Chapter 22 Viktor
Viktor
Don’t give them a fucking inch…
The rope bites into my wrists, coarse fibers rubbing skin raw with every involuntary twitch. My arms are bound behind the chair back, shoulders screaming from the unnatural angle.
The chair itself is metal—cold, unyielding, bolted to the floor in this whitewashed room with high ceilings that echo every sound like a goddamn cathedral of pain.
No grunts.
No screams.
Nothing…
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unrelenting, casting no shadows to hide in. No windows. No clock. Time is a blur… it could be hours since the ambush, could be days. My head throbs in rhythm with my pulse, vision blurry around the edges from the blows.
“Tough guy, eh?” one thug shouts, his voice barely audible.
The music is something else. Goddamn aggressive techno—pounding bass that vibrates through the floor, up the chair legs, into my bones. Synth stabs like knives, relentless drum machines hammering faster than my heartbeat.
It's not just noise… it's a weapon. Designed to disorient, to wear down the mind before the body breaks completely.
Two thugs—big, meaty types in black tactical gear, faces hidden behind balaclavas—take turns on me like I’m a punching bag.
One steps forward, winds up, and drives a fist into my stomach. Air explodes from my lungs in a wet grunt.
I double over as much as the ropes allow, abs contracting against the impact.
Bile rises, sharp and bitter.
The second thug follows up—uppercut to the jaw. My head snaps back, teeth clacking, fresh blood flooding my mouth from a split lip or loose tooth.
I taste copper, swallow it down.
I grit my teeth, lock my jaw. No scream. No plea. No sign of weakness. They want me broken, softened up for whoever's pulling the strings.
I know the game—interrogation 101. I’ve been there, done that. It’s not pretty but it usually works. And if it doesn’t, there’s always a bullet…
But beat the body, and typically you shatter the will. I've been here before. Worse places. I focus on the pain, let it sharpen me instead of dulling. Each punch is a reminder: survive, wait, strike back.
The first thug laughs—muffled through the mask—as he shakes out his hand. Knuckles probably bruised from my ribs. Good. "So tough, Mr. Pakhan. Well it won't last. Never fucking does."
His partner steps in—haymaker to the face. Cheekbone absorbs it, skin splitting. Warm trickle down my jaw. My brain is spinning. I spit blood onto the floor, a red splatter on white tile. The techno drowns out the sound, but they see it…
They see my defiance.
They switch again. Stomach. Face. Stomach. I lose count after ten. My left eye is swelling shut, vision halving. Ribs feel cracked, breathing shallow fire. But I don't break. I think of Eddie—his smile in the art room, his trust last night.
Caulfield. It has to be him. The property play, the political climb. Hitting me clears his path. Ambitious prick. If I get free... no, when I get free.
The door at the far end opens—heavy, metal, scraping on hinges. The thugs pause mid-swing, fists hovering. The music continues its assault, but a new figure steps in… tailored suit, polished shoes, smug grin.
Harry Caulfield.
He waves a hand. "Turn that shit off. And stop hitting him. For now."
One thug kills the stereo. Silence crashes in, ringing in my ears. The sudden quiet is almost worse—my ragged breathing fills the room, wet and labored.
Caulfield approaches, hands in pockets, like he's strolling through a park. Mid-forties, groomed hair, politician's tan. Eyes cold as a shark.
"Viktor Volkov. The Devil of Downtown,” Caulfield says, all slime. “Not looking so devilish now, are you?"
I lift my head, meet his gaze with my good eye. Blood drips from my chin.
"Caulfield,” I say. “Knew it was you. Sloppy work, though. Mercs? Thought you'd have better. Couldn’t you get a couple of rogue FBI agents on your side?"
He laughs—smooth, practiced. The sound echoes off the high ceilings. "Right. You're the one tied to a chair. But I’m the sloppy one? But I admire the bravado. Always have. That's why I'm here… to talk."
I shift, testing the ropes. Tight. No give. "Talk? Or gloat?"
"A bit of both." He pulls a chair from the corner, sets it in front of me, sits backward like we're old pals. "See, I've got plans. Big ones. Governor's mansion first, then who knows? Senate? White House? But to get there, I need foundation. Power. Money. The untouchable kind."
"Property empire," I say, voice rough. "The galleries. My other buildings."
He snaps his fingers. "Smart man. You were in the way. Strong-arming Milo… poor sap folded like wet paper when I leaned on him. Set up the meet, knew you'd show. Hired guns to clean house. Simple. And nothing personal."
I spit more blood. "Why tell me? Dead men don't talk."
He leans in, smile fading. "Because I'm not unreasonable. I have an offer."
I bark a laugh. "An offer? After this?"
"Sign over your properties. All of them,” Caulfield demands. “The portfolio… downtown holdings, warehouses, the works. Do that, and you live. Your family works for me in the city. You keep the Pakhan title… on paper. I pull the strings. You get rich, stay alive. Win-win."
Bullshit.
I see it in his eyes—the lie.
Sign my properties over, and I'm dead before the ink dries. But he needs the signature for a legal, clean transfer.
I meet his gaze. "Go fuck yourself."
Caulfield’s face hardens. "You'll change your mind. They always do."
He stands, nods to the thugs. "Turn the music back on. Resume. Break him… but keep him conscious. And make sure his right hand still works. I need that signature. I'll be back."
The door closes behind him.
The stereo roars to life—techno assault resuming, bass vibrating my teeth. The first thug grins, cracks his knuckles.
I grit my teeth.
No weakness. Survive. Wait.
Hold on. For Eddie. For the family.
Caulfield and his thugs will slip.
And when they do... the Devil will rise again.
TEN YEARS EARLIER…
The safehouse was an old brick two-story on the edge of Belarosa Beach, windows boarded, front door reinforced with steel plating.
No sign out front, no mailbox. Nothing. Just a rusted number 47 nailed crookedly beside the entrance. I stumbled up the cracked steps, duffel bag slung over my good shoulder, the weight of the money inside pulling at every bruised muscle.
My left arm hung limp, soaked crimson from shoulder to cuff. Blood dripped steadily onto the concrete, leaving a dark trail behind me like breadcrumbs no one would follow.
I knocked twice—short, then long.
The door opened before the second knock finished. One of the pakhan’s lieutenants—Grisha, broad as a doorframe, eyes flat—looked me over, then stepped aside without a word.
Inside smelled of cigarette smoke, vodka, and rotten carpet.
A dim overhead bulb gave decent enough light.
A long table in the living room, half a dozen men seated around it, cards and empty glasses scattered met me with curious looks.
And needless to say the conversation died the moment I stepped through the doorway.
At the head of the table sat the pakhan—Maxim Volkov, mid-fifties, silver hair cropped military-short, face carved from granite. He didn’t rise. Just lifted one eyebrow, waiting.
I dropped the duffel onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud. Bills shifted inside, a faint rustle of paper.
Maxim’s eyes flicked to the bag, then back to me. “You’re bleeding on my floor.”
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, smearing more blood. “Sorry, Pakhan.”
He waved it off. “Sit before you fall.”
I sank into the nearest chair. Every joint protested. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the occasional drag from someone’s cigarette.
“Tell me,” Maxim said.
I did. The bank job. The clean entry. The vault.
The two wingmen—Kolya and Misha—laughing as we loaded bags.
Then the SWAT team pouring in like water through a broken dam.
Gunfire. Kolya taking rounds to the chest, dropping without a sound.
Misha turning, firing back, catching buckshot to the face.
I’d grabbed the bags, fired my gun fast and true, then ran through service corridors, out the loading dock, into the street.
Cops everywhere. Dogs. Helicopters overhead.
I’d lost them a melee involving a nosy and luckily for me highly unhelpful local police force.
Kept moving until I hit the forest. Jumped the cliff.
River carried me downstream. Washed up alive.
When I finished, the room stayed silent.
Maxim studied me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t expected to solve tonight.
“Kolya and Misha,” he said quietly. “Good men.”
I nodded. My throat was too tight for words.
Maxim leaned forward, opened the duffel. Stacks of cash stared back—hundreds, fifties, twenties, all banded tight. He lifted one bundle, thumbed the edge, then handed it to Grisha without looking.
“Count it later,” he said. “For now… well done, Viktor.”
I looked up. “The men—”
“Will be remembered. Families taken care of. Funerals arranged. No questions.” He leaned back. “You brought the money. You survived. That’s more than most would have managed.”
I exhaled through my nose. “I almost didn’t.”
Maxim smiled—small, cold, approving. “But you did. And that’s why you’ll go far in this family.
You have the stomach. The nerve. The luck.
” He tapped the table once. “One day you’ll find yourself in another situation like this.
On a cliff edge. No way out. No rope. No net. Just darkness below and dogs behind.”
I met his gaze. “What then?”
He leaned forward again. “You jump. Like you did today. Into the dark. Because sometimes the only way to live is to risk dying.”
The words settled over me like cold water. I nodded slowly. “I won’t stop fighting. For the family. For honor. For success.”
Maxim’s smile widened—just a fraction. “Good. Because we’re not done with you yet.”
He stood. The others followed. Grisha took the duffel. Maxim clapped a hand on my shoulder—firm, heavy.
“Clean up. Rest. Tomorrow we talk about what’s next.”
He left the room. The others drifted away. I sat alone at the table, blood drying on my shirt, the taste of copper still in my mouth.
I looked at my hands—trembling slightly now that the adrenaline was crashing. Then I clenched them into fists.
Tomorrow I’d be back on my feet.
And one day, when I was the one sitting at the head of the table, I’d remember this night.
The jump.
The survival.
The promise.
I stood, slow and painful, and walked upstairs to the bathroom. The mirror showed a man half-dead: swollen eye, split lip, blood-crusted hair.
But alive…
PRESENT DAY…
Time moved slowly. But I didn’t give an inch…
The metal pole to the side of my jaw cracked, and the feeling of the lighter’s flame to my ear nearly made me crack.
But these sonsofbitches weren’t going to break me.
Caulfield would be back.
And I would be ready for him…