Chapter 11 Volk
Volk
SONG: REDRUM BY BAMBIE THUG
A few days later I’m standing in the Pakhan's office, which reeks of cigar smoke and rage.
I stand with my hands clasped behind my back, the stance of a loyal soldier waiting for orders.
My face shows nothing—years of practice have made it a mask that reveals only what I want.
Right now, the appropriate amount of anger at this affront to Bratva authority.
Inside: fucking chaos.
Igor's body was found three hours ago. He bled out on a warehouse floor like a pig at a slaughterhouse. This kind of death is personal. This is from rage that's been simmering for years.
The kind of rage Sofiya has.
The Pakhan paces behind his desk, back and forth, back and forth.
A caged animal that's forgotten it holds the keys to its own cage.
He looks like he aged overnight. Gray threads through his hair, deep lines carved around his mouth, and the weight of his empire is slowly crushing him from the inside out.
Good.
"Igor," he snarls, the name comes out like a curse. "Someone killed Igor."
"Yes, Pakhan." I keep my voice neutral, respectful, everything he expects from his second in command.
"They put him down like a fucking dog!" He slams his fist on the desk. Expensive liquor sloshes in crystal decanters. "This feels like a message. Someone is making this personal."
My pulse doesn't quicken. My breathing doesn't change. I've spent fifteen years learning to lie with my body. To present calm when everything inside is screaming.
"But who?" I ask. There is no scenario in which he thinks Yelena is alive.
The Pakhan stops pacing and looks at me with those ice-chip eyes that have ordered countless deaths. The eyes that watched his wife die and sent a fifteen-year-old girl into the desert to be tortured and killed.
“We both know what Igor did. You were there. Why else would someone spare the other men while killing him? The Italians, the Romanians, the Irish, none of them would have left a single man alive. This has to do with Yelena,” he growls, running his fingers through his hair.
Fuck. I should have killed the others instead of knocking them out. Hearing her name sends a jolt through me. He never says her name. Never speaks about what happened ten years ago. Just another body in a long line.
Except she's not a body. Her scent is still on my sheets. Her taste still on my tongue.
"The girl is dead," I say. Flat. Factual. The lie I've been maintaining for a decade.
"I know, I know. " The Pakhan waves a dismissive hand before pouring more vodka. I don’t miss that he doesn't offer me any. "But Igor's death... it's too specific. Too brutal. Someone knew what he did. Someone wanted him to pay for it."
"Igor wasn't known for restraint. He made enemies." It’s a simple, but sound argument.
"No." The Pakhan shakes his head. "This was different. The killer made him suffer. That was exactly the kind of kill we would use to send a message.”
Fuck. She couldn't help herself. She had to make him feel what she felt. I don't blame her. But it makes my job—keeping her alive, keeping her hidden—exponentially harder.
"What are your orders?" I ask, deciding I’m done debating this. Once the Pakhan has decided, its futile.
"Find who did this." The Pakhan drains his drink and pours another. With any other man I would think he’d be drunk soon, but you can’t be in the Bratva and not know how to hold your vodka.
"Tighten security. Interview everyone who was in that warehouse. See if any of the other buildings have cameras. Someone has to have seen something.”
"And when we find them?"
"Bring them to me. I want to handle it myself. I want to know why and how they are connected to Yelena."
Of course he does. Can't let anyone think the Pakhan is weak. Can't let anyone believe you can kill one of his men and walk away breathing. Even if the man deserved it. Even if the killer was a ghost he created himself.
"I'll call some men in to help," I say.
"Use Anatoly and Ivan. They should be involved because if this was about Yelena…they’re next. " The Pakhan waves his hand, dismissive and already moving to his next thought. "But find them fast. Before this becomes a pattern. Before others get ideas about revenge."
Anatoly. Ivan. The other two men who carved into Sofiya's back. Who laughed while she screamed. The two exact men that are next.
I should warn them. Tell them to watch their backs. That's what a loyal second would do.
I don't.
"Understood." I turn to leave.
"Volk."
I stop, hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"
The Pakhan studies me. Those cold, beady eyes trying to read what's written beneath my careful mask. "You were there that night , in the desert. You drove her out. You were supposed to finish it."
My jaw tightens. Only tell. Only crack in the facade. "I did.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, Pakhan.”
"Mmm." He leans forward, his palms flat on the desk. "But I'm starting to wonder. What if she somehow survived. What if she has an ally, someone we’re not aware of, someone that knows how to hit us?”
The room temperature drops ten degrees. Everything in me goes on high alert—predator recognizing predator.
"That's impossible," I say, voice steady, no tells, no cracks. "No one survives what we did to her. You didn’t see her. She was barely alive when I got there." That part, at least, isn’t a lie.
"You'd be surprised what people survive when they have enough hate to fuel them."
He's too close. Getting too close to the truth. I need to redirect. Need to make him doubt his instincts.
"If she's alive," I say slowly, "if she somehow survived, how would a girl who spent all her time being pampered suddenly know how to take out a man like Igor? He was a tough son of a bitch.”
"That's true." The Pakhan sits back down and picks up a file from his desk, and I know he’s accepted my logic. "This is everyone who was at that warehouse last night.” He hands me the folder. “Everyone who had access to Igor. Start there. Work backward. Find the connection."
I take the file flipping it open. Names and photos, including the two men I knocked unconscious. And Sofiya, listed as Aleksandr's courier and present.
But her alibi is solid. I made sure of it. Security footage shows her at Lush all night, and Aleksandr confirms she never left.
"I'll handle it," I say.
"I know you will." The Pakhan's eyes are on me, searching."You've always been loyal, Volk. Always done what needed to be done. Even when it was unpleasant."
"Yes."
"Even when it was a child."
The word hangs between us. Heavy. Accusatory. Testing.
"She wasn't a child by the time we finished with her," I say. Cold. Brutal. The kind of statement that makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
"Did you?"
"Yes."
He holds my gaze. Ten seconds. Twenty. A lifetime of searching for cracks.
Finally, he looks away. "Go. Find who did this and bring them to me."
I leave before he can ask more questions and my mask slips. Before the violence simmering beneath the surface boils over and I do something stupid. Like kill him myself and end this entire charade right here and watch his empire burn.
But that's not my call. That's Sofiya's revenge. I'm just the weapon she doesn't know she's wielding yet.
Outside his office, I let myself breathe. The kind of deep, steady breath that keeps you from putting a bullet in someone's skull.
Anatoly waits in the hallway, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette despite the Packhan’s many orders not to smoke in his house. He grins when he sees me, all teeth and malice. The grin of a man who enjoys his work too much.
"I take it we’re going to find Igor's killer?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Any leads?"
"We're interviewing everyone who was at the warehouse."
"Including that pretty courier?" Anatoly's grin widens. "The one with the nice ass? Aleksandr's new toy?"
My hands curl into fists , and it takes every ounce of control not to break his jaw right here. Not to slam his head into the wall until he stops moving, stops breathing, stops existing. She is mine.
I smile instead, cold and dangerous. "Yes. Including her."
"I'll handle that interview personally." Anatoly flicks ash on the expensive carpet. "Always wanted to get my hands on her. See if that pussy is as sweet inside as out."
"You'll do what I tell you to do." My voice drops, going quiet. The kind of quiet that precedes violence. "Which is to question the warehouse guards. Nothing else. Am I clear?"
Something flickers in Anatoly's eyes. Anger and frustration at knowing I outrank him. That I could end him without breaking a sweat.
"Clear," he mutters.
"Good. Get to work."
I watch him as he walks away. Another piece of garbage walking around in skin. Another dead man walking.
I should feel conflicted about it. Should feel some loyalty to these men I've worked with for years.
We've bled together. Killed together. Built this empire together.
But I don't. I feel nothing except the cold certainty that they deserve what's coming.
That Sofiya's revenge is justice , and the world will be better once she's finished carving through them.
My phone buzzes with a text from one of my contacts at the warehouse
Sven: Footage from last night is corrupted. Can't get clear images.
Perfect.
Sven: Found something interesting though. Security guard says he saw someone leaving through the back. Said they were too small to be one of our guys.
Fuck.
Me: Send me his info. I'll interview him personally.
The response is immediate
Sven: Will do.
I need to handle this before anyone else starts putting the pieces together.
After some light digging, I find out the guard's name is Ben. He works almost constantly and has a daughter in college he's putting through school on warehouse security wages.
Easy leverage if I need it. Easy pressure point.