CHAPTER 6
ANDREI P.O.V.
Silence is the only thing in this city that doesn't lie.
I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass of my penthouse, staring down at the concrete sprawl.
A dark monolith towering over a glittering, pathetic grid.
Millions of people down there scuttling around like roaches, thinking they have free will, thinking their lives mean a single fucking thing.
My reflection looks back at me from the cold glass.
Ice-blue eyes that feel ancient, set in a face that hasn't given a genuine shit about anything in a decade.
I swirl a glass of neat twenty-five-year-old Scotch, watching the amber liquid coat the crystal sides.
I feel hollow. A gnawing, rotting boredom eating away at my ribs.
I own this city. I bled it, I broke it, I bought it.
Now it just feels like a toy I already smashed to pieces. Too many lights, not enough fire.
I lift the rim of the heavy crystal glass and use it to slowly, hypnotically trace the faint, jagged scar on my right knuckle.
The dull vibration of the glass against the old wound is the only thing grounding me.
There’s a sharp, irrational irritation buzzing under my skin today and I can't fucking pinpoint it.
I just want to watch something burn. I want to see something new.
The heavy, climate-controlled air of the penthouse is punctured by the sharp hiss of the biometric lock disengaging at the private entrance.
Yuri enters. He doesn't stomp, he doesn't announce himself.
He moves with the predatory grace of a man who lives entirely in the shadows, stopping exactly three paces behind me.
He clasps his hands behind his back and waits.
The silence he brings with him would unnerve any other man on the planet, but it just forces me to put the armor back on.
I don't turn around. I keep my eyes on the city below. In the reflection of the glass, I watch Yuri adjust his black silk tie by exactly a millimeter. His deadpan eyes are fixed squarely on the back of my head.
"You're late, Yuri," I say, the words dragging out of my throat, rough and low. "By four seconds."
"The world didn't stop while you were staring at the fog, Boss."
The soft click of his polished Oxfords against the marble floor cuts through the hum of the HVAC system. The faint, metallic scent of gun oil drifts over my shoulder, completely masking the smell of expensive peat and old leather in my glass.
I turn slowly. My gaze is heavy, annoyed.
Yuri produces a thick, black envelope from the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
The paper is heavy, textured cardstock, sealed with a massive dollop of deep crimson wax that looks uncomfortably like a fresh bloodstain.
He holds it out toward me like a challenge I didn't ask for.
I ignore his outstretched hand for a long moment. I take a slow, deliberate sip of my Scotch, letting the burn coat my throat while I look directly into Yuri’s dead eyes.
"Blood-red wax. Hemlock always was a dramatic bitch."
"Another invitation to watch the wealthy pretend they are gods?" Yuri asks, his voice flatter than concrete.
I snatch the envelope from his fingers. I break the seal with a brutal flick of my thumb.
The crisp snap of the wax echoes in the massive room, the shards falling to the floor like shattered teeth.
I pull the heavy card out. The Annual Purge is embossed across the top in obnoxious silver lettering.
A twenty-four-hour lockdown event. Uninhibited release.
A playground for the weak who need to buy their power.
I crush the corner of the heavy cardstock between my thumb and forefinger, leaving a permanent white crease in the expensive paper. "Arthur Hemlock wants me to watch him play with his food. A 'lockdown' event. How charmingly claustrophobic."
I toss the invitation onto the marble coffee table with a scoff of pure disgust. It lands with a heavy, hollow thud. I step forward and kick the fallen red wax shards under the edge of the table with the toe of my shoe.
"Send Yuri," I tell him, dismissing the entire fucking charade. "Or tell him I’ve died of boredom. I’m not spending twenty-four hours trapped in a building with a pack of hyenas in silk suits.
Tell him I have better things to do than watch him preen.
My absence is the only thing I care to give him. "
Yuri doesn't move. He doesn't even blink. "Hemlock has secured the southern shipping routes. The Albanian shipment—the one with the high-caliber rifles—is being held at his dock. He expects you there, Andrei. If you snub him, the Albanians will find a new distributor."
Yuri pulls a small, encrypted tablet from his pocket. The blue glow of the screen reflects in his dark eyes. He holds it up, displaying the logistical map of the shipping routes. Thick red lines indicate the exact blockage at Hemlock’s port.
"Politics is a game of showing up, Boss," Yuri says, his voice devoid of judgment but heavy with consequence. "The Albanians don't care about your mood. They care about the port."
A muscle in my jaw pulses rhythmically. Blyad. Yuri is right. He’s always fucking right when it involves the bottom line.
I walk to the bar, my strides sharp and aggressive.
I grab the Scotch bottle, letting it clink violently against the decanter.
I pour another double. "Suka. I hate that man's laugh.
" The liquid splashes hard into the glass.
I overfill it slightly, a drop of the amber liquor spilling over the rim and hitting the cold, black marble counter.
I ignore it. "One night. Then I'll kill him for the inconvenience. "
I throw the drink back. The stinging burn hits the back of my throat, but instead of clearing my head, it just opens a fucking door I’ve been trying to keep shut all day.
The smell of burnt espresso. The clatter of a cheap ceramic cup hitting a saucer.
The sudden, shocking heat of liquid splashing across my bespoke wool jacket.
It hits me so vividly I almost reach for my chest to check for the stain.
I’m standing in a multi-million-dollar penthouse, and my brain is dragging me back to a filthy, fluorescent-lit cafe.
I see her knuckles in my head. Red, raw from cheap soap and hot water, gripping that plastic serving tray.
Fucking hazel eyes. Hyper-vigilant, exhausted, wide.
Any other person on the planet would have dropped to their knees.
They would have seen my ink, seen my face, and started begging for their life before the coffee even hit the floor.
But she didn't apologize. She didn't tremble.
She just sighed.
A heavy, utterly drained sigh, like I was the one making her miserable life difficult by standing in the way of her mop.
I remember the exact way she reached up and tucked a stray, dark hair behind her ear with a jerky, impatient movement.
She didn't look away. She looked at me like I was a broken chair, not a man who could end her existence with a twitch of my finger.
I should have broken her right there. I should have snapped her neck just to see if she'd finally blink.
I slam the crystal glass down on the bar. The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot.
I grip the edge of the bar so hard my knuckles turn white.
My heavy silver rings bite deep into the skin of my adjacent fingers.
I rub my face with both hands, the sting of my own palms against my eyes doing nothing to wipe the image of her chapped lips from my retinas.
I’m sweating. Fucking sweating over a barista.
I am a man who commands thousands of armed killers, and I am being unraveled by a girl who serves Americanos.
"Blyad! Get out of my head." I snarl the words into my hands. "She was nothing."
I can feel Yuri watching me. He misinterprets the violent outburst completely. He thinks I’m frustrated with the supply chain. He has no idea I’m losing my fucking mind over a ghost.
Yuri tilts his head slightly and checks the analog clock on the wall.
"You're thinking too much about the man, Andrei.
Think about the rifles. Hemlock's security will be tight, but it’s a controlled environment.
If you want to make a point, do it in the boardroom later.
" He slides the tablet away. "The car is downstairs. It can stay there, or we can go."
I snap my head toward him. I let my face settle into a mask of absolute, freezing intent. The decision drops over me like a guillotine. Violence will fix this. It always does. I need a distraction. I need blood. If I drown myself in Hemlock's chaos, I can wash this fucking girl out of my skull.
I grab the edges of my suit jacket and button it with quick, violent movements, the silk lining whispering against my shirt. "Fine. We go. I’ll endure Hemlock’s little circus. But if he so much as breathes on my shoes, I'm taking his hands."
I stride past the bar. "Get the car. Tell the drivers no sirens. If I'm going to hell, I'm going in style."
Yuri nods once. He turns on his heel and exits, his silhouette disappearing into the dim hallway. The soft whoosh of the heavy door closing seals me in. I stand in the center of the room and watch the elevator light reflect on the polished floor until it blinks out.
"Thirty minutes, Yuri. Not a second more." I say to the empty room.
I walk back to the coffee table and stare at the silver-embossed invitation.
I pick it up. My fingers are tight as I slowly rip the heavy cardstock in half.
Then into fourths. The white scraps flutter from my hand into the dark metal wastebasket.
I wipe a faint smudge of the red wax from my index finger onto a pristine white linen napkin resting on the table, tossing the napkin into the bin right after it.
"A purge. What a pathetic name for a massacre. "
I walk into my walk-in closet. It’s a vault of sterile perfection.
Rows of black, charcoal, and midnight-blue suits hang in silent, military formation.
The smell of cedar and lavender sachets hits my lungs.
The motion-activated LEDs hum to life overhead.
I don't need to look at the garments; I know my armor by touch.
I select a three-piece black suit. I run my hand down the sleeve of the jacket, feeling the invisible weave of the fine wool under my calloused fingertips.
"Black for a funeral. Hemlock's or mine, we'll see."
I strip and begin to dress with practiced precision.
The stiffness of the collar against my neck.
The weight of the vest pulling taut across my chest. I focus entirely on the physical sensations, using the ritual to shove the cafe girl into the darkest, most locked-down corner of my brain.
I stand in front of the mirror and spend an extra ten seconds ensuring the knot of my black silk tie is perfectly centered, pulling it tight enough to feel like a minor, constant constriction against my throat.
"One step at a time. One breath at a time."
I reach for my shoulder holster. The well-oiled leather is worn and supple.
I slide my arms through the straps, feeling the familiar, heavy weight settle intimately against my ribs.
I pull my pistol, checking the action. The metallic clack-clack of the slide racking back and forth is the most comforting sound in my entire fucking world.
I pop the magazine out and count the gleaming brass rounds by sight. Full. Perfect.
"The only thing I can trust."
I slap the magazine back in with a tactile click and holster the weapon. I step closer to the full-length mirror to adjust my cuffs. The harsh recessed light reflects off my silver links. I look up at my own face.
For a terrifying, fleeting second, my reflection fractures. The ice-blue shifts. Hazel eyes stare back at me from my own fucking face, hyper-vigilant and unimpressed.
I blink hard. The image vanishes. But a cold sweat prickles straight down my spine. I reach out and press my palm against the cold surface of the mirror. My body heat leaves a faint, spreading fog on the glass.
"I'm losing my mind over a ghost."
I snap. I pivot on my heel and slam my hand down on the dresser. I hit the silver cufflink box so hard it skitters across the polished wood, launches into the air, and hits the carpet with a sharp crack, bouncing once before settling near the baseboards.
"Suka! Enough!" The word rips out of my chest, echoing off the walls of the closet.
I stand there, staring at the fallen box on the floor, my hands curled into white-knuckled fists at my sides.
My pulse is thumping so hard in my ears it sounds like a drumline.
I am going to kill something tonight. I am going to tear Hemlock's little playground apart until the silence comes back to my head.
I turn and stride out of the closet, my face a carved mask of absolute stone. I don't look back at the mess.
I march down the dim hallway. Yuri is already waiting by the private elevator, his finger resting on the call button. I check my watch. It has been exactly thirty minutes since I gave the order.
"The car is armored?" I ask, stepping past him into the small, mirrored box.
"Level six plating," Yuri confirms, stepping in beside me.
"Double security on the perimeter tonight, Yuri. I don't want surprises."
The elevator doors slide shut with a heavy, mechanical finality.
As the car drops, my stomach does a slow roll.
I stare straight ahead at my reflection in the polished steel doors.
I consciously relax my jaw. I smooth the skin around my eyes.
I pull the blank, terrifying expression back over my features, completely erasing whatever fractured humanity was leaking out upstairs.
I reach down and adjust my cuffs one last time, ensuring the silver links are perfectly straight and visible just past the sleeve of my jacket.
"Nothing matters but the trade," I mutter.
The cables hum around us as we plummet toward the ground floor. I’ll drink Hemlock's wine, I’ll buy whatever pathetic offering he slides in front of me, and I’ll secure my pipeline. And while I do it, I’ll bathe in the chaos until the memory of that girl is drowned out completely.
The elevator chimes. The doors hiss open, revealing the dark, concrete expanse of the underground garage and the idling engines of the black SUVs waiting for us.
I reach out and tap the 'open' button, keeping the doors locked in place, my movement slow and deliberate.
"Let the games begin." I step out into the exhaust.