41. Cassian
CASSIAN
Petrov’s lieutenant’s apartment smells like cigarettes and vodka.
He’s on his knees in the living room, hands zip-tied behind his back, blood running from his nose where Marcus hit him. Declan’s searching the bedroom. I’m standing in front of the lieutenant with my gun pointed at his head.
“Where’s Viktor’s second?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
I put a bullet in his left kneecap.
He screams. The sound echoes off bare walls. His neighbors probably hear it but no one’s calling the police in this neighborhood. Not when they recognize Rourke men conducting business.
“Let’s try again. Viktor’s second-in-command. Alexei Petrov. Where is he?”
“I swear I don’t know! He disappeared after the warehouse! No one’s seen him!”
Marcus walks over and presses his boot into the man’s ruined knee. More screaming.
“You were at the warehouse,” I say. “You helped torture Aurelia. I saw you in the photos.”
“That was Viktor’s orders! I was just following—”
“You think that matters to me?”
His face goes white. “Please. I have a family. A son—”
“So does the woman you tortured.”
I put two rounds in his chest. He drops forward and doesn’t move again.
Marcus is already pulling plastic sheeting from his bag. We wrap the body, tape it closed, and carry it to the service elevator. My people have a disposal team waiting in the parking garage.
This is the fourth Petrov soldier we’ve eliminated this week. Three weeks since the warehouse assault. Three weeks of hunting down everyone who survived.
The list is getting shorter.
In the car, Declan pulls up the remaining targets on his tablet. “Seven left. Three in the city, two in New Jersey, one in Connecticut, one location unknown.”
“The unknown one is Alexei.”
“Probably. He’s been careful. No digital footprint, no credit card usage, no sightings.”
“He’ll surface eventually. They always do.”
We drive to Queens where another target runs a strip club as a front for money laundering.
Petrov operation. Needs to be shut down.
The club is mostly empty at two in the afternoon.
A few regulars drinking at the bar. Two dancers on stage going through the motions for an audience that isn’t watching.
The manager sees us walk in and immediately heads for the back exit, but Marcus is faster. Catches him before he makes it to the door. Drags him into the office.
“Cassian Rourke,” the manager says, trying to smile like we’re friends. “What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me where the Petrov money is stored.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
I shoot the computer on his desk. The monitor explodes. Glass and plastic everywhere.
“Try again.”
He’s shaking now. “The safe. Behind the painting. Please don’t kill me. I’m just the manager. I don’t know anything about—”
Declan opens the safe. Inside is cash. A lot of cash. Two hundred thousand minimum.
“This goes to Petrov operations?” I ask.
The manager nods.
“Not anymore.”
We take the cash. All of it. Load it into bags and walk out while the manager watches. He’ll tell Viktor’s people what happened. They’ll understand the message. Everything the Petrovs built is being dismantled. Piece by piece. Business by business. Until nothing remains.
Over the next two weeks, we hit every Petrov operation in the city. Strip clubs, restaurants, illegal gambling dens, warehouses where they store contraband. We don’t negotiate. Don’t offer deals. Just walk in, take what’s valuable, and eliminate anyone who resists.
The money gets redistributed. Some to my people. Some to Julian’s. Some to legitimate charities because even dirty money can do good in the right hands.
The territory gets absorbed. Areas the Petrovs controlled now belong to me or to Julian or to other organizations we have alliances with. The map of the city shifts. Petrov red zones disappear and get colored over with blue for Rourke or green for Vance.
Other families notice. The Italians send a representative to a meeting Julian arranged. He sits across from me in a neutral restaurant and asks direct questions about what happens to families who cross us.
“The Petrovs came after my family,” I say. “They kidnapped the mother of my children. Tortured her. Threatened to kill her. What do you think happens to people who do that?”
“Complete annihilation.”
“Yes.”
“And if someone didn’t come after your family? If there was a misunderstanding or an accident?”
“Then we handle it like professionals. Negotiations. Compensation. Solutions that don’t require violence.”
He nods. Satisfied. “Good to know.”
The meeting ends with an understanding. The Italians won’t move on Rourke territory. We won’t move on theirs. Mutual respect through mutual fear.
The same conversation happens with the Irish. The Russians who aren’t affiliated with the Petrovs. The Chinese. Everyone who operates in the city gets the message delivered personally.
Touch my family and your organization disappears.
Most of them believe it. The ones who don’t are smart enough to keep their skepticism private.
Four weeks after the warehouse assault, Declan finally gets a hit on Alexei Petrov.
“Connecticut,” he says, showing me the surveillance photo. “Small town outside Hartford. He’s been living in a motel under a fake name.”
“How’d you find him?”
“He used a credit card once. Bought groceries. Small mistake but enough.”
“Get a team together. We go tonight.”
The drive to Connecticut takes two hours. We bring eight men who are heavily armed and ready for resistance.
The motel is a run-down building on a state highway. There are cars with expired registrations in the parking lot. No one asks questions in these parts if you pay cash. Alexei’s room is on the second floor. Number fourteen. Lights off. No movement visible through the window.
We stack up outside the door. Marcus has the battering ram. On my signal, he hits it hard. The door splinters and we’re through it before the wood stops falling.
The room is empty.
No Alexei. No belongings. Just cheap furniture and the smell of mold.
“He ran,” Declan says. “Probably saw us coming.”
“How long ago?”
“Can’t be more than an hour. His car was in the lot when we arrived.”
We search anyway. Check under the bed, in the closet, the bathroom. Find nothing except a receipt from a gas station dated this morning.
He’s gone.
We’re loading back into vehicles when my phone rings. Unknown number.
I answer. “Talk.”
“Cassian Rourke.” The voice is male, Russian accent, calm. “You’re looking for me.”
Alexei.
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere safe. Somewhere your people won’t find me.”
“You’re calling to negotiate.”
“I’m calling to tell you that you won. The Petrov Bratva is finished. Viktor is dead. His operation is dismantled. You’ve eliminated everyone who stood with us.”
“Except you.”
“Except me. And I intend to keep it that way.”
“Then why call?”
“Because I want you to know I’m leaving. Leaving the city, leaving the country, disappearing completely. You’ll never see me again. Your family will never be in danger from me.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“You don’t have to. I’m telling you as a courtesy. Professional to professional. The war is over. You won. Let it end here.”
I consider this. He could be lying. Could be planning another attack. Could be buying time to regroup. But he sounds defeated. Tired. Like a man who knows when he’s beaten.
“If I ever see you again,” I say, “or if anything happens to my family, I’ll hunt you down and finish this.”
“Understood. Goodbye, Cassian Rourke.” He hangs up.
Declan’s watching me. “You believe him?”
“No. But it doesn’t matter. Keep people looking. If he surfaces anywhere, I want to know.”
“And if he really disappeared?”
“Then the Petrov Bratva is finished and we can move on.”
We drive back to the city. The hunt continues for another week but Alexei doesn’t surface. No credit card usage. No sightings. No digital footprint.
Either he’s dead or he kept his word and disappeared.
Six weeks after the warehouse assault, I’m in a meeting with representatives from four different families. Julian’s there too. We’re discussing how to divide Petrov territory now that it’s available.
The Italians want the gambling operations. The Irish want the docks. Julian’s people want the restaurants. I want the warehouses. Everyone gets their piece. The city rebalances. Power shifts but stabilizes.
At the end of the meeting, the Italian representative stands and raises his glass. “To the end of the Petrov Bratva,” he says. “And to making sure we never give Cassian Rourke a reason to do to us what he did to them.”
Everyone drinks.
The message is clear. My family is untouchable. Anyone who forgets that ends up like the Petrovs.
Completely destroyed.
The Petrov Bratva is finished.