Chapter 2
Dmitry
The private garage entrance used a different keycode than the main doors—one that didn't log entry times in Ivan's meticulous security database.
I punched it with my wrapped knuckles, the fresh gauze already spotted with blood that had seeped through despite the industrial tape.
Tony Castellano's dental work had been better than expected.
One of his molars had actually embedded itself in my middle knuckle when he'd tried to bite through my hand like a trapped animal.
The garage smelled like motor oil and concrete dust, a scent so familiar it was like my cologne.
Three identical black SUVs sat in formation, each one bulletproofed and ready.
The service bathroom was tucked behind the mechanical room, installed specifically for moments like this—when showing up to a family meeting covered in someone else's blood would raise questions I didn't feel like answering.
Tony had thought the Volkovs were going soft.
"Legitimate business ventures" translated to "weakness" in his simple mind.
He'd skipped three protection payments, probably bragging to his crew about how he'd stood up to the Russians.
I'd found him in his restaurant's walk-in freezer, counting produce like nothing had changed.
The fear in his eyes when he saw me had been beautiful—that moment of recognition when prey realizes the predator isn't gone, that it’s been watching from the shadows all along.
"Three payments, three fingers," I'd explained, my voice calm as I selected his left hand.
Tony was right-handed; I wasn't trying to destroy his livelihood, just make a point.
The first finger broke clean—pointer, right at the second joint.
His scream echoed off the frozen meat hanging around us.
The second took more effort. Tony had started thrashing, trying to bite, trying to run.
That's when his molar met my knuckle, when I'd had to hold his jaw shut with my other hand while finishing the job.
The third finger I'd broken slowly, letting him feel every fracture.
"Legitimate business requires legitimate payments," I'd told him.
"The construction company needs cash flow.
Your protection ensures that cash flows uninterrupted.
This equation hasn't changed just because we file different paperwork now. "
I stripped off my shirt in the bathroom, examining the damage under fluorescent lights that turned everything corpse-pale.
My knuckles were split in four places, the skin peeled back like fruit rind.
Tony's tooth had gone deep. Nothing that wouldn't heal.
I'd had worse from my father's lessons, back when learning to take a punch was considered essential education.
The industrial soap burned like acid on raw flesh.
I scrubbed methodically, watching pink water swirl down the drain.
Each finger got individual attention, checking for hidden damage, fragments that might fester.
My grandmother used to do this for me when I was eight, nine, ten—cleaning my hands after schoolyard fights with the same methodical care she used on her music boxes.
"Hands are tools," she'd say in Russian.
"Maintain them properly, or they'll fail when you need them most."
Fresh gauze from the medical kit, wrapped tight but not too tight.
White athletic tape over that, creating a flexible cast that would hold through whatever came next.
My shirt was ruined—blood and saliva and what might have been tears.
I pulled a spare from the supply closet, black henley that stretched across my shoulders.
Alexei kept suits here. Ivan kept entire changes of clothes, organized by season.
I kept basic shit that could hide blood.
The security monitor above the sink showed twelve feeds from around the compound.
My eyes found Alexei's office immediately—second floor, corner window, the one with bulletproof glass that could stop a .
50 caliber round. Three figures inside: Alexei behind his desk, Ivan with his eternal tablet, and Clara.
She wore a beautiful dress—cream colored, elegant, the kind of thing worn to charity lunches where rich people pretended to care about the poor.
But above the neckline, just visible when she turned her head, was the collar.
Soft leather, burgundy like old blood, with a silver ring that caught the light.
Alexei's mark of ownership, subtle enough for public, obvious enough for anyone who understood what they were looking at.
My jaw tightened. Not in disapproval—Alexei could do whatever he wanted with his pet politician's daughter. But seeing it, seeing how easily she wore it, how naturally she moved in her cage . . . it reminded me of everything I couldn't have.
Clara had chosen this. Whatever arrangement they had, whatever dynamics played out behind closed doors, she'd walked into it with open eyes.
She helped maintain the life that confined her, made it beautiful, made it bearable.
There was trust there. The kind of trust that let you put your throat in someone's hands and believe they wouldn't squeeze too hard.
I could never trust anyone that much. Trust meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant death.
I'd learned that at eighteen when my first girlfriend sold information about my father's routes to the Kozlovs.
Learned it again at twenty when a business partner I'd considered a friend set me up for an ambush.
Learned it so many times that the lesson was carved into my bones: everyone was temporary, everyone was dangerous, everyone would betray you if the price was right.
The monitor showed Clara laughing at something Ivan said, her head tilted back, the collar shifting against her skin. Alexei's hand moved to her shoulder, possessive and protective in equal measure. She leaned into the touch like a cat accepting ownership.
I wanted that. Fuck, I wanted someone who would wear my mark and mean it.
Someone who would choose the cage because I was the one holding the key.
But wanting and having were different countries, and I didn't have a passport to cross the border.
My hands were made for breaking things, not holding them gently.
My version of care came with bruises and blood, and nobody chose that.
The compound above was quiet as I climbed the service stairs.
Legitimate business meant regular hours now, employees who went home to families instead of soldiers who slept in shifts.
The hallway to Alexei's office was carpeted, muffling my footsteps.
Through the door, I could hear voices—Ivan's monotone reciting numbers, Alexei's measured responses, Clara's occasional questions.
I stopped before entering, adjusting the tape on my knuckles one more time.
It hurt. Of course it did. Life was suffering.
Thankfully though, I was normally the one causing it.
The surveillance photos covered Alexei's mahogany desk like a murder scene splatter pattern—dozens of glossy prints showing Morozov soldiers where they didn't belong.
I recognized faces immediately: Roman Morozov's nephew outside Golden Wok restaurant, two lieutenants at the Brooklyn Marine Terminal, that sadistic fuck Viktor Chenkov browsing through Washington Market like he was shopping for produce instead of calculating protection rates.
"Dmitry," Alexei acknowledged without looking up. His fingers traced patterns across the photos, organizing them geographically. "How was your meeting with Castellano?"
"Educational," I said, taking my position by the window. "He understands our cash flow requirements now."
Clara glanced at my wrapped knuckles, quick enough that most would have missed it. But I caught the flicker of recognition in her eyes—she knew what those bandages meant. Smart girl. Probably smarter than was good for her in this life.
"Seventeen incursions," Ivan reported from his corner, tablet glowing like some digital oracle.
The wall screen behind Alexei lit up with a map of the city, red dots bleeding across Brooklyn and lower Manhattan like infected wounds.
"All within the last week. They're not collecting, not threatening. Just . . . watching."
Alexei was pakhan, and since Clara had entered his life, there was a rumor going around that our organisation had gone soft. We were having to prove, over and again, that it was not the case.
"Testing," Alexei corrected, but I heard the edge under his controlled tone. "They think our pivot to legitimate business makes us weak."
Clara picked up a photo from the edge of the desk, her entire body going rigid. "This is outside the new shelter location. The one that hasn't even opened yet." She set it down carefully, but I saw her hands shake. "They're following me?"
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Alexei's hand moved to her shoulder, fingers pressing into cream fabric hard enough to leave marks. "When?"
"Yesterday's timestamp," Ivan supplied, enlarging the image on his screen. "3:47 PM. You were inside for the final walkthrough."
I studied the photo over Clara's shoulder. Viktor Chenkov himself, standing across from the shelter with a coffee cup that was obviously just a prop. His eyes were fixed on the entrance, waiting. The kind of waiting that preceded very bad things.
"He's not just watching," I said. "He's timing things. Learning patterns."
"For what purpose?" Alexei's voice could have frozen vodka.
"Could be intelligence gathering," Ivan suggested, but even he didn't sound convinced. "Or they're trying to draw us out, force a response."