Chapter 2 – Val
“Please,” he begged me, his voice weak and barely audible as he hung there with arms stretched up high. “I’ll pay back every dime…. Just show mercy.”
The chains from the rafters above that bound his wrists rattled as he shifted softly. He struggled to gain balance, his bloodied toes scraping the floor, enough to keep him from swaying. But not enough to steady him.
His skin was marred with fresh wounds, blood dripping from his torn flesh, his breath coming ragged. His eyes were shut, red and swollen from all the heavy punches that had almost blinded him completely. His head was slumped, chin resting on his chest.
Blood dripped from his nose and cracked lips, and his neck was dampened with sweat. His whole body trembled, chest rising and falling with painful breaths. His ribs were visible beneath his skin: cracked, broken, dislocated.
“It hurts so badly,” he added, straining to speak. “Make it stop.”
I cut into my steak with slow, deliberate strokes as I quietly chewed, unaffected by his pleas and suffering. I was seated at a table a few paces in front of him, enjoying my meal while my men tortured him. In the background, soft jazz filled the air, blending seamlessly with his screams.
Music to my ears.
A half-empty glass of wine sat on the table, and at my signal, one of my men stepped forward. He lifted the bottle of wine that towered over my plate, opened it, and refilled my glass.
“Thank you, Sergei,” I said without looking at him.
He nodded, taking a step back.
The hanging man kept groaning, too weak to scream, as two of my best men beat the living daylights out of him.
I reached for my glass, lifted it to my lips, and took a sip, savoring the delicious flavor that exploded on my tongue. “Hmm.” I shut my eyes, basking in the taste of the fine wine and the melody of the background music.
With a crisp white napkin, I dabbed the corners of my mouth, inhaling the mix of wine, sweat, and blood that wafted through the air. Delicious.
The hanging man was a punching bag for Oleg and Dmitri. They sure took their time with him, reveling in his agony.
I rolled my neck in a massaging motion and slowly rose to my feet, fingers adjusting my tie. My polished shoes scuffed against the floor as I walked over to my victim, my footsteps quiet and unhurried.
Oleg signaled Dmitri, and they both stepped back, letting him breathe for a moment.
I halted before him, eyes fixed on his battered face, my expression cold and unreadable.
“Boss,” he called softly. “Show mercy—”
“Why?” I asked.
He went silent, completely caught off guard, rambling for words.
“Give me one good reason why I should show you mercy,” I added, my intense gaze still unwavering.
His throat wobbled, eyes struggling to stay open. “I’m of more use to you alive than dead,” he said, his tone laced with skepticism and fear.
Even he didn’t seem convinced by his own words.
Idiot.
“You overestimate your importance, Yegor,” I said, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You stole from me.”
“I’ll pay it back, I swear to God.” His desperate voice rose at this point, cracking under the weight of his fear. “Two weeks. That’s all I ask for.”
I clicked my tongue in contempt, going around him in circles, slow and deliberate, each step fueling his terror. “You think this is about the money? You’re an even bigger idiot than I thought.”
The chains rattled overhead as he dangled, toes scraping the floor for balance.
I halted in front of him, cold as ice. “Loyalty is non-negotiable. And you, Yegor, have proven that you cannot be counted on.”
“No, please, I’m begging you—I have a pregnant wife…. I stole the money because of her!” he exclaimed, probably hoping that would somehow soften my stone-cold heart.
Indeed, he was a bigger idiot than I thought.
My brows knitted together, faint creases forming between them. One thing I hated aside from betrayal was lies, especially the ones told to save one’s skin.
Did he really think that I didn’t do my homework on him? Did he think that I didn’t know all there was to know about all of my men?
He dared lie to my face. Coward.
Yegor didn’t have a wife, let alone a pregnant one. And I had video evidence of how he blew the money he stole from me at a fuckin’ casino. The fool had no idea that I had a record of all the girls he wasted my money on: each and every last one of them. I knew all their names and addresses.
“Your wife?” I asked, eyes boring into his.
He swallowed hard, unaware of the trap he was about to walk right into.
“Yes, Boss.” He nodded. Desperate. “She’s pregnant with my child.”
A soft scuff escaped my mouth, and before I could make any moves, I heard a familiar set of footsteps approaching from behind.
Viktor stopped beside me, leaning to whisper in my ear. “Boss. Sorry to interrupt. But there’s something I think you should see.” He handed me an iPad.
Viktor was one of my most loyal men, but he wasn’t my right-hand man. That role belonged to Luka, but he was away, handling some private Bratva business elsewhere.
My eyes squinted at the lit screen, brows furrowing at the picture he showed me. Someone had taken a photo of me in a warehouse.
Judging the suit and the location, the photo was taken earlier today. I was exposed in the image, and although half my face was shrouded in the dark, the other half was still illuminated by a neon light.
I felt my blood run cold and my jaw lock in.
From that angle, the warehouse was identifiable to anyone who knew where to look and what to look for. Darkness had always been my cover; my operation never saw the light. Until now. This photo online had just put a target on me and my underground operations.
The last thing I needed was for the Feds to come sniffing around, sticking their noses in my business.
Perhaps, this was taken by a rival gang, and I could almost hear the war drums banging in my head.
“Find the photographer,” I said, my voice calm and collected yet laced with venom.
“Yes, Boss.” Viktor walked away.
I returned my gaze to the hanging man, my scowl deepening. “Oleg, Dmitri.”
They stepped forward.
“Show Yegor what we do to liars. And make sure his death is slow and painful,” I ordered, voice dripping with finality.
They nodded.
“No, no, no, please! I’m sorry—please, I’m begging you!” Yegor screamed.
I turned my back on him, a hand in my pocket as I walked away, leaving him to his fate. His screams echoed off the walls, painful and agonizing. But it didn’t matter how loud he shouted for help; no one was coming to save him. No one.
***
Later that evening, at almost midnight, Viktor drove me to the location of the photographer. He pulled over by the sidewalk across a low-budget apartment with weak lighting and paint peeling in strips. A single bulb lit the entrance, casting low, eerie shadows across the clustered steps.
“Second floor,” Viktor said, handing me his iPad. “Fourth room, east wing.” His finger tapped the drone footage playing on the screen.
I watched the window curtains sway in the cool night air as a figure paced the room, their outline caught in the soft light. The wind blew, parting the curtains just enough to let the drone capture the young woman standing by a table reading a book.
Her golden blonde hair spilled over her shoulders as she chewed absently on a pencil, her gaze fixed on the book in her hand. An oversized V-neck sweater shrouded her figure, the sleeves swallowing her arms.
My eyes narrowed as I wondered who she was or what she was doing in the photographer’s room.
“Her name is Wren Maddox,” Viktor said, “a college student who majors in photojournalism. She also owns a blog—the same one she posted the photo on.”
I lifted my head and looked at him. “She’s the photographer?” My voice was tinged with surprise.
“Yes.” He nodded.
I returned my gaze to the iPad’s screen, watching her pace back and forth with moving lips as if she was memorizing something. Judging by the way she threw her hands into her slightly tousled hair, it was clear that she was frustrated with whatever she was reading.
The drone didn’t get a clear shot of her, but the girl I saw in the room didn’t look like someone hired to take those photos of me.
“What do we know about her?” I asked him.
“Other than what I told you? Nothing. She’s clean,” he answered. “No criminal record.”
This girl wasn’t dangerous; she didn’t work for anyone. She was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. She was harmless. But I couldn’t say the same about the photo she took of me.
“Do you want her dead or alive?” Viktor asked me.
I hesitated, shifting my gaze outside the car’s window. In her room, she kept pacing up and down, unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows.
Based on the photos on her blog, she had a gift behind the lens. All her shots were perfect, each one telling a story of its own. She was a talented photographer.
“Tomorrow night,” I said without taking my eyes off her. “Bring her to me, alive and well.” I paused, my gaze unwavering. “For now, let her read her books and sleep in peace.”
“Copy that.” He started the engine and drove us away.
Back home, I had a visitor waiting for me. And he was the first person I saw when I walked into the living room.
“Hello, brother,” Lev greeted me, legs crossed as he sat reclined on a sofa.
His dark brown hair caught the chandelier’s warm glow, his pale and distant eyes pinned on me. He rose as I approached, arms spread wide open.
“Good to see you, Lev,” I said, slipping into his warm embrace. “You look good, brother.” I tapped his shoulder and stepped away, taking off my jacket.
The housekeeper appeared with a bottle of champagne and two clean flutes. She set them on the table between us and poured a generous amount into each flute.
“Thank you, Hannah,” I said to her, my voice low and even.
She nodded and walked away without a word.
I reached out, lifted a glass to my lips, and took a sip. “What brings you around these parts, Lev?”
“Can’t a man just stroll to visit his older brother?” he asked, helping himself with a glass.
I let out a soft scoff. “That’s a good one. But you and I both know that’s not why you’re here.”
He paused, nursing the champagne flute in his hand.
“Is this about the leaked photo?” I asked, curiosity lacing my tone.
His fingers scratched that neatly trimmed beard of his. “The Elders are worried.”
“I’ll handle it,” I answered.
“I know you will,” he said, then lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. “But you should be careful.”
“The photographer is a girl, Lev,” I explained, eyes fixed on him. “A student—so it’s probably nothing.”
“It’s not just the girl you should be careful about, brother,” he said, his deep voice hinting at something more sinister. “Elder Akim is the one in charge of this case, and you know how manipulative that son of a gun can be.”
Akim Antosha was one of the most ruthless Elders amongst the Bratva elites. He was feared by many for his ability to manipulate anything in his favor.
I personally never liked the old man, and the feeling was mutual.
If the girl turned out to be a spy, I’d take care of the situation. If she were innocent after all, I’d still handle it on my own. I didn’t need the Elders sticking their noses in my business.