Chapter 25
IVAN
The painting explodes against the wall. Some dead French bastard's masterpiece—millions of fucking dollars—reduced to canvas shreds and splinters.
I don't remember grabbing it. Don't remember throwing it. Just the satisfaction of watching expensive shit break.
Not enough.
The coffee table goes next. Marble. Imported from fucking Italy. I flip it. The glass top shatters across the floor, glittering like tears.
Still not enough.
She's fucking gone.
The thought won't stop. Won't shut up. It keeps circling like a vulture over roadkill.
I told her to wait. Told her I'd handle it. Told her she was safe with me.
And she ran.
She saw me kill Fyodor—the traitorous piece of shit pretending to be my man—and she fucking bolted. She ran from me.
The lamp goes flying. Then the chair. Then whatever my hands can reach. A vase. Books. A knife. Nothing’s off limits.
I need to destroy something. Anything. Because if I'm not breaking things, then I'm thinking about her out there. Alone. Scared. Running from me.
From what I am. What I've always been.
A fucking killer.
Careful footsteps sound behind me, like a handler approaching a rabid dog.
"Boss." Misha's voice. "You need to—"
"Get the fuck out."
"The men are asking questions. They heard about—"
I turn, and he stops talking. Smart. He should stop talking. He should leave before I do something we'll both regret. Or just he'll regret. I might feel fine about it.
"She ran," he says anyway, either brave or stupid. "I saw her. After you killed Fyodor, she ran.”
My hands are moving before my brain catches up. Before I can think about consequences or control or any of that shit my father drilled into me about being Pakhan.
"You saw her? And you LET her go?" Three steps and I have him. My hand is around his throat, slamming him against the wall hard enough to crack plaster. Dust rains down on us. "You watched MY woman run into the Chicago night and did NOTHING?"
He doesn't fight back. He takes it, knowing better than to make this worse.
"Cops were everywhere. Sirens. We had a body to move. I made the call."
"You made the call." I press harder, feeling his pulse hammering under my palm. "You decided—without asking me—to let her run without protection?"
"She made her choice." He forces the words out past my grip. Each one costs him. "She chose to run."
"She doesn't get to—" I can't finish. I refuse to. Saying the rest would make it real.
I release him and step back. I can't look at him anymore. The fucking pity in his eyes is too much.
"She knew what this was," I manage. "What I—"
"Love?" Misha coughs and rubs his throat. "Is that what this is?"
I spin. "Are you questioning me?"
"I'm trying to understand." He straightens and meets my eyes. "You've started a war over—"
The gun is in my hand before I finish thinking about it. I pointed at his head. One squeeze and this conversation ends.
"Finish that sentence. I fucking dare you."
He doesn't flinch. He just looks at me.
Silence stretches between us, settling in.
"Maybe this is better,” he says finally.
The words land quietly.
"What?"
"Maybe this is better. For everyone." His voice stays level. "The men were starting to question. To wonder if—"
"If what?"
"If you still had your head in the game."
I should shoot him dead right now and end this before he says more shit I don't want to hear.
But my finger won't pull the trigger.
"She alienated everyone," he continues, gaining confidence from my hesitation. "Made you reckless. Made you—human. A Pakhan can't afford to be human, Boss. You know that."
"So you're glad she's gone?"
"I didn't say—"
"But you're thinking it." I barely lower the gun. "You're thinking now we can do Dmitri's deal. Make everything right again. Go back to how it was."
He doesn't deny it.
I'm going to kill him.
The thought sharpens. Clear. Certain. I'm going to kill Misha. My second. The man who's been with me since before my father died. The man who's saved my ass more times than I can count.
I'm going to fucking kill him for this.
I close the distance, gun still in hand, but I don't need it. Guns are too quick. Too clean. My hand finds his throat again and pins him against the wall. Harder this time. Meaning it.
He doesn't fight or beg. Just looks at me with those calm fucking eyes.
"Go ahead," he manages, voice strained but steady. "I've always been loyal. Always did what you asked. Never stepped out of line." He swallows against my grip. "I'm saying this because someone has to. Because anger doesn't win wars, Boss. Strategy does."
My grip tightens.
His face starts going red. He won’t defend himself or fight back. He’ll let me kill him for speaking the truth I don't want to hear.
FUCK.
There's no way I can kill Misha. The man who stayed when everyone else bailed. Who questioned my father's decisions to his face and still executed them perfectly. Who pulled bullets out of my shoulder and never asked for anything beyond his share.
But he disrespected her. Called her a liability. Said he was glad she's gone.
That requires punishment. Requires blood.
But she's gone. Will his death even matter? Will it bring her back? Or will I be alone with one less person I can trust in this fucked-up world?
"I hope—" His words are barely audible, strangled. "I hope my death goes to a good cause. I hope it makes you see clearly, Boss."
The door opens.
"Boss, I got—"
Pyotr. He’s standing in the doorway, taking in the scene. My hand around Misha's throat. Misha's face red, his eyes beginning to glaze.
Pyotr's expression changes. Shock. Then a different emotion—one that looks like fear, but not for himself.
His eyes go to Misha and stay there.
And I see it. The way he looks at him. Not like a coworker. Not like a fellow soldier.
Like more than that. A connection I should've noticed before. One everyone probably knows except me.
FUCK.
I can't kill Misha. I can't kill him and watch whatever that is in Pyotr's eyes die with him. That’d alienate the last two men who trust me. Who believe in whatever the fuck I'm trying to build here.
I hold for three more seconds. No, five. Let them both sweat it. Let Misha feel how close he came. Let Pyotr understand what almost happened. Then I release him.
Misha gasps and staggers. His hand goes to his throat, but his expression stays composed. Bold even. A good soldier accepting his punishment. A better soldier for surviving it.
"Why are you here?" I ask Pyotr.
"Boss, I—" He glances at Misha, and some silent communication passes between them. "I check with Dave. And Mick. She not come back."
Is he fucking serious? That's his intel?
"Well, no shit she's not going back to the diner." I turn away, unable to look at either of them.
"I also check with landlord," Pyotr continues, undeterred. "She not back to apartment. Empty since you took her, Boss. Landlord say he could call police but..." He shrugs. "He has things to hide. Drugs maybe. Doesn't want cops asking questions."
The words feel like hope and terror wrapped in barbed wire.
Empty since I took her.
She didn't run home. She didn't go back to her apartment to pack, hide, or plan her escape. She didn't return to her old life.
Which means… relief and dread flood through me. My knees go weak for a second before I lock the emotion down. Before I remember, I'm Pakhan, and a Pakhan doesn't show weakness even when he’s drowning in it.
She didn't run away. If she did, she didn't make it far. She didn't make it home.
Last night, I was distracted cleaning up Fyodor's corpse. I was dealing with cops and witnesses and making a body disappear. I’d trusted my men to secure the goddamn perimeter.
How the fuck did I not check on her? What kind of idiot lets his woman out of sight when there's a war on? I’m stupid. So fucking stupid.
She might've been taken. Right then. Right there. While I was playing cleanup crew, someone else moved in and grabbed her off the street.
Dmitri.
That cockroach. That fucking roach took her while I was distracted.
My phone rings. The sound cuts through the destruction. Through the scattered glass and overturned furniture.
I look at the screen.
Dmitri Volkov.
Of course, it's him. Calling to gloat. To twist the knife. To hold her life over my head until I give him what he wants.
I answer, putting it on speaker so Misha and Pyotr can hear.
"Petrov." Dmitri's voice is smooth and confident. The voice of someone who thinks they've already won. "About that second meeting."
I say nothing, not trusting what might come out if I open my mouth.
"Had time to think about our conversation?" He pauses, ever the theatrical bastard. He’s enjoying this. A rare victory. "The alliances. The arrangements. The sensible solution to our little... disagreement."
My hand tightens on the phone hard enough that the screen cracks under my fingers. I want to reach through it and wrap my hands around his throat like Misha's, only this time, I’d squeeze until bone breaks.
"Tomorrow," he continues as casually as discussing lunch plans instead of my woman's life. "Same warehouse. 10 p.m. I assume you'll be there?"
"I'll be there."
"Good." Another pause, twisting the knife deeper. "And Petrov? Come alone. No soldiers. No weapons. Just you and me. A civilized discussion. Like reasonable men."
The line goes dead.
I stand in a daze, phone cracked in my hand. I’m surrounded by destruction. By evidence of rage that solved nothing. Fixed nothing.
He has her.
He has to. The timing is too perfect. The confidence too real. Dmitri doesn't call to schedule meetings unless he thinks he's holding all the cards.
And right now, he's holding the only card that matters.
Lila.
"Boss?" Misha's voice is rough, damaged. "What do we do?"
What do we do? The eternal question. The one I'm supposed to have answers for.
"We go to the meeting."
"He said alone—"
"I said WE go." I turn to face them. Both of them.
Misha with his bruised throat. Pyotr with worry written across his scarred face.
"He has her. I know it. You know it. This whole setup—taking her, calling immediately, demanding a meeting tomorrow.
Classic hostage play. And he thinks that gives him leverage. "
"Does it?" Misha asks. He’s not challenging but genuinely asking.
Does it?
"Yes." The admission tastes like blood. "It fucking does."
Misha and Pyotr exchange glances. That silent communication again. Loyalty balanced against logic. Trust balanced against survival instinct.
"Then we plan," Pyotr says. "We prepare. We find her before the meeting, or we go in ready for war. But he say no weapons"
"When do we ever do what that piece of shit says?" Misha rubs his throat and winces. "We bring weapons. We bring men. We end him."
"Get everyone." My voice is steady now. Clear. The rage has sharpened. "Every soldier we trust. Every weapon we have. I want eyes on every property Dmitri owns. Every warehouse, every safe house, every shithole apartment he might keep her."
"Boss, that's—"
"I don't care what it costs." I cut him off. "I don't care who we have to pay or threaten or kill. Find her before tomorrow night. Find her or bring me enough firepower to level that warehouse."
They nod and get to work. Calls. Planning. The machinery of the Bratva grinds into motion. Resources deploy. Favors are called in. Every connection my father ever made, every alliance I've carefully maintained, all of it focused on one goal: Get her back.
I look around the penthouse, taking in the destruction I caused. Broken art and shattered furniture. Evidence of a loss of control. Evidence of weakness. My father would be disgusted.
I pull out my phone. The screen is cracked, but it still works. I dial.
"Boss?" Sergei's voice.
"I need you to do something for me."
"Anything, Boss."
"Dmitri has the girl. I want you to prepare for war. Real war. Not skirmishes. Not territory disputes. Fucking war."
Silence hangs on the other end, followed by, "How big?"
"Big enough to burn Dmitri’s empire to ash." I walk to the windows and gaze out at Chicago. My city. My responsibility. "Big enough that everyone knows what happens when you touch what's mine."
"Understood, Boss."
I hang up and make another call. Then another. Mobilizing. Preparing. Building toward tomorrow's meeting, where either everything gets resolved, or everything goes to hell.
Probably the latter.
But I don't care anymore. Let it burn. Let the whole fucking empire burn if that's what it takes.
Rage floods through me again. Colder this time. The kind that doesn't break furniture. The kind that ends bloodlines and burns cities.
I pocket the phone and turn to Misha and Pyotr, who are watching and waiting for orders. For direction. For their Pakhan to be what he's supposed to be.
Tomorrow I’ll go to that meeting. Tomorrow I’ll face Dmitri and whatever sick game he's playing. And tomorrow, one way or another, this ends.
I'm going to burn the world down.
Starting with that cockroach.
Then, anyone else who dares to get in my way.