Chapter Twelve
Aleksei
The bottle rattles against the crystal as I pour, liquid sloshing over the rim.
Blyad .
I never spill. My hands don’t shake. But they are now.
The first sip of vodka burns, carrying me back to that sterile hospital corridor. The squeak of nurses’ shoes. The sharp antiseptic smell. Olga’s sobs echoing through closed doors.
I take another drink, longer this time. The memory intensifies — standing there, young and powerless, while some drunk bastard butchered my son’s delivery. I’d trusted the system, the doctors, the fucking government stamps on their certificates.
The glass slams down harder than intended. Crystal cracks spider across the bottom.
“Your son suffered severe trauma during birth,” they said. Clinical words masking brutal truth. I remember Bobik’s tiny body, twisted and still. Not crying. Why wasn’t he crying?
More vodka. It doesn’t help. The rage builds, familiar and hot in my chest. For ten years I’ve carried this weight — watching my boy struggle to sit up, to hold a spoon, to do the simplest things other children take for granted.
All because some idiot couldn’t stay sober enough to deliver him properly.
I grip the bottle neck, knuckles white. The memories keep coming now — first surgeries, endless therapies, Bobik’s brave smile through it all. My brilliant, beautiful son, forced to endure so much because of one man’s negligence.
The vodka burns less with each swallow. My rigid control starts slipping, the careful walls I’ve built around these memories crumbling.
I see Bobik’s face, lit up with excitement over his new wheelchair.
He deserves so much more than wheels and voice commands.
He deserves to run, to jump, to live without limits.
The glass is empty again. My hands have steadied, but something else has broken loose inside me. A decade of contained fury rises like bile in my throat.
The walls close in. I can’t sit here drowning in vodka and memories. Not when I finally have a name. Not when vengeance is within reach.
I strip off my suit jacket, my tie, leaving a trail to my private gym. The familiar scent of leather and sweat welcomes me. Here, at least, I know how to channel this fury.
The first punch rocks the heavy bag. Then another. And another. Each impact sends shockwaves up my arms, but I don’t slow down. My knuckles split. I don’t care.
Crack . For the forceps he mishandled.
Thud . For Bobik’s twisted spine.
Slam . For every physiotherapy session, every surgery, every fucking moment of pain my son has endured.
Sweat soaks through my shirt. Blood smears the bag. Still not enough. I switch to kicks, driving my shin into the leather until my legs tremble. The physical pain helps drown out the memories, gives me something tangible to fight against.
I don’t know how much time passes but my muscles are screaming when the rage finally starts to burn itself out, leaving clarity in its wake. Each breath comes easier, my thoughts sharpening like a blade being honed.
I rest my forehead against the cool leather of the bag, letting my pulse settle. The path forward crystallizes. No more helpless waiting. No more impotent fury. I have a target now.
Tomas Larkin will learn what it means to harm a Tarasov’s child.
Any child.
I grab my phone, knuckles still bleeding, and dial Sasha’s secure line. He answers on the first ring.
“Did Vasya speak to you?”
“About the doctor? Da , boss.” Sasha’s voice carries its usual calm efficiency. “He sent the file. We’re ready to go.”
I wipe sweat from my face with a towel, muscles burning from the workout. “Timeline?”
“A day, tops. The estate has multiple access points, minimal personal protection beyond the neighborhood patrol. Piece of cake.”
My breathing steadies as I process the details. A soft target, hiding behind walls and rent-a-cops. Pathetic.
“Good.” I nod, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction start to descend. It won’t give Bobik his legs back, but it’s something.
“What do we do about the wife, boss?” Sasha continues.
I purse my lips. I’ve never been a fan of collateral damage. It’s messy. Leads to complications. Besides, the poor bitch has enough on her plate being stuck with a cunt like that.
“Keep her out of it,” I say, tossing my towel into a nearby basket.
“ Da , boss.” He’s silent for a moment and I know he’s waiting for additional instructions.
“Any immediate business requiring attention?” Professional instincts override personal vengeance, if only temporarily.
“The Italians are pushing back on the port agreement. They demand a larger cut of container shipments.”
I roll my shoulders, working out the remaining tension. “Schedule a meeting. Make them understand the consequences of greed.”
“Already arranged for tomorrow morning. Their underboss seems… receptive to negotiation.”
The familiar rhythm of threats and territory soothes like a well-worn routine.
“But there’s something else, boss.” Sasha’s tone shifts, carrying a weight that makes me grip the phone tighter. “The Genoa numbers came in.”
My jaw clenches. “And?”
“Three hundred thousand missing from distribution. Books don’t match the cargo manifests.”
Blood from my split knuckles drips onto the gym mat. “Who?”
“Nico Verona. Been handling the west side accounts for six months now.” Sasha pauses. “Numbers started looking funny about three weeks ago. Small discrepancies at first, then bigger gaps.”
I press my fingers against my temple. Verona. Young punk trying to play in the big leagues. Should have trusted my gut when he first showed up with those designer suits and fake Rolex.
“Where is he now?”
“Gone. Apartment cleared out yesterday. Phone disconnected. Bank accounts emptied.”
“ Blyad .” I slam my fist into the bag one more time. “Get Vasya on it. Track his accounts, cards, everything. I want to know where that little shit’s hiding.”
“Already done. Vasya’s working on it.” Sasha clears his throat. “There’s more. He didn’t just cook our books. He set up dummy corporations, fake invoices. Made it look like legitimate business losses.”
My blood runs cold. This isn’t amateur hour theft. This is calculated. Planned. The kind of scheme that takes time and inside knowledge to execute.
“Who had access to those accounts besides him?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Could have had help from the inside. But my money’s on Maranzano.”
“Gianni?”
“ Da.”
“ Pizdets ,” I spit. “Makes sense. That slimy motherfucker always rubbed me up the wrong way.”
I close my eyes, exhaustion warring with fury. First the doctor, now this bullshit. The universe seems determined to test my patience today.
“Find him,” I growl into the phone. “And when you do, bring him to me. Alive.”
I pace the length of my private gym, each step measured against the fury building inside me. Nico fucking Verona. Should have gutted that cocky little prick the moment he walked in.
Three hundred thousand.
The number repeats in my head like a drumbeat. Not just stolen — systematically siphoned off.
And Gianni. That preening Italian peacock, always vouching for Nico, always pushing to give him more responsibility. “He’s young, but he’s got potential,” Gianni had said. “Just needs guidance.”
Mudak .
They think they played me. They thought wrong.
My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood. Three hundred thousand isn’t just theft — it’s a declaration of war. A deliberate insult to my authority, my intelligence, my control.
I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar calm of planning settle over me.
“Sasha,” I bark into the phone. “Get me everything on Maranzano’s recent movements.
Bank records, phone logs, security footage.
And put extra surveillance on his properties.
That peacock’s not going anywhere until I have answers. ”
I end the call, letting memories of past betrayals surface.
The Petrov brothers thought they could skim from the casino profits.
Their screams echoed through the warehouse for days before they broke.
Then there was Dmitri, who tried running with protection money.
We found him in Thailand. His new beach house in Pattaya became his tomb.
My knuckles throb as I flex them, dried blood cracking. The gym’s silence amplifies each breath, each heartbeat. A decade hunting Larkin. Now this theft. Both violations demanding response. Both requiring the particular brand of justice I’ve spent years perfecting.
I grab a fresh towel, dabbing at my split skin. Three hundred thousand. The number cycles through my mind again. Not the largest sum I’ve dealt with, but the audacity… the careful planning… the sheer fucking disrespect.
My reputation wasn’t built on mercy. Every thief, every traitor became an example. Their fates whispered about in dark corners, warning others what crossing me means.
I sink onto a bench, fatigue finally seeping in. Two major threats in one day. The doctor who crippled my son. The punk who thought he could steal from me. Each deserving their own special attention.
The weight of it settles on my shoulders like a familiar coat. Heavy, but necessary. This is what power demands — constant vigilance, swift retribution. No weakness. No hesitation.
And unfortunately for my enemies, that’s what I do best.