Chapter 20 Kazimir
Kazimir
He trips over the curb when I hit him.
I don’t hit him hard enough to knock him out, but it is hard enough to steal his breath and his rhythm.
He has the easy confidence of a man who believes mornings belong to him.
One second, he is jogging past a line of parked cars in designer running shoes, earbuds in, breath measured and unhurried.
The next, he is sprawled out on the pavement, his skin is scraped off his palms, and a startled sound tears out of his throat.
I’m on him before he can roll.
My hand fists in the back of his shirt and hauls him upright, slamming him chest-first into the side of the nearest van.
The metal of the door dents with a hollow thud.
His earbuds are knocked out of his ears and the faint sound of music chirps from the tiny speakers.
One of my men reaches into this asshole’s pocket and pulls out his cell.
He tosses it on the ground and crushes it under his steel-toe boot.
“What the--” he starts.
I drive my forearm into his throat and cut the word off.
He gags, and his fingers claw uselessly at my sleeve as Nika steps in.
He’s precise and efficient, wrenching his arms behind his back.
Plastic cuffs bite down. The man wheezes, and his feet scrabble for purchase.
I lean in close enough that he can smell me.
“You touched a woman who was under my protection,” I say quietly.
He shakes his head with instinctive denial. “I don’t—” He tries to say.
I punch him in the kidney, and his body folds with a sound like a broken bellows, vomit splattering the pavement. And my Varvatos boots.
“Disgusting. Osian, stop on the way back to the estate and buy a new pair.” The Boevik doesn’t bat an eyelash; whether it’s an assassination or shopping trip, as long as I’m the one giving the order, he does it without question.
Nika opens the van, and we throw the man who beat Devin inside.
I climb in after him and slam the door shut. Darkness swallows him, punctured only by his choking breaths and the low hum of the engine as it turns over. I crouch down so we are eye level and stare into his glassy eyes. His face is blotchy; he’s clearly terror stricken.
Good.
“You are very lucky,” I tell him. “Because this is not about making you disappear.”
He sobs, a wet, humiliating sound.
“This is about education.”
I nod once. Nika hands me the baton without comment.
As the van pulls away, I raise it slowly, deliberately. I watch him until understanding finally dawns on him and I can see it in his eyes.
He screams on the first strike.
He does not stop screaming for a long time.
The ropes creak when he shifts his weight.
He is tied to a chair that’s bolted into the concrete floor. His wrists are bound behind him, his ankles secured, and a strip of tape is stretched brutally across his mouth. It’s a cliché setup, but it's cliché for a reason; it works.
One eye is already swollen shut on the ride back, his designer running clothes replaced with whatever was in the van, and his dignity has been stripped down to barely nothing. The basement smells like iron, oil, and damp stone. It’s beneath one of the outbuildings on my land, and built to endure.
This room has seen worse than him.
I step into the light and watch his gaze snap toward me, recognition flaring fast and panicked. He remembers me, despite having passed out briefly. That matters. Men who understand who holds power break more efficiently.
Nika stands off to the side, and two other men linger in the shadows. They are Bratva to the bone; waiting without needing instruction. The door opens softly behind me again, and I feel the shift before I turn.
When I see Devin, she is as still as stone standing on the threshold.
It has been over a week since the incident, and her bruises have all yellowed and are starting to fade. Right now, she’s pale and her eyes are wide with fear, her breath hitches when she sees the man bound to the chair. She flinches like she’s been struck, one hand flying up to clutch Aly’s sleeve.
Aly’s reaction is immediate and visceral.
“What the hell is this?” she demands. Her voice is sharp and filled with disbelief. She steps forward, positioning herself between Devin and the room. “You had them come get us for—Kazimir, what are you doing?”
I don’t answer her…not yet.
I crouch in front of the man instead, ripping the tape from his mouth in one swift motion. He doesn’t cry out even though pieces of his flesh rip off with the tape. His lips tremble and saliva strings as he gasps.
“You remember her,” I say calmly, gesturing back toward Devin without looking. “Tell us what you did.”
He shakes his head and tears spill out. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please.”
I sigh softly, disappointed.
The first correction is surgical. I take my time with it, breaking his nose with the heel of my palm, snapping cartilage with a wet, decisive crack that echoes in the room. He screams, high and broken, blood pouring down over his mouth and chin.
“That,” I say evenly, “was for lying.”
I stand and roll my shoulders once, loosening them. I reach for the tools laid out neatly on the steel table nearby. This is not a frenzy. This is instruction.
I break fingers next, one by one, not in order. I want to keep him guessing and keep his body from bracing. I wrench his thumb so hard the knuckle bone shows through his skin, Alyona makes a retching sound and tries to pull Devin from the room.
But Devin doesn’t move. She stands there frozen, watching.
I talk as I work. My voice is steady while I explain boundaries, consequences, and the concept of ownership in a world where men like him mistake access for entitlement. He sobs, begs, promises money, influence, and favors.
I use my baton until it snaps, then my boots, then my hands, leaving bruises that will bloom dark and spectacular.
I am aware of the blood slicking my knuckles, soaking into my shirt, spattering my forearms. I am aware of Aly’s breathing behind me, fast and furious, of Devin’s soft, broken sounds as she tries not to make any at all.
When I finally stop, the man slumps forward, unconscious, but breathing. His face is ruined, and his body is broken.
I turn.
Devin is crying silently, shoulders caving inward, and her face is buried against Aly’s neck. Aly’s eyes are blazing, and with trembling hands she rubs Devin’s back. I can tell her entire body is radiating fury.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she snaps, voice cracking with it. “You didn’t have to make her watch.”
“I didn’t make her. She chose to stay.” Turning back to the man, I lean down to peer closely at his face, which looks like tenderized mutton. “He will never do that to another woman again.”
“That wasn’t for her,” Aly shoots back. “That was for you.”
She shepherds Devin toward the door, casting one last look over her shoulder at me, at the blood, at the room. There is nothing in her expression but anger and something sharper beneath it, something that twists unpleasantly in my chest.
She knows who I am. This shouldn’t come as a surprise to her, and I don’t feel guilty. I won’t.
The door closes behind them.
The basement is suddenly very quiet.
I look down at my hands and the blood drying dark against my skin. I did what needed to be done. I know that. I have always known that.
But as I stand there alone, surrounded by the aftermath of my own ruthlessness, I find myself wondering if I have shown too much to Alyona. Could she ever really want a man like this?
Later, I brace my hands against the porcelain sink and scrub methodically, watching diluted blood spiral down the drain.
My knuckles are already swelling beneath the ink, skin split in two places, the familiar sting grounding me more than any prayer ever could.
I breathe through my nose, slow and controlled, cataloging the damage with detached precision.
This is nothing.
I reach for the towel to dry my hands when I hear voices coming from the adjoining side room. The door isn’t fully closed. I hadn’t realized anyone was there.
First, I hear Aly’s voice, it’s thin and unsteady. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you down there. I shouldn’t have let you see it.”
There’s a pause, then the soft rustle of movement. When Devin speaks, it’s quieter than I’ve ever heard her; no sharpness, no joking.
“Aly,” she says gently, “you didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You were shaking,” Aly presses. “You were crying. I—God, Dev, I don’t even know if that helped or if it just made everything worse.”
There is a longer pause.
“I’ve been scared my whole life,” Devin says. “Scared that if I made the wrong move, said the wrong thing, and nobody would have my back. That it would just happen again and again.”
My chest tightens.
“What he did,” Devin continues with a steady voice, “it doesn’t erase what happened.
It doesn’t fix everything, but it’s the first time someone didn’t tell me to just deal with it.
The first time someone made it clear that what was done to me mattered.
It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” she finishes softly.
I close my eyes, one hand grips the edge of the sink and my pulse thudding heavy and loud in my ears. I wait for Aly to respond, braced for anger, for disgust, for that sharp rejection I saw in her eyes downstairs.
She says nothing.
The quiet becomes unbearable. Every second that passes without hearing her voice feels like a verdict being weighed. I find myself counting my breaths, something I have not needed to do in years.
I hear the sound of footsteps approaching.
I straighten instinctively as Nika steps into view. His expression reveals that something is wrong. He doesn’t look at the sink or my hands. His gaze locks on mine, grim and unflinching.
“Boss,” he says quietly. “We’ve got a situation.”
I turn toward him. “Speak.”
“There’s been an accident at the north port,” he says. “Fire. Structural failure. Official story will be electrical.”
“How many?” I ask.
His jaw tightens. “Six confirmed…maybe more. We’re still pulling bodies.”
Bodies.
The word echoes; cold and heavy. It cuts through the fragile tension of the last few minutes like a blade. My mind shifts instantly, gears snapping into place, already mapping routes, enemies, timing.
“What really happened?”
“That’s the problem,” Nika replies. “It wasn’t random. Cameras were disabled before the fire started. This was planned.”
Hinto.
Behind the wall, I hear Aly move. A chair scrapes softly against the floor.
My jaw clenches as understanding settles in with brutal clarity.
This is him escalating. This is a message, timed perfectly to remind me that while I was distracted, while I was teaching lessons in basements, my territory was burning.
Aly is under my roof.
If he makes me choose…
Which would I choose? The empire I’ve built bigger, stronger, than my uncle ever could have, or the woman I’m starting to suspect claimed me before I claimed her?
“Lock everything down here,” I say, already moving. “No one in or out. Double security on Alyona.”
Nika nods and turns to go.