Milo
Russia has been quiet.
Too fucking quiet.
I’ve had no leads since I arrived, and it’s been days now.
Long, suffocating days.
My skin crawls every time I step outside. This country makes my blood itch.
I shut it down because I have to endure it.
Either that bastard lied about Russia, or he meant the man behind this is Russian.
Who the hell knows.
But the moment I heard the country’s name, I arranged a plane and came straight here.
I have to drown myself in vodka until I pass out cold. The lack of sleep is catching up with me, and there are moments I’m not entirely certain what I’m seeing is real.
Even when I do sleep, it isn’t rest. Every time I close my eyes, the nightmares return.
My father.
My childhood.
The fire.
The blast.
Over and over.
It hunts me.
All of it.
And every time, the same question surfaces.
Why wasn’t I in the room with her?
I should never have left her.
The guilt sits heavy in my chest, followed closely by failure and self-hatred.
I had men stationed everywhere around that hospital.
Every fuckin where.
I never believed they would be bold enough to attempt something like that.
Which means they didn’t enter as enemies, they didn’t look suspicious.
They walked in as doctors, nurses, as fucking ghosts.
I need answers.
Bloody answers.
And I have none.
We tried the hospital’s security footage. It was erased in real time. Even the man who bumped into me… nothing. As if it never fucking happened.
And I am losing it more with each passing day. Especially since coming here.
Not a single lead.
The restlessness gets under my skin, so Hunter started sending me lists. I don’t ask questions. I already know what they are, rapists, paedophiles, men who don’t deserve air in their lungs.
I read the names.
I erase them.
It has been thirty already.
It is the only way to bleed off the pressure building inside me. The only way to quiet the burn.
I take another sip of my drink. I’m not drunk yet. Either my tolerance has increased, or I simply require an excessive amount of vodka to black out.
My phone vibrates.
I glance at the screen and see his name.
My father.
Or more accurately, my sperm donor, as I prefer to call him.
I answer because I’m already tipsy and I don’t care not to.
“What do you want?”
“It’s your mother,” he says.
I don’t respond. Of course he would use her. After all, she’s the only thing that has ever made me comply… until now.
“You need to come see her.”
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Did she overdose or something?”
The words come out flat. Maybe that makes me a bastard, but I don’t have a single fuck left to give.
I live for revenge now, and that is all. I don’t care about anything else, who dies, who lives, what happens in the world.
Nothing.
Null.
Zero.
“No,” he snaps, clearly not expecting that response. “But she’s bad.”
“And what exactly do you want me to do?” I ask.
“She asked for you.”
I end the call and remain where I am, staring at nothing for a long moment.
This could be a trap. She never wants to see me.
But if she really is unwell, perhaps that’s her last request. Some sentimental nonsense.
Do I care?
No.
Do I have something better to do?
Probably drink myself unconscious.
After a few more minutes, I stand and grab my keys. Maybe I’ll visit them. And on the way, I might find someone else who deserves to die.
I step out the door.
It takes under an hour to reach the house. I would never stay any closer than that. An hour is still too fucking close.
As I pull up, I stare at the estate I am supposed to call home, tall iron gates and stone walls rising unchanged despite the years.
Everything looks the same.
A bad omen.
Even the guards haven’t changed.
I don’t know how long it has been since I last set foot here. Time blurs when a place holds nothing but rot.
This house is haunted. And not by ghosts, by my piece of shit father.
For a moment, I consider that perhaps it is time to kill him.
But first I get my revenge. Then I can deal with my sperm donor and free the world of him. And when the Pakhan finally comes for me, he’ll find me already dead.
I don’t hate the idea.
As I step out of the car, I question why I came here at all. It wasn’t guilt and it wasn’t pity either. It certainly wasn’t conscience.
I have none of that left.
And yet something brought me here. Some instinct I don’t fully understand.
Perhaps I should listen to it.
Still, my jaw tightens with every step toward the door.