Chapter 12 #3
I’ve never given him a reason to suspect I’m not sexually active.
After Vera’s death, he stopped touching me altogether.
I don’t know if the look on my face that day convinced him I was truly unhinged or if he simply grew bored of me in that way.
Either way, I’ve had to find ways to keep up appearances ever since, to convince him that I don’t have a problem with any of this.
No one says a word as I follow Ilya into one of the private rooms, the two women trailing behind us. Orgies are nothing new in these circles, though they won’t involve me anytime soon, not if I can help it.
“Care to explain why you reacted like that?” Ilya murmurs as the women dive onto the mattress and start undressing.
I don’t answer. My jaw tightens, and he sees it immediately. That’s enough for him, so he doesn’t push further. He’s not the youngest pakhan for no reason. Unlike most people who either fail to see or choose to ignore what’s right in front of them, he understands.
“You won’t hear a word about this from me,” he says quietly before turning back to the women.
He leans down and kisses the redhead on her neck before addressing both of them in a commanding tone.
“What happens in this room, or doesn’t happen, stays in this room. Got it? Unless you want to find out what it’s like to end up on my shit list.”
The blonde who had been on top of me earlier has tears welling in her eyes, and it should bother me.
It should. But how could it when I’ve seen girls half her age beaten and raped?
When I’ve seen children sliced apart like slabs of meat and left to bleed out because some depraved monsters draw power from their suffering?
Forty minutes pass, filled with moans from the women meant only to create an illusion, and then Ilya and I leave the room together.
I don’t like that my secret now rests in the hands of the pakhan, but I know his stake in all this. Until he gets what he wants, he won’t say a word about what happened tonight. Because Ilya’s a partner, not a friend.
Outside, Ivan is sprawled across a couch with a woman between his legs, looking entirely unbothered as usual.
“Fiodor?” I ask, already knowing the answer from the look in his eyes earlier.
“He doesn’t have the gold,” Ivan replies coldly. “Make him pay, and not just him.”
I nod silently and head for my motorcycle, which waits for me outside. Without wasting time, I ride toward Fiodor Popov’s mansion.
Luckily, my apartment is on the way, so I stop briefly to grab some tools for what needs to be done. Ivan will want tomorrow’s news headlines to make a statement, and I know exactly what that entails for Fiodor’s family as well.
The guards at his main gate are laughable; two shots to the head each and they’re down within two minutes. That’s the problem with people who think their wealth makes them untouchable: they stop investing in real security.
The mansion itself is an English-style monstrosity covered in ivy climbing up to the second floor. Flanking the entrance are two lion-headed statues, gaudy and tasteless, like everything else about these people who think money can buy class.
Using an app loaded with a virus capable of cracking nearly any domestic security system on the market, I input the code and step into the kitchen.
It’s close to midnight now, and part of me expected Fiodor to be awake, panicked even, but no. The idiot actually thought Ivan was bluffing.
Checking the security footage reveals that a doctor came by an hour ago to patch up his shoulder wounds from earlier. He’s probably pumped full of painkillers and sleeping soundly upstairs.
How do people sleep so peacefully knowing death is breathing down their necks?
The first bedroom I enter is painted entirely pink: walls, furniture, everything.
Fuck me.
A little girl, no older than ten, is curled up on a bed shaped like a penguin, surrounded by glitter-covered pillows and fluffy cushions. Her innocence is almost suffocating in a place like this.
I step closer and gently cover her mouth with my hand. Her eyes snap open instantly, wide with panic.
“I need you to listen very carefully,” I whisper, my voice firm but low. “You’re going to run to the entrance that leads to the road behind the garden. Once you get there, crouch down and wait until someone comes to pick you up. You will NOT come back here.”
Her head nods quickly, signaling she understands, though fear lingers in her gaze. I’m not good at talking to children—I never have been—but she seems to grasp the gravity of my words.
When I slowly remove my hand from her mouth, a single tear rolls down her cheek.
“Mama?” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I shake my head, and she knows what it means: her mother isn’t coming with her. I can’t save them both.
It’s not their fault they’re family to a coward who played games with a snake, but someone has to pay the price for his mistakes.
I send a quick message to Akim, instructing him to wait for the girl on the road behind the estate. Whether she listens or not, whether she makes it there, is out of my hands now. I’ve given her a chance; the rest is up to her.
I step into the master bedroom, where Fiodor and his wife sleep soundly as if they’re untouchable, as if nothing bad could ever happen to them.
His shoulders are wrapped in fresh bandages from earlier, and I pause for a moment, weighing my options. I could kill them both right now, clean and simple, but Ivan wants a message sent.
And that’s the problem: messages in this world are written in blood and brutality, not clean executions.
I move closer to Fiodor and press my hand over his mouth while positioning my gun to his forehead.
His body jolts awake as his wife stirs beside him.
When her eyes snap open and land on me, she lets out a piercing scream and nearly tumbles out of bed, but I raise my gun toward her before she can move farther.
“Sit down,” I say flatly, though I don’t know why I bother giving instructions anymore.
Fiodor’s face turns bright red as his eyes dart toward the nightstand. I’m sure he actually thinks the gun hidden in its drawer will save him.
Without giving his wife time to react further, I pull the trigger. The bullet hits dead center in her forehead, leaving a crimson hole behind as her lifeless body collapses beside the bed.
Fiodor’s scream is raw agony, a sound that cuts through the air like a blade, and for a moment, I wonder if he really loved his family after all.
Too late now.
“I have a little girl,” he pleads through tears, his voice trembling with desperation.
“If she’s smart, she’s already gone,” I reply coldly. It’s the only consolation I can offer him, not that it matters much.
I don’t care about his life or his pain; this isn’t personal, it’s an order I have to follow to protect years of work from unraveling.
“I’d try not to move too much,” I add casually as I press the barrel of my gun against his leg. “We wouldn’t want me to miss your artery and make this slower than it needs to be.”
Before he can process my words, I pull the trigger again, this time aiming precisely at a major blood vessel in his thigh.
The blood gushes immediately.
One shot follows another, each knee taking its turn, and his screams grow sharper with each hit.
He won’t last long now; he’ll bleed out within minutes at this rate.
I turn toward my tools on the nearby table. There’s still work to be done if Ivan’s message is going to be clear enough, but then I hear it: the sound of a drawer sliding open behind me.
Fiodor has managed to grab the gun from his nightstand despite being pale from blood loss and trembling like a leaf.
The problem? His aim is most likely shit, pathetic even, and he’d better hope he doesn’t push me into an even fouler mood tonight.
Bloodstains are absurdly difficult to get out of clothes, and I’m not wearing my usual black shirt that hides the evidence.
Fiodor watches me approach with a portable welding tool in hand. I notice the trembling in his grip as he holds the gun, but I close my eyes for a brief second, steadying myself.
The click of the trigger snaps me into motion, and I shift three inches to the left just in time. The bullet misses me completely.
“Please,” Fiodor whispers, his voice barely audible.
I tune out his desperate pleas and fire up the welding tool, pressing the searing tip against his kneecaps.
The bones crack and splinter under the heat, ensuring he’ll never run again, in this life or the next.
As he writhes in agony, I unbutton his nightshirt and, with deliberate precision, begin to engrave the word “gold” in Russian across his chest.
The stench of burning flesh is nauseating, even to me, but Ivan will appreciate the message.
Fiodor’s eyes lock onto mine, wide with terror, as I pull out my blade and drag it horizontally across his throat with finality. His pupils dilate for a fleeting moment before the light begins to fade from them.
Leaning in close, I whisper softly, “Save me a seat next to you in hell, friend.”
I step into the bathroom to clean myself up, staring at my reflection in the mirror. What’s two more souls weighed against hundreds already on my conscience?
Nothing.
And yet, as I stand there, it hits me. I’m condemned. There’s no escape for me. But for them? For the ones I fight for? There’s still hope.
I promise, Vera.