29. Ruslan
29
RUSLAN
I lean my head against the tinted window, watching the lights of downtown Los Angeles blur past as our convoy of three black SUVs cuts through the night traffic.
My fingers drum against the compact submachine-gun hidden in my suit jacket the closer we get.
"Do you really think we can trust her information?" Artyom asks from the driver's seat, his eyes briefly meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
I consider his question carefully. Trust Tamara? After everything?
"No." I admit, my throat tight with almost two decades of hatred. "There's a part of me that doesn't trust her. Maybe never will."
But then I remember how she looked just hours ago. Not the haughty bratva princess, but a desperate broken woman clinging her daughters like it was the last time she could ever do so. She had buried her face in their hair, whispered in their ears, and kept turning around to look at them as she finally forced herself to walk away.
That's not something you can fake.
Artyom nods, his hands tightening on the wheel as we turn onto Grand Avenue.
"And if she dies tonight?" he asks quietly. "How will you tell the girls?"
The question shakes me to my core. It's not something I wanted to think about, even as we gathered the men for this mission.
"The only way I can," I say finally, my voice rougher than I intend. "Straightforward and honest. Mikayla might understand. Or at least be able to hide it better. But Stella and Sofia..."
The image of their small faces crumpling in grief twists something inside me. They've already lost their father and brother. And now, potentially their mother too.
All because of this vicious world we were born into.
I feel my thoughts spiraling toward a dark place and forcibly pull myself back.
"It's best not to think about these things right now," I say, checking everything on me one more time. "We need to focus."
The garage is dark and silent except for the soft purr of engines as we park our cars in a neat row.
Three black SUVs lined up like ravens around carrion.
My men move with practiced efficiency, no words needed. Just nods and hand signals as we make our way across the concrete toward the private elevator.
A single guard stands at attention, looking bored as he scrolls through his phone. He doesn't even look up until it's too late. Artyom steps forward.
With a single fluid motion, he raises his silenced pistol and pulls the trigger.
The guard's eyes widen in brief shock.
Two of my men lunge forward to catch his body before it hits the ground. They drag him away toward our vehicles while another takes the keycard from his pocket.
"Pakhan." The man hands me the access card with a small bow of his head.
Such a small, insignificant thing. Yet it grants me access to one of the most powerful men in California's criminal underworld.
Semyon Mikonov.
The man behind the deaths of my brother and nephew.
The man who dares to conspire with the monster hunting my wife.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime that seems unnaturally loud in the tense silence. Artyom steps in first, scanning for threats before motioning us to follow. I enter with him and three others, positioning myself near the control panel.
Artyom reaches up to the corner camera, smashes it with the butt of his gun. Glass tinkles to the floor.
I swipe the keycard, press the button for the penthouse, and feel the elevator surge upward.
My heart hammers against my ribs, the sound of blood rushing in my ears becoming almost deafening. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps. My fingers tremble slightly as they grip my weapon.
A firm hand on my shoulder brings me back.
"Breathe, Ruslan," Artyom murmurs, his voice calm and steady. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. You're too tense."
I nod once, forcing myself to take a deep breath. Hold it. Release slowly.
"Good," he says. "I need you to shoot straight tonight. Not for nothing else, I'm not trying to get killed by you."
I can't help the small chuckle breaking out from the depth of my throat.
"You trying to live forever, Artyom?"
"Forever?" He cocks his head, smiling. "No. Just long enough see what happens tomorrow."
The doors ding open and we surge forward, weapons raised.
Movement to the right. A guard reaches for his gun.
Too slow.
I squeeze the trigger twice. A flower of fire blooms at the barrel of my submachine gun. The man slumps to the ground.
More guards appear. Gunfire erupts. The sound echoes off marble floors and high ceilings.
A maid screams, diving behind a sofa. I signal my man to let her go.
"Armed men only!" I bellow over the chaos. "Leave the staff!"
Three more guards appear from the dining area. We drop them before they can get a shot off.
I slam my palm against the elevator button, sending it back down for reinforcements.
"Artyom!" I call out. "Take Pyotr and Maksim. Upstairs. Move!"
He nods sharply, motioning to the men. Together, the three of them move swiftly toward the spiral staircase.
A guard pops up from behind a bar counter.
I fire.
Glass shatters. Liquid pools. The smell of expensive vodka fills the air.
Followed by the ever-strengthening scent of blood.
Afanasy stays close to my left flank, his movements mirroring mine with the precision that comes from years of training. Two shots, and he dispatches a man trying to flank us with a single shot to the head.
"Pakhan, behind you!"
I pivot, dropping to one knee as I swing my weapon around. A single three-round burst and the guard's chest erupts in crimson as he crashes into an ornate vase. Priceless porcelain shatters beneath his weight.
"Got him." I rise in a fluid motion, pressing forward. "Good looks."
The elevator dings again, the sound cutting through gunfire and shouts.
"Reinforcements behind!" Someone calls out.
Five more of my men pour through the opening doors, weapons raised. They fan out instantly, securing the entrance foyer.
"Seva, Roma!" I call out. "East side. Kolyenka, secure our exit. The rest with me."
I don't bother waiting for acknowledgment from them. They'll do their jobs.
I sweep through a grand sitting room, all modern glass and steel. Another guard tries to ambush us from behind a column. I put him down with mechanical precision.
"Room one clear!" Seva shouts from down the hall.
"Room two clear," Roma's voice joins him.
Room by room, we methodically purge Semyon's defenses. Each shot deliberate. Each kill necessary.
Blood seeps into the pristine white carpet of the dining room as we step over three more bodies. Heart pounding and sweat beading on my forehead, I move toward the double doors at the end of the hall.
I know what lies beyond.
The dining room.
Is he sitting there right now, surrounded by his men?
Is Kristofer with him? That thought of the man who hurt Aurora and dared to put his disgusting hands on my wife sends a surge of white-hot rage through my veins.
And what of Tamara? Is she there too? Is she playing both sides like she's done her entire life?
Or did she truly mean it when she gave us this way in?
These questions swirl in my mind like smoke, but they don't matter now. Only action matters.
I take a deep breath, tightening my grip on the weapon. My men stack up on either side of the double doors like dominoes, their faces hard masks of focused intensity. Waiting for my signal.
I catch Afanasy's eye and give a curt nod. He returns it with grim determination.
I take one final breath, centering myself.
Three. I gesture.
My men tighten their grips on their weapons.
Two.
I shift my weight to my right leg, preparing to kick the door open.
One!
I slam my foot against the door with all my strength. The wood splinters around the lock as the doors fly open, crashing against the walls with a thunderous bang that echoes through the penthouse.
And all I find is an empty dining room on the other side.
No Semyon. No Kristofer. No Tamara.
Just an immaculate twelve-seat dining table, polished to gleaming perfection. Crystal glasses stand in perfect formation. Fine china plates await food that isn't there. Not even a single napkin out of place.
"What the fuck?" I mutter, sweeping my weapon across the room.
My earpiece crackles. "Ruslan." Artyom's voice is tense. "Office is empty. Master bedroom clear. He's not here."
Ice settles in my gut. "Check all rooms. Every closet, bathroom, panic room."
"Already on that. I don't think he's here."
My men flood the dining room, checking behind curtains, under the table, opening every door.
"Nothing, Pakhan," Afanasy reports.
I slam my fist against the wall. "We've been played."
"Ruslan." Artyom's voice comes through again, sharp with urgency. "Something's wrong. The guards. They're not Mikonov men."
A chill runs down my spine. "What?"
"Look at the tattoos. Look at their fucking faces!"
I spin around, moving to the nearest fallen guard in the hallway. He's an Asian man. But the bratvas have always had plenty of Asians who hail from the poor far-flung eastern edges of Russia.
Kalmyks. Yakuts. Tuvans. Buryats.
The only way to be sure is through the tattoos.
Kneeling beside him, I rip open his shirt collar.
There, inked into his neck. Not the traditional bratva imagery, but the distinctive swirling pattern of Triad markings.
Fuck!
"Check the others!" I bark.
My men rush to examine the bodies scattered throughout the apartment.
"Pakhan! This one is Triad too!"
"Same here!"
I meet Artyom's eyes across the room as he descends the stairs. The same realization dawns on both our faces.
"The only bratva man was the guard at the elevator," Artyom says quietly.
"So what is this?" I demand, my mind racing. "Did Semyon sacrifice one man to lead us into?—"
"A trap," Artyom finishes. "Or..."
"Or he knew we were coming," I say, the pieces falling into place, "and left a bunch of Triad soldiers for us to kill instead."
I look around at the carnage we've created. The blood-soaked luxury of Semyon's penthouse, filled with dead Triad soldiers.
I turn back to the empty dining room, and something catches my eye.
A phone.
Not just any phone. Tamara's phone.
Just then, a text comes on and I see that the lock-screen has changed.
Five simple words that punch through my chest like ice water:
"Look what you made me do."
"Ruslan, we need to leave now." Artyom's voice seems distant despite him standing right beside me.
I can't tear my eyes from those five damning words.
"Ruslan!" He grabs my shoulder, finally breaking my trance. "Police scanners are lighting up. LAPD units already responding. And it won't be long before the Triads show up either."
I should leave the phone. It's a trap. A message. Bait. Something designed to pull me deeper into whatever game is being played.
Every instinct screams to walk away.
But I reach for it anyway.
The screen is still unlocked. My jaw clenches as I pocket the device.
I nod, finally finding my voice. "Let's go. Standard dispersion. Ditch the cars at the chop shops and switch into individual rides."
Distant sirens grow louder outside. Artyom checks the window, keeping low.
We move silently back toward the elevator, stepping over bodies. The weight of Tamara's phone burns in my pocket like a live grenade.
Those five words echo in my mind, each syllable a promise of fresh violence and twisted games yet to come.
It doesn't take long before we've left from Semyon's penthouse, driving past screaming police sirens as we take separate directions to different chop shops.
My hand remains tight around Tamara's phone, staring at the device like it might explode at any moment.
What the fuck are you playing at?
Then, the screen lights up with a new message from an unknown number.
"UNLOCK ME: 123456"
Artyom glances over from the driver's seat, his eyes darting between the road and the glowing phone in my hand.
"We might as well see what's on it," he says quietly. "Could be important. Sure as hell not doing it once we get back home."
My stomach knots with dread as I punch in the simple code. The phone unlocks instantly, opening to a video message.
I press play.
The screen fills with Tamara's face. Her eyes wide with terror, mouth gagged with a dirty cloth. Blood trickles from a cut on her temple. She's bound to a chair with duct tape, struggling against her restraints.
Behind her stands Kristofer, his fat disgusting face is twisted in a grotesque smile. The blade of his knife glints under harsh fluorescent lights as he presses it against Tamara's throat.
"Hello dear," he says, voice dripping with mock insincerity. "I just want you to know that what happens next isn't personal. Your mother made a choice. She chose to betray her own family. And as your grand-uncle so often likes to tell me: betrayal in this world must be punished ."
That’s when I realize who he's speaking to.
"So the only thing I have to say to you, dear girl, is just this."
His wormy lips part to reveal his yellow teeth.
"Look what your uncle made me do."
Tamara's eyes plead silently, tears streaming down her face as Kristofer saws the knife across her throat.
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