Chapter 2
Interview with the Reaper
—Maksym—
By my mid-twenties, I had already lost count of how many men I’d buried with my own hands—and not a single one haunted me.
Conscience is for men who can afford it. I can’t.
That was never supposed to be my life. I remember having a family—faint memories buried under years of numbness and violence, but still there, like ghosts that refused to leave.
I remember knowing what it felt like to be happy, to want things that didn’t come with blood or consequence.
Back then, I thought I’d grow up to be something ordinary.
Something good. Maybe I even wanted that.
But the version of me who believed in simple things didn’t survive.
One second—that’s all it took. One moment, and the world I knew shattered beyond repair.
I didn’t have parents after that. I didn’t have childhood.
Just an empty space where a future used to be.
I ended up in an orphanage because there was nowhere else for boys like me to go.
It wasn’t a place to heal. It was a machine that turned you hard or turned you to dust. The kind of place where strength wasn’t measured in heart or mind—but in how quickly you could break someone, or how long you could go without breaking yourself.
The floors always smelled like bleach, sharp enough to sting your lungs, but it never quite covered the metallic trace of blood that seeped into the tiles no matter how often they scrubbed them.
A meat grinder. A place where rules were written by the strongest kid in the room. Or the one who stabbed first.
I learned early that survival didn’t come from friendship. It came from pain tolerance and from knowing when to hit first and when to disappear. I didn’t need friends. I didn’t need love. I needed power. And fear was the fastest way to get it.
Violence was my native language. It still is. And I’m fluent.
By the time I left Kharkiv, people already knew my name—or at least whispered it.
My reputation went ahead of me, slipping through bars and back rooms before I ever stepped inside.
The guy who would do what others wouldn’t.
No conscience. No mercy. Just results. They said I never flinched.
That I didn’t blink when it got messy. That I erased people like chalk off a board.
Then someone slapped a nickname on me, and it stuck.
Not one of them ever dared say it to my face.
Not unless they wanted to find out how accurate it was.
I didn’t care what they called me. What mattered was that they moved when I entered the room. That doors opened without knocking. That fear did the work before I ever had to lift a hand.
When I moved to Kyiv, I didn’t come to start over. I came to climb.
And I did.
Step by step. Body by body. Favor by favor. Threat by threat.
People like to throw the word bratva around like it means something holy.
Brotherhood. Code. Loyalty carved into skin.
I was never part of it. I worked with them, for them, against them—whoever paid and whoever deserved it.
I never took their oath, never wore their ink.
No cathedral stars on my shoulders, no thief’s code under my skin.
I don’t belong to families. I don’t kneel.
I’m not someone’s soldier. I’m a weapon.
And weapons don’t swear loyalty—they’re aimed.
So when he—Pakhan—sent for me, I wasn’t surprised.
He was the kind of man who ruled from behind mirrored glass. Never seen, always heard. You didn’t get called to his house unless he already knew what you were capable of. Unless he wanted to use it.
I knew what this was. A test. An audition. The kind of job offer that came with blood on the contract.
And I was flattered, honestly. Nothing says “you’re doing great, sweetie” like a personal invite from a man with bodies in every province.
I didn’t hesitate. Of course I would take it.
This was the next rung. And I’d built myself for this very climb.
The car sent to pick me up was black, tinted, silent.
We pulled through iron gates like a fucking palace.
The driveway stretched for what felt like miles before the mansion finally revealed itself—less a house and more a private kingdom planted in the middle of nowhere.
No neighboring rooftops. No streetlights.
No curious eyes. Just acres of land swallowing the horizon, trees positioned like soldiers, distance used as a weapon.
The moment the car stopped, they ushered me through a maze of polished floors and marble halls, saying little, eyes forward, efficient like soldiers who didn’t need words to do their job.
One of them, clipped and cold, gestured toward a set of double doors and muttered, “Wait here. He’ll call for you.
” And then he turned to leave, leaving me standing there—just outside his office.
I watched him go, then called after him.
“Should I wag my tail too, or just stand pretty?”
He didn’t respond—just gave me a long look and walked on.
“Not even a biscuit?” I muttered.
So much for hospitality. I’ll pretend I’m not offended. Once.
I didn’t pace. I didn’t check my phone. I stood still, arms behind my back, boots planted. Not fidgeting. Not thinking. Just watching. Absorbing.
And that’s when I felt it.
Soft footsteps. The shift in the air before a storm hits.
Her.
I didn’t turn at first. Let her come to me.
Curiosity always gets the pretty ones in trouble.
When I glanced her way, she was already watching me like I was the one trespassing. Chin tilted. Arms crossed. That little silk robe doing nothing to hide the shape of her thighs.
Pretty, yeah. No question there. About five-foot-five, maybe five-six.
Pale skin—milky, untouched, like something expensive kept out of the sun.
Long brown hair in waves that looked too perfect to be accidental.
A round, too-sweet face, full lips made for trouble, and those sharp green eyes that were trying way too hard to look unimpressed.
She wanted me to bow. I don’t bow. I don’t kneel.
I don’t even dip my head unless I’m dodging bullets.
It was adorable, really. Like watching a kitten puff up at a pit bull.
If Pakhan wasn’t in the next room, I might’ve laughed so loud it echoed.
Instead, I let her think she’d won something by standing there like royalty in lingerie. Let the little empress have her moment.
Still… yeah. She was fuckable. The kind of girl men ruined themselves over. Not me, though. I don’t do sentimental. I don’t fuck where I work. And this? This was definitely his daughter.
I could get a dozen like her by nightfall if I wanted—models, dancers, influencers with lips like that and minds like dust.
She wasn’t worth the headache. No matter how good those thighs would look wrapped around my waist.
Still… why the fuck was I even thinking about that?
“You’re ambitious,” she said.
And you’re annoying, I thought. Not just because of the words—because of the way she said them. Like she was testing me. Like she had any idea what ambition costs.
“Careful, Malaya.”
She bristled. Good. Got under her skin. A small win.
“Call me that again and see what happens,” she snapped.
I raised a brow. Bold little thing. I liked her fire—useless as it was.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, the word dry and half-mocking.
She didn’t intimidate me. None of them did. But I could admit, there was something sharp in the way she bit back. Most girls pouted. She threatened.
Cute.
And then—like a gunshot through tension—came the voice I’d been waiting for.
“Maksym. In here.”
I stepped inside, gladly. The princess parade was over, and I hoped I’d never have to deal with her again.
Spoiled rich girls were good for two things—screwing and.
.. yeah, no, just screwing. The rest was noise, tantrums, and credit card bills.
And I didn’t have the patience for any of it.
Not today. Not ever, if I had a say. She wasn’t my assignment, thank fuck.
I was here to work, not insecurities to babysit.
The office looked like a high-ranking bratva’s wet dream—leather chairs, dark wood, tall windows, and the kind of calculated power plays dressed up as taste.
A place meant to impress allies and threaten enemies.
But nothing here intimidated me. Not the weapons tucked behind glass. Not the bodyguard flanked by the door.
Behind the desk, just as expected, stood the man in charge.
Pakhan. Real name: Roman Sokolov. Not that anyone used it.
Mid-sixties. Greying, but not soft. Not a wrinkle out of place. Rolled-up sleeves over thick forearms, one of which bore an eight-pointed star—black ink, brutal lines.
Bratva. Old-school code etched into skin. Not the kind of thing you get for decoration. It said: I bled for this. I killed for this. I own the fucking table.
He didn’t smile. Just stood there for a moment, then lowered himself into the heavy leather chair like a man with all the time in the world.
One hand reached toward a polished humidor on the desk—some custom-made thing lined in cedar and brass.
He flipped it open, selected a thick cigar, clipped the end with a silver cutter, and lit it slowly, letting the first drag curl around his head like a crown of smoke.
Power, performed. One puff at a time.
He gestured to the chair opposite him like he was offering tea. I sat down like I was doing him a favor—sprawled with casual arrogance, one arm slung over the chair’s edge, elbow resting, chin propped.
“Word gets around,” he said, dark eyes steady. “You don’t scare. You don’t stall. You do the job, no matter how bloody it gets.”
If he was expecting a thank-you, he’d be waiting a long time. I stared back, dead-eyed.
But then he said something interesting.