Chapter 19 Kiren #2
The space has been cleared except for what’s necessary. A reinforced steel table positioned beneath the lighting. A drain in the floor several feet away. A folding tray arranged with tools that wouldn’t appear unusual in a surgical environment. Gauze. Sterile cloth. Bone cutters. Saline.
The chair is bolted to the floor. Daniel is sitting in it when I enter.
His hood has been removed. His hair clings to his forehead in damp strands from sweat.
The right sleeve of his jacket hangs at an unnatural angle where his wrist fractured earlier.
We stabilized it enough to prevent shock from setting in too quickly. We want him to remain coherent.
His breathing has changed since the yard.
It’s faster now and less structured. He attempts to conceal it by lifting his chin and forcing steady inhales through his nose.
He studies the space carefully, his gaze moving from the ceiling beams to the corners, then to the distance between himself and the exit door, counting the men present as he considers every possible angle of escape.
He’s evaluating possibilities, but there is none.
Mikel stands to his left, his posture relaxed but coiled. Karp positions himself behind Daniel’s chair, one massive hand resting lightly on the back as if it’s an ordinary piece of furniture. Leo remains near the door, his arms folded, and his presence quiet but absolute.
No one speaks when I enter. The sound of my shoes striking the concrete travels clearly through the open space. Each step is calm but not slow enough to feel performative. I allow Daniel to watch me approach, and I let recognition sink in.
His eyes narrow slightly. He knows who I am. Not personally. He’s never stood this close to me. But he recognizes the name attached to the face and the empire attached to the name.
His jaw tightens, and a muscle jumps near his ear. He attempts to mask it by rolling his shoulders back against the restraints.
I take the chair positioned opposite him and sit.
The steel beneath his injured hand reflects the overhead light, creating a thin white line that cuts across his knuckles. Sweat beads along his hairline and travels down the side of his face. His lips press together tightly enough that the skin pales.
He expects rage, shouting, and intimidation that announces itself before the first strike. Instead, I fold my hands loosely in my lap and study him as if we’re about to begin a formal negotiation.
His breathing pattern is shallow but controlled. His pupils are dilated slightly from residual adrenaline. His jaw tension is elevated, and his neck muscles are rigid.
Defiance layered over uncertainty. He’s still attempting to understand whether this is transactional or terminal.
“Who authorized the attack?” I ask.
Daniel says nothing. His gaze locks onto mine, attempting dominance. He lifts his chin by a fraction of an inch, as if posture alone might restore his leverage. He draws in a deeper breath and releases it slowly through his nose.
He remains silent. The buzz of the overhead lights fills the silence. A drop of sweat detaches from his jaw and strikes the steel table with a soft sound.
I nod once toward Mikel. The movement is small, but Daniel notices.
Mikel steps forward. His boots scrape faintly against the concrete as he circles Daniel’s injured side. He grips Daniel’s left hand and places it flat against the steel surface. The metal is cold, causing Daniel to flinch at the contact.
Karp’s hand lowers onto Daniel’s shoulder with firm pressure, keeping him in place.
“You don’t have to do this,” Daniel states, forcing steadiness into his voice.
His tone holds irritation more than fear. He still believes negotiation is possible.
“I asked you a question,” I reply.
Daniel’s nostrils flare. He moves in the chair, testing the restraints again. The steel bolts don’t budge. He stays silent.
The first finger breaks cleanly as the bone cutter closes, producing a distinct mechanical sound that echoes through the warehouse.
Not loud and or cinematic, just the unmistakable fracture of bone under force.
A concise fracture followed by a sharp intake of breath that Daniel can’t contain.
He sucks in a breath, his body jerking forward instinctively, but Karp’s grip absorbs the motion and pushes him back into the chair.
Daniel’s teeth grind together. His forehead presses against the steel table. He exhales in short bursts, fighting the urge to vocalize.
Pain travels quickly through the nervous system. Shock follows if unmanaged. We prevent shock.
Mikel briefly releases pressure, allowing the blood flow to continue.
“Who authorized the attack?” I repeat.
Daniel lifts his head slowly, his eyes watering involuntarily. He blinks hard, attempting to regain his composure.
“No one,” he responds hoarsely. “Independent contract.”
He attempts to look bored. I nod once more. Mikel adjusts his grip and isolates the next finger. This time, Daniel anticipates it. His breathing accelerates. He attempts to twist his hand free, but the fracture comes faster.
The cry that follows is no longer restrained. It tears from his throat, echoing faintly off the steel walls before fading. Sweat now travels freely down his neck, soaking into the collar of his jacket. His chest rises and falls rapidly. He swallows, but his mouth has gone dry.
“Who authorized it?”
His eyes dart briefly toward the door, toward Leo, then back to me. He understands fully now that there is no exit.
“I got instructions,” he gasps. “Through a handler.”
“Name.”
His lips tremble once before he presses them together again. Pride fights survival.
Mikel’s fingers tighten around the broken joints.
“Wait!” Daniel blurts.
“Name,” I repeat.
“Victor Lansk,” he answers. “Freelance facilitator.”
I recognize the name immediately. Lansk positions himself between corporate security and underworld contracts. He profits from distance.
“Continue,” I instruct.
Daniel adjusts in the chair, his shoulders trembling now despite his effort to keep them under control. His breath comes in uneven pulls. The room smells faintly metallic from blood that seeps beneath his fingernails.
“We were told to keep it clean,” he says. “Control EMS routing. Get them to the right location. We were already waiting.”
“Objective.”
His eyes close briefly as another wave of pain radiates through his hand.
“Send a message.”
“To whom.”
He opens his eyes and meets mine.
“To the girl.”
The words don’t change my posture. Instead, they tighten something internal that he can’t see.
“Clarify.”
“The trauma doctor,” he continues quickly. “The one who works nights. Dr. Hale.”
He speaks her name with uncertainty, as if unsure whether he is permitted to do so.
I keep my pulse even.
“Why her?”
He hesitates. Mikel reaches toward the third finger.
“Because she saves people,” Daniel rushes out. “Because she’s predictable. She runs toward damage and always shows up.”
He exhales sharply, his chest heaving.
“They studied her shifts,” he continues without prompting. “They knew which nights she’d be on call.”
The information confirms what I already know. This wasn’t random intimidation. It was a rehearsal.
“Were you instructed to kill?” I continue.
“No,” he answers immediately. “No. We were told not to kill anyone.”
“Why?”
“So the message would be received.”
I lean back slightly in my chair.
“Explain.”
Daniel’s shoulders sag. The fight drains out of him in increments.
“She had to see it,” he whispers. “Had to feel it. That’s what we were told.”
His breathing stutters. Sweat drips from his chin onto the table. His eyes dart again to the door, to Mikel’s hands, and then to the tray of instruments he can now see clearly.
He understands the structure of this conversation. Each refusal costs him. Each answer delays the next fracture. His breathing fills the silence between my questions. Each inhale scrapes against the pain. Each exhale trembles at the edges.
“Who gave the order?” I ask.
His shoulders twitch under Karp’s hand. The massive grip resting there doesn’t tighten, yet Daniel feels the pressure all the same.
“Victor,” he insists quickly. “I never met anyone above him.”
His voice cracks halfway through the sentence. He clears his throat, attempting to recover control.
“Above him exists,” I reply calmly.
His eyes close for a second before returning to mine. He tries to calculate whether continued denial will preserve him longer than a confession.
He looks quickly at Mikel’s hands and at the tray. Fear begins to override pride.
“I never heard the name directly,” he mutters, swallowing hard. Sweat beads along his temple and slides down toward his jawline. “Victor kept it compartmentalized.”
Mikel’s grip tightens slightly on Daniel’s damaged hand. The movement is minimal but deliberate. Daniel stiffens in response.
“Arkady,” he blurts.
There’s no visible reaction from me. But internally, rage burns freely.
Arkady Voronin.
Arkady is not impulsive or emotional, and never prone to spectacle.
He is patient and methodical, preferring distance and the illusion of detachment while positioning himself to undermine me as pakhan.
I’ve known since Alexei Morozov gave Rowan that information with his dying breath.
Arkady intends to challenge my authority, but now it’s clear that his ambition doesn’t stop with the Bratva, because he’s willing to extend his reach toward Rowan and, by extension, her family.
“When was the escalation planned?” I continue.
Daniel shakes his head weakly. His breathing has become erratic, his chest rising too quickly, as if his body can’t keep pace with the strain.
“We were told not to escalate,” he whispers.
“Repeat that.”
“Not to escalate,” he says again, louder this time as if volume might make the statement more convincing.
“Why?”
His lips part. His tongue drags across his dry lips before he speaks again.
“Because she’s more valuable untouched.”