Chapter 25 Kazimir #2
He motions for me to come forward. "You're going to put your hand on this table. I'm going to take one of your fingers. And then we're going to go get your woman back."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I expected punishment, but somehow the specific brutality of it makes it real in a way it hasn't been before. I'm going to lose a finger. Ilya is going to cut it off, right here, right now.
And I'm going to let him.
Because the alternative is Svetlana dying while I still have all ten fingers intact, and that's unthinkable.
I move to the table. My hand is steadier than I expected, though I can feel my pulse hammering in my wrist. "Which one?" I ask, surprised that my voice comes out level.
“Your choice. The right hand.” Ilya pauses, looking at me.
“You don’t work for me after tonight, Kazimir.
And you’ll hold a gun for no one else. In time, maybe there will be some other place for you.
Some rebuilding of trust and friendship.
But what you are, who you are, ends now. Tonight. Is she worth that?”
I know what he’s saying. I could say no. He would put a bullet in me then, if I’d rather die than be what I’ve been all my life, relinquish his trust and my work for him, and find out who I am on the other side of this.
If she isn’t worth it.
But she is… and she always has been. I just realized it nearly too late.
If I do this, it might still be too late… or it might not, if we can save her in time.
I put my right hand down, spreading them so that the index finger is isolated. "This one," I say quietly, my pulse throbbing in my throat.
Ilya nods. “Don’t move,” he warns, and he presses the tip of the blade to my finger, just below the knuckle of my ring finger. The metal is cold against my skin.
"For the record," Ilya says, his voice low enough that only I can hear, "I believe you. About your feelings for her. About being willing to die for her. That's the only reason you're not getting a bullet instead of losing a finger. Why I’m giving you a chance—so far as I can."
"I know," I say quietly. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet."
The knife comes down in one swift, brutal motion.
The pain is immediate and overwhelming, a white-hot explosion that radiates up my arm and into my brain. I feel the blade slice through skin, through tendon, through bone, and I feel the sickening separation as part of me is severed from the rest.
A sound tears from my throat—not quite a scream, but close. My entire body goes rigid, every muscle locked tight against the agony. Through the haze of pain, I'm distantly aware of Ilya barking an order, something about ice and a doctor. The words don't quite penetrate the roaring in my ears.
“It needs to be cauterized and stitched and bandaged properly,” I hear Ilya say, as someone hands me a wad of gauze to press against the spurting stump of my finger. I take it and press it there on instinct, and feel the whole world swim from the pain again.
"No." The word comes out strangled, but I force myself to focus through the pain. "No time. We need to move now."
"You're no good to anyone if you bleed out or pass out from shock," Ilya says. "Thirty minutes. That's all it will take. And we need that time anyway to gather intelligence, to figure out where they're holding her."
I want to argue, want to insist we leave immediately, but the rational part of my brain knows he's right. I can't save Svetlana if I'm unconscious from blood loss. And we need information, a plan.
I nod jerkily and let myself be led to a chair to wait until the doctor comes.
The next thirty minutes pass in a blur of pain.
The doctor cauterizes the wound—a fresh hell that makes the initial cut seem almost merciful by comparison—stitches it without numbing at Ilya’s orders, according to one of the men with us, and wraps my hand in layers of gauze and bandages.
I’m not given painkillers, and I know better than to ask.
My hand throbs with every heartbeat, and the bandage is already seeping through with blood, but I can function. That's all that matters.
Ilya walks in a moment later, on the phone. He ends the call and gestures for me to approach.
"Well?" I ask, my voice rough.
"Iosef has her," he says, and rage floods through me so intensely I see red. "One of his warehouses on the east side. He wants to take her back, I’m guessing, but not before getting revenge for what you did by drawing you there.”
"How many men does he have?"
"At least a dozen. Maybe more." He spreads a map out on the desk, pointing to a location. "It's a defensible position. He'll be expecting you to come for her."
"I don't care if he has a hundred men," I say flatly. "I'm getting her out."
"We're getting her out," Ilya corrects, and something in my chest loosens slightly at the word "we." "This isn't a suicide mission, Kazimir. We do this smart, or we don't do it at all."
Gratitude hits me so hard I have to brace myself against the desk. "Thank you."
His expression hardens. "We get her out, we make sure she and the baby are safe. But what I said stands. You have no future in this organization for now. You’ll have to find your own way forward.
In time, there might be a rebuilding of trust, as I said.
But you’ll never be my enforcer again. Understood? ”
"Understood."
Ilya nods once, then opens the door. "Then let's go get her."
We gather our forces quickly—sixteen of Ilya's best men, all armed and ready for a fight.
I check my weapons with my good hand, my injured hand throbbing but functional enough.
The pain is a constant reminder of what I've already sacrificed, what I'm willing to sacrifice still. And I’m capable of shooting with my left, even if Ilya has crippled my right to make the point that my days as his enforcer are over. I’ll just have one weapon instead of two.
The drive to the warehouse is tense and silent. I sit in the back of the SUV, my mind running through scenarios, planning my approach. I'll go in first. I'll draw their fire. I'll do whatever it takes to get to Svetlana—
Ilya's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You stay behind my men. You're in no condition to—"
"No."
"Kazimir—"
"No." I turn to him then, and whatever he sees in my face makes him stop. "I'm going in first. I'm the one who put her in danger. I'm the one who's going to get her out."
"You're injured—"
"I don't care." My voice is flat, final. "You can shoot me yourself if you want, but you're not stopping me from going in there first."
We stare at each other for a long moment. Then Ilya nods slowly. "Fine. But you follow my lead. We do this tactically, not emotionally. Understood?"
"Understood."
It's a lie. There's nothing tactical about what I'm feeling right now. There's only rage and fear and a desperate need to see Svetlana alive, to hold her, to know that our child is safe.
We park two blocks away and approach on foot, moving through the shadows as silently as ghosts. The warehouse looms ahead of us, dark and foreboding.
Svetlana is in there. And no matter what I have to do, I’m going to get her back.