weapon one last time. “He’s definitely still in the office. Look at his hands. They’re practically twitching. Our big brother has gone soft for a nurse.”
“I am anything but soft,” I growl, finally meeting Lev’s eyes. “And if you want to keep that tongue in your mouth, you’ll stop talking about what happens in my office.”
Nikolai whistles, blowing a cloud of smoke into the freezing air. “See? There he is. The Pakhan is back. For a second there, I thought we were going to have to do this job while you daydreamed about strawberries and sweat.”
“The strawberries were for him. And the only thing I’m daydreaming about is how loud Sokolov is going to scream.”
“Now that’s the spirit,” Lev chimes in, stepping away from the car. He looks toward the harbor bar, his expression shifting into something colder. “Sergei’s lapdog has been comfortable for too long. He thinks he’s safe because he’s got Sergei’s checkbook in his pocket.”
“He isn’t safe,” I remind him. “He never was.”
“Better hope your aim is better than your mood,” Nikolai jokes, though he’s already dropping the cigarette and crushing it under his boot.
“Sasha reports the back entrance is clear.
Let's go before the Maserati attracts any more low-lifes.
I don't want to spend tomorrow scrubbing grease off the door handles.”
“You’re the one who told me to drive it,” I point out, straightening my jacket.
“I told you to drive it because it makes people look at the car instead of the men getting out of it,” Nikolai retorts. “Distraction is a tactical advantage. Though, in your case, it just makes you look like a prick with a fast car.”
“It’s a good car,” Lev adds, his grin widening. “Maybe I’ll take it for a spin when the blood is dry.”
“Over my dead body,” I snap.
“Careful, Vitya,” Nikolai warns, his eyes narrowing as he looks toward the entrance of the bar. “Don't let the car distract you from the fact that the man in that basement is the reason you were bleeding out a week ago.”
The reminder hits me like a bucket of ice water. The humor vanishes, replaced by the familiar, heavy burn of revenge. My hands stop twitching. I’m not the man who was just feeding Jonah fruit. I am the man who came back from the dead to finish a job.
Sokolov thought he was meeting Sergei. I eye my Maserati, the paint gleaming even in this shithole harbor.
The car is too clean for a place like this, a loud reminder that I’m back in control of my own property.
I can still smell Jonah on my wrists, a soft scent of soap and sweat that doesn't belong near the diesel and salt of the docks.
I shove my hands into my pockets, burying the memory. I have a debt to collect.
“Have someone guard the damn car because there are too many eyes on it.”
We walk in through the back. Lev and a guard move ahead of me while Nikolai is by my side and Sasha brings up the rear.
The five of us cut through the narrow hallway without a word.
The place looks like the kind of port bar where no one looks up unless they’re paid to, and tonight, everyone’s already been paid.
The manager freezes when he sees us, his spine snapping straight and his eyes dropping to my shoes.
Nikolai steps into his space and his presence is looming. “Where are they?”
“Already d-downstairs, sir.”
“Good.”
We take the stairs and Lev goes first. I can’t wait to fucking end this man’s life. This man who still believes he owns any part of me. Every step down the narrow stairwell is a reminder of the basement where they held me. This time, I’m the one holding the keys.
The basement smells like damp concrete and stale copper.
A single bulb hangs overhead and throws a sick yellow circle across the room.
One guy is slumped into a chair with his eyes wide and glassy, and blood is dripping from a single gunshot wound split open on his forehead.
Another lies crumpled on the floor. Sokolov sits in the middle of it with his wrists tied behind the chair and his ankles bound to the legs.
He’s the only one still alive. When he sees me approaching, he lifts his head and gives me a crooked smirk.
“Privet, prince.”
“Prince, huh? If that’s who I am to you, you sure have a way of showing it.”
He shrugs, though his eyes are tracking my every move. “You know how it is. I was following orders.”
“Nah, I don’t.” I kick a dead body aside and the corpse makes a heavy, wet thud against the concrete. Pulling a chair to face him, I sit and lean back with a casualness that clearly unnerves him. “See, I don’t follow orders because I give them. And you know what I ordered for today?”
Sokolov blinks, his cruel smile twitching at the edges.
“I can see on your face that you know exactly what I mean. Clever man. But…” I glance at Nikolai. “I’m a fair man, right?”
“Da.” Nikolai’s grin is as sharp as a razor.
“That means you get to choose, my dear Sokolov. Isn’t that generous of me?” Opening my jacket, I draw a small, serrated blade. I let the yellow light catch the steel. “This one is for a slow death. It’s personal and it lingers.”
Sokolov flinches and his throat is jumping as he swallows hard. “You think I’m afraid of you?”
“You tell me.” I let the knife linger in the air between us. “Are you?”
He clicks his tongue, trying to find his bravado. “Your father was a good man. I served him for years, but he never truly appreciated my value.”
“No?” I lift a brow. “That so?”
Sokolov shakes his head. For a moment, his voice goes soft and almost distant.
“I did everything for him. Every job. I was loyal. Always. And the one time I needed him—the only time—he wouldn’t help.
My daughter needed surgery. I begged, but he refused.
” His jaw clenches with twenty years of kept fury.
“Sergei didn’t. Sergei gave me the money.
I saved her life and I paid for it with mine. ”
“You did.” Leaning in until we’re mere inches apart, I take in the stale copper of the room and his sweat.
The son of a bitch reeks of fear. It’s sharp, sour and disgusting.
It won’t change his fate. “Only you’re not paying Sergei anymore.
You’re paying me. And after tonight, your debt is settled. So. Which way do you want to go?”
He presses his lips into a fine line while he stares me down.
“Stubborn,” Lev comments from the shadows.
“That, he is. But that’s fine because I’ll decide for him.” Reaching into my jacket again, I pull out the curved finka. “This is for men who don’t deserve a quick death.”
Sokolov’s shoulders twitch in a small recoil he tries to hide. His gaze lifts with stubborn spite as he leans back as far as the ropes allow. “You were easier to break than your father. Sergei said you’d try to reclaim your place. Said he’d let you. Said you were already his.”
He barely has time to inhale before my fingers are fisting in his hair.
I jerk his head back hard enough that the chair legs scrape against the concrete.
His breath catches and his eyes are flaring with real fear now.
I feel his pulse through my palm, the fast thud of a man who knows he's out of time.
I want him to know that no matter what Sergei promised him, I am the one who decides if he breathes.
“There he is,” he whispers. “The animal.”
My knife is already in my grip. “Animals kill for survival,” I murmur. “This isn’t survival. This is judgment.”
I drag the blade across his torso once. Sokolov sucks in a wet, startled breath as blood blooms fast, spilling over the edge of the cut and soaking into his shirt. I watch the red spread across the fabric, tracing the exact line I made. The blood is hot, steaming slightly in the cold basement air.
“You think this changes anything?” he tries, but his breathing is jagged now. “Sergei owns.”
I touch the blade to the same line, not cutting yet. His pulse jumps under my fingers. “You don’t speak unless I ask you to.” Lowering my mouth to his ear, I press the point in. “When you held me down and when you helped Sergei break me, did you think about what this moment would feel like?”
He swallows hard and his throat is working fast under my grip. His skin is clammy, the sweat of a man who knows his clock has run out. “This moment where revenge would find you? This moment where your prince would find you and cut you open, watching you bleed to death?”
“Viktor.”
“No. You’ve wasted your final words. Now you’ll die with mine branded in your skull.” I hook my knuckles deeper into his hair and yank his head back until his eyes meet mine.
“Please.” His breath shakes against my fingers.
“You betrayed my father. You betrayed me. You will pay for it with your death. I’ll see you in hell, dog.”
Then I slit his throat. Hot blood surges over my palm in a sudden, wet heat.
The spray hits my chest, warm and metallic.
He gurgles once, trying to swallow the life spilling out of him.
I watch as his fingers strain uselessly against the ties and his legs kick once before the strength leaves him.
I keep my eyes on his until they go flat.
I want the last thing he sees to be the man he tried to ruin.
I want him to take the image of my face to the grave.
His muscles go limp against the ropes. His gaze clings to mine until the light disappears. I keep hold of his head until the pulse under my fingers stops. Only then do I let him fall.
The chair tilts and his body slumps sideways as the dead weight hits the concrete with a dull, final sound. His eyes stay open while they stare at nothing. Lev steps forward and checks the neck before he wipes his palms on a rag. “We’re done.”
I nod while I am still looking at Sokolov’s open eyes. The man who helped Sergei keep me weak is just a corpse on a basement floor now. He died begging, and the world is better for it. We turn toward the stairs and the cold air hits the blood on my hand, turning it tacky.
By the time we step into the alley, the dark streaks are drying across my skin as if they belong there. I’m a dead man who has found his way back to the living and the blood on my hands is the only proof I need that the war has finally begun.