Chapter 22
Keith
I stood there, watching him breathe in the filthy warehouse.
Every ragged inhale sounded like a lie I’d heard before.
Boris Morozov, the man who thought pain was power, who thought breaking her made him untouchable.
I’d pictured this moment too many times to count, but now that it was real, there was no satisfaction in it.
Just a heavy, simmering calm that burned deeper than rage ever could.
He looked smaller than I remembered. The arrogance was still there , flickering in his eyes like a dying flame , but beneath it, I saw the tremor in his jaw, the twitch in his fingers. Good. Let him feel what fear tastes like.
Aurelia’s voice wouldn’t stop replaying in my head.
The way she’d said what he did to her, broken, ashamed, like she still blamed herself.
That sound haunted me more than her silence ever did.
He’d taken something from her that I could never return, and no amount of blood would balance that scale. But I could try.
When I looked at him, I didn’t just see the man who hurt her.
I saw the reflection of everything I’d hated about my father’s world , the rot, the cruelty, the justification behind every order.
Boris wasn’t just one of them. He enjoys it.
He’d laughed when he said she was “damaged good.” He’d laughed while my fists were already on him.
Now, watching him bound to that chair, I didn’t feel pity. I didn’t feel mercy. I felt the weight of every night Aurelia woke up shaking, every time she flinched at the sound of footsteps behind her. That was the tally.
I leaned forward, meeting his eyes. “You touched what’s mine,” I said quietly. My voice didn’t need to rise. “You hurt her. And now, you get to see what that costs.”
He smirked , tried to, anyway. His lip split again. “You think you’re any different from me?”
Maybe I wasn’t. Maybe this was what my father had always wanted , another Krogen willing to get his hands dirty. But tonight, it didn’t matter. Tonight wasn’t about power or control or legacy. It was about her.
And I wasn’t leaving until the sound of her voice in my head was replaced by his screams.
“You don’t look as confident as you always do, Boris,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of the rage simmering beneath, as I dragged a second chair over, its legs screeching across the concrete.
I sat opposite him, close enough to smell his filthy sweat, to see the pulse hammering in his neck.
“No syndicate goons, no docks to hide on, no Father to clean up your mess. Just you, tied like the animal you are. How’s it feel? ”
He licked his lips, the smile widening, though it trembled, a crack in his facade.
He said nothing, just stared, his silence a challenge, a dare to break him.
I leaned back, crossing my legs, my face a mask of stone.
The warehouse’s chill seeped into my bones, the drip of water marking seconds like a heartbeat, but I felt only purpose, cold and unyielding.
This wasn’t for me. It was for her, for the women he’d sold.
For the empire I’d one day burn to rebuild clean.
He broke first, his accent thick with mockery.
“Always the mighty Keith Krogen, huh? Building your islands, fucking your little artist, playing the savior. But you’re no different than your father or me.
Just another monster in a suit, trading lives for power.
You think this,” he jerked his chin at his bound wrists, blood dripping from the cuts, “makes you clean? You’re dirty, just like us. ”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, my gaze boring into his, unblinking, the dim light casting my shadow over him like a noose.
“You’re right,” I said, my voice low, deliberate, each word a blade.
“I’m not so different. Same blood, same world, same shadows.
Except for one thing.” I paused, letting the silence stretch, watching his smile falter, his eyes flicker with the first hint of dread.
“I don’t see women as objects to sell, purchase, or trade.
They’re not cargo, Boris. Not pawns for your auctions, not toys for your sick games.
Aurelia? She’s not yours to break. That’s where you fucked up. ”
His sneer returned, but it was weaker, his hands flexing behind the chair, testing the ties, blood slicking the plastic. “Big words,” he spat. “But you’re still a Krogen. Your father’s empire, those girls, those shipments? You profit from it, same as me. You’re complicit, boy.”
I stood, the chair scraping back, and moved to the metal table in the corner, a scarred slab littered with tools, a box waiting like a Pandora’s chest of pain.
I opened it slowly, hinges creaking, revealing the arsenal.
Pliers, knives, a blowtorch, a cigar cutter, pruning shears, a steel rod, each item gleaming dully in the flickering light.
Boris’s eyes flicked to it, and there it was.
Fear, raw and unfiltered, dilating his pupils, tightening his jaw.
The predator sensed the cage closing. I pulled on black leather gloves, the snap of the material loud in the silence, a barrier between me and the filth I’d touch.
Picking up the pliers, their weight cold and solid, I turned back, holding them up so the light caught the jaws, their teeth glinting like a beast’s maw.
“Let’s talk about Father’s business,” I said, sitting again, the pliers dangling from my fingers, casual but deliberate.
“The syndicate you’re so proud of, the ‘premium acquisitions’ running through the East Coast ports.
Names of the buyers, routes of the shipments, the brokers who clean the money.
Who pulls the strings besides Father? Give me something, Boris, and maybe you walk out with fingers. ”
He stared at the pliers, sweat beading on his brow, his breath coming faster, shallower, the drip of water a counterpoint to his panic.
Silence. Defiance. I sighed, as if bored, and leaned forward, grabbing his left hand, the one with the gold ring he never took off.
A mockery of the lives he’d shattered. Pinning his fingers to the chair arm with a grip like iron, I clamped the pliers around his thumbnail, the metal biting into the nail bed, blood already welling from the pressure. “Last chance.”
“Fuck you,” he growled, but his voice trembled, fear leaking through like poison.
I squeezed, the pliers crunching through the nail with a wet, ripping sound, like tearing canvas, the thumbnail peeling away in a bloody strip.
Blood sprayed, hot and slick, splattering my gloves, his scream tearing through the warehouse.
A high animal wail that bounced off the walls, raw and desperate.
His body jerked, the chair rocking, tears springing to his eyes as he gasped, “You bastard! You fucking bastard!”
I wiped the pliers on a rag, unmoved, the blood smearing across the cloth like paint. “The syndicate,” I repeated, calm, methodical. “Names. Ports. Buyers. Now.”
He panted, snot dripping from his nose, mixing with blood on his chin, but his eyes burned with defiance, weaker now but stubborn. “Go to hell, Krogen.”
The second nail, index finger came harder, the pliers gripping tighter, the crunch louder as I twisted, pulling slowly to maximize the pain, the nail tearing free with a pop, blood gushing down his finger, pooling on the chair.
His scream was guttural, his body convulsing, the zip ties cutting deeper into his wrists as he thrashed, blood and sweat mingling on the concrete below.
“Routes,” I said, wiping the pliers again, my voice steady.
“Where do the girls go after the warehouses?”
He sobbed, tears streaming, his voice breaking. “You... you can’t do this... Marcus will,”
The third nail, middle finger was slick with blood, making the pliers slip before I clamped down, yanking with a deliberate twist, the nail bed ripping open, exposing raw flesh.
His scream was a banshee wail, high and piercing, his body bucking so hard the chair nearly tipped, blood spraying across my sleeve, staining the black fabric.
“Buyers,” I said, my tone unchanged, wiping the tool clean as his sobs filled the air.
“The sheikhs, the oligarchs, who are they? Names.”
By the fourth, ring finger he was a mess, babbling through tears and snot, “Please... stop... Cyprus... Limassol ports... Moscow oligarchs, Petrov, Ivanov... Mercy, Keith! Fucking mercy!” His hand was a ruin, fingers swollen, blood dripping steadily, pooling beneath the chair in a crimson lake that reflected the dim light.
I set the pliers down, the information cataloged, ports, names, enough to start unraveling the syndicate without Father’s knowledge.
But this wasn’t about the business anymore.
It was about her. I grabbed a knife from the box.
Its blade razor-sharp, glinting as I approached, sawing through the zip ties on his wrists and ankles with slow, deliberate cuts.
The plastic snapped, his hands falling free, then his legs, a glimmer of hope flashing in his eyes, pathetic, desperate, thinking I’d relented. Fool.
Before he could move, I grabbed his ankle, pinning it to the floor, the knife slicing through his Achilles tendon in one swift, brutal cut, the blade parting flesh and sinew like butter, blood spraying in a hot arc, splattering my boots.
His scream was apocalyptic, a raw, primal roar that shook the rafters, his body collapsing as he tried to stand, legs useless.
Blood gushing from the severed tendon, pooling around him in a slick, dark puddle.
He clawed at the concrete, nails scraping, leaving bloody streaks as he tried to crawl, his face contorted in agony, tears mixing with the filth.
I kicked the chair aside, the metal clanging as it skidded across the floor, then nudged him with my boot, rolling him onto his back.
He stared up, eyes wide with terror, the hope shattered, his ruined hand clutching at nothing.
“These are the fingers that touched her, right?” I said, my voice a low growl, picking up the cigar cutter, its small blades glinting like guillotines.
I knelt, pinning his right hand to the concrete, the cutter positioned over his pinky, the one that had poured the sedative, that had chained her wrists in that warehouse.
“The ones that held her down while she begged.”
“No... please, Keith... I’ll do anything...” he sobbed, his voice a broken whimper, snot and blood dripping down his face, his body shaking uncontrollably.
I squeezed the cutter, the blades snapping through bone with a sickening crunch, the pinky severing clean, blood spurting like a fountain, spraying my gloves and coat.
His scream was deafening, his body convulsing, the stump pulsing blood as he clutched it with his other hand, smearing crimson across his shirt.
I moved to the ring finger, the cutter biting again, another crunch, another severed digit rolling across the concrete, blood pooling in sticky rivulets.
“These are the lips that kissed her,” I continued, ignoring his wails, grabbing the blowtorch, igniting it with a hiss, the blue flame roaring to life.
I heated a steel rod until it glowed orange, the air shimmering with heat, the smell of burning metal sharp.
Pressing it to his mouth, the sizzle of flesh was immediate, his lips blistering, blackening, the stench of charred skin filling the air as he thrashed, his muffled screams choking on the pain, blisters bursting, pus and blood oozing down his chin.
“The tongue that talked shit about her,” I said, grabbing the pliers again, clamping his tongue as he gagged, pulling it out until it stretched taut, the rod still glowing as I pressed it to the flesh.
The burn was instant, the tongue searing with a pop, the smell of burning meat nauseating, his body jerking like a fish on a hook, eyes rolling back as he choked on his own screams. “And this dick,” I said, standing, grabbing the pruning shears, their heavy blades cold and unforgiving.
I yanked down his pants, exposing him, his pathetic cock shriveled in fear, the shears hovering inches away as he sobbed, begging, his voice a broken wail.
“Ke… kheh… K-Keith… m-mercy… p-pl…” The rest dissolved into a wet gargle, his tongue thick, his jaw trembling, words collapsing into sobs. His ruined hands smeared blood across the floor as he tried to crawl away, legs dragging uselessly.
I lowered my voice to a razor’s edge. “Mercy? You didn’t know the meaning when she begged for it. When those girls begged. You don’t get it now.”
The shears closed with a snip, the blades slicing through flesh and tissue with a wet, crunching sound, blood spraying in a hot arc, his scream a guttural roar that faded to whimpers as shock set in, his body convulsing, blood pooling beneath him in a dark, viscous lake.
He lay there, crying, bloody, broken, consciousness slipping as his eyes fluttered, the pain overwhelming his senses.
I removed my gloves, tossing them into the blood, the tools clattering on the table. “Victor,” I said into the intercom, my voice steady, the rage spent, leaving only cold resolve. “Send her in.”