Chapter 10
Nik
I throw my beat-up Wrangler into park outside the house of my past. The thing looks like a junkyard relic parked outside the sprawling mansion in front of me. Money can’t buy happiness, but it does buy comfort. Security. Power.
Shame it’s all blood money.
Before I can change my mind, I hop out and jog up the steps. Cameras track me. Motion sensors blink. My father doesn’t do surprises. I’m sure he knew I was here the moment I hit the front gate.
I let myself in without knocking. The air inside is colder than the marble floors. The place smells like tobacco and the scent of old leather clings to everything. Classical music drifts from somewhere deeper in the house, pulling me forward like a thread.
I used to think my family was blessed. Now, I know better. We’re all damned. Dancing with the Devil himself.
I’m back, not as my father’s son, but as his soldier. And I’m about to cash in a debt owed.
I find him in the sunroom, fingers gliding across the baby grand, eyes closed. He doesn’t need to see to sense everything. Sunlight glares off a pristine crystal chess set. The board’s untouched, just for show. This house is more like a museum than a home.
Dad’s still broad-shouldered, wearing a crisp button-down with the sleeves casually rolled twice. His slicked-back hair is still mostly blonde, streaked with white. The silver ring on his hand gleams as he plays. Bratva-bred, blood kept.
Even now, he’s the most dangerous man in any room—and he knows it.
The music ends, and he lifts his whiskey glass in greeting. It’s ten a.m., but I guess time doesn’t matter when you’re the boss.
“Kolya,” he says. His blue eyes mirror mine.
I force a tight nod. “Dad.”
“Who or what can I thank for your visit? You don’t call. Don’t write. You only come when there’s blood in the water. Your mother misses you.”
I resist rolling my eyes. Guilt doesn’t work on me anymore. I left this life for a reason. I’m not here for nostalgia.
He pauses. “This is about the girl. Carolina, yes?”
The flinch is involuntary. He notices.
Of course he knows. Tennessee isn’t Bratva territory, but money bleeds through borders, and Joe’s name drifts through the Underground like oil on water. Impossible to catch, but contaminating everything he touches.
“I’m not here for your permission.”
“I didn’t offer it,” he replies mildly. “But it changes things.”
I pull a folded sheet of paper from my pocket and slide it onto the piano. “Walter Rutledge.”
My father’s brow arches as he unfolds it, revealing a photo, name, list of shell companies. No further explanation is needed.
“I know the name,” he says. “Old South money. Ghost stakeholder in security contracts and real estate from here to Atlanta. Why do you care?”
I walk to the window. Outside, the yard is too perfect. The courtyard too still. I used to practice disarming drills on those bricks. I can almost still see the blood all these years later.
“Joe’s still out there. I think this man’s helping him. Hiding him. Funding him.”
Silence.
I look back and see my father cross his arms. “The sheriff?”
I nod. He watches me, seeing more than I say. He always does.
“You’ve come to collect a favor,” he says finally. “How very Bratva of you.”
My jaw tenses. “I need information. Quietly. No names and no noise.”
My father nods slowly. “Walter’s smart. He’s not flashy. If he’s aligned with your sheriff, the motive isn’t money—it’s leverage. That means people. Cargo. Disappearances. Connect the bridges, Kolya.”
My fists clench. Everything is a game with him. It’s always puzzles and riddles.
“I’m not looking to play chess,” I say, stepping forward. “I’m looking to cut the king’s throat.”
There’s a pause as he analyzes me. It feels like he’s weighing my worth.
Then, with quiet satisfaction, he chuckles. “Now you sound like my son.”
He slides a burner phone across the piano.
“Call the number saved. Volk’ll get you what you need. If Rutledge is protecting the sheriff, it’s happening through Atlanta’s pipeline. That will lead you to Marcus.”
Something tightens in my gut.
“Who the fuck is Marcus?”
A grim smile. “Someone else you’ll need to bleed. But Kolya…”
I stiffen as he stands, his voice drops low.
“Once you step back into this world, you don’t get to keep one foot in and one foot out. You can’t carve furniture by day and carve throats by night. You want answers? You bleed for them.”
I meet his eyes. They’re cold and clear. Nothing like how I remember them.
“I never stopped bleeding,” I admit.
He nods once in approval.
“Good,” he says. “Then maybe you’re finally ready to come home.”
I don’t say ‘fuck that’ out loud. Instead, I pocket the phone.
My father disappears into the house, silent as ever, but the weight of legacy trails behind him like a shadow. I left this life for a reason, and now, that reason is dragging me, unwilling, right back.
But for her? I’ll take the punishment. I’ll bleed proudly.