Chapter 6 The Filth I Belong To #2
Fuck. Not these thoughts again. Every time I tried to forget her, my mind betrayed me.
Maybe going wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Let some stranger choke on my dick while I bury this stupid obsession and build myself a clean little alibi.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll swing by.”
He grinned, pleased in a way that made my skin crawl. “Good man.”
I didn’t smile back. Just turned, walked out and went straight to the car.
I didn’t drive far—just across town, to the stretch of gated mansions where Stanislav Boychenko’s family mansion sat behind marble columns and armed security. I parked down the street, out of view, and waited.
I sat for hours, watching the gates like a patient animal.
I didn’t know his schedule and I didn’t care.
I just needed eyes on him. If he didn’t crawl out today, there was always tomorrow.
Rats rarely stay hidden for long. But luck was on my side.
There he was. Smug little bastard, stepping out like Kyiv owed him something, sunglasses on even though the sky looked like a dirty dishcloth.
So I tailed him. Shadowed him like a second skin. I stayed just far enough back not to be noticed, close enough not to lose him. Shops. A late lunch. A stupid detour into a watch store. Nothing useful. Just noise.
Evening bled into night.
He ended up at a bar near Podil—music spilling out onto the street, bass vibrating through brick and bone. Neon. Cigarette smoke. Girls in short dresses laughing too loud. He walked in like he owned the place.
I took a seat where I could see him without being seen.
He moved through the room alone—no greetings, no distractions.
Just him, and that worked in my favor. I got to watch the show unfold.
Ten minutes, tops, and a girl was melting against him.
She laughed like she’d forgotten her dignity at home.
They danced. She ground against him and his hand slid right to her ass, like it was his birthright.
That’s fiancé of the year behavior, I guess.
There was something about that face—so punchable it felt like a challenge. One I was ready to accept.
I waited.
Patience wasn’t mercy. It was discipline.
Eventually, he peeled away, weaving through bodies toward the bathrooms. That was my window.
I followed him in and didn’t wait for him to finish.
I was on him while he was still pissing—hand on the back of his neck, slamming him forward, face-first into porcelain. I didn’t know yet if I was going to hurt him—it all came down to what came out of his mouth.
“You went on a date with Kira Sokolova,” I said dangerously. “She cried afterward. Explain.”
“What the fuck—” he barked, trying to turn. “Hey, man, let go—do you know who I am?”
I shoved him again. Harder.
“Answer the question.”
“You’re dead,” he spat, arrogant even with my hand crushing his neck. “My father—”
I took his head and slammed it once against the wall. Not full force. Just enough.
His nose broke with a sharp crack, followed by the wet sound of cartilage giving way, twisting his face to the side in a grotesque angle.
The bathroom door creaked open without warning. Some drunk asshole stumbling in to piss, too wasted to realize he wasn’t alone.
I didn’t even turn. Just drew the gun with my free hand—other still holding Stanislav’s collar like a leash—and pointed it dead center.
“Fuck off,” I said. “We’re having a moment.”
The guy froze, eyes wide, mumbling something unintelligible as he backed away, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush to escape.
I turned back to Stasik, who was now whimpering against the tile, blood dribbling from his broken nose. “Well, that was rude. Now, where were we? Oh right. You, bleeding. Me, asking you for the last fucking time—what did you do to her?”
“Jesus—fuck—okay, okay,” he choked. “I didn’t do anything. I just—took her hand.”
I leaned closer. “You grabbed her.”
“She pissed me off,” he snapped, still stupid enough to be offended. “What, I can’t touch my own date?”
“What did you tell her?”
He hesitated. Then, like a coward, tried to lie. “Nothing. I just said I was excited for our next date.”
“Don’t lie to me,” I growled. “She wouldn’t cry over that.”
He squirmed. “Fine. I just asked her to wear something less revealing.”
I shoved him forward again, hard enough to rattle his spine. “I told you not to fucking lie to me.”
“Okay! I told her not to dress like some desperate slut next time.”
Something inside me snapped clean.
“What did you call her?”
He didn’t get to answer.
I smashed his head into the porcelain. Once. Twice. Harder this time.
“That girl is art, and you called her a slut?” I growled, smashing him again. “Who raised you? A pack of animals?”
Another crack. His skull was caving in. Blood sprayed—freckling my face, the wall, the floor.
“She’s sacred. You’re dirt. That’s why your eyes are going dark.”
I kept going until there was no resistance. Until his body went slack.
Instead of letting him fall, I caught the collar of his shirt and dragged him down the hallway to the nearest stall. The door creaked when I pushed it open. I shoved him inside, dropped him against the wall, and pulled the door shut behind me.
There was blood on the floor. Enough to make a mess. But it would still take time before anyone bothered to look in here.
“You don’t call my girl a slut,” I said to the corpse. The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Then I stepped out of the stall and left him there.
I grabbed paper towels, wiped the blood from my face, my hands. Straightened my jacket and left like nothing had happened—like any other man who’d just washed his hands. No one noticed the death echoing behind the door. He’s nameless until the forensics catch up.
I drove like a ghost with a deadline. Straight lines, no music, the windows down. Cold air flaying what was left of the heat in my skin. At least this asshole won’t bother her again.
Maybe—I don’t know—maybe I overdid it. Maybe I overreacted. Slightly. The plan was to scare him, not mash his face into the tiles like I was trying to install him there permanently. But apparently Kira’s reputation is where my patience draws the line.
I got to my place, stripped the clothes fast, shoved them into a garbage bag, and hit the shower. Then I put on a new black dress shirt and slacks. I didn’t bother looking in the mirror. I already knew what I’d see—a man trying too hard not to feel anything at all.
By the time I pulled up to Pakhan’s estate, the party was already unraveling.
Laughter cracked through the air, loud and drunk. The music was heavy enough to shake the walls. The front doors stood open to the night air. A girl in a thong and a diamond collar leaned against one of the pillars, smoking like she had nowhere else to be.
Inside, it was worse.
Perfume and sweat. Girls draped over armchairs and laps and each other, some topless, some fully naked, others laughing too loud, already drunk or pretending to be.
A pair of them—brunette and blonde—were kissing on the couch, putting on a show for a red-faced guy with his shirt unbuttoned to his stomach.
He leaned forward, grinning stupidly, one hand already grabbing a handful of one girl’s ass like it was part of the show.
I passed through the door like I had every right to be there, masking the disgust curling inside me.
I hated everything about this place. But hate doesn’t matter—timing does.
Showing up around the time of Stanislav’s death was a calculated move—an alibi dressed in decadence.
No one could ever know I was the one who turned his face into pulp.
I considered offing the drunk too, the idiot who barged into the bathroom mid-beating, but he was too plastered to remember his own name, and I didn’t have time to deal with him too.
In the far corner, Pakhan sat like a king on his throne, drink in one hand, the other gripping a girl’s thigh as she rode him like it was a stage and he was the main act. He met my eyes and raised his chin. Waiting.
I nodded back.
Fucking pervert.
He wanted a show. A reminder that I wasn’t above the filth he bred. That I was still one of them.
Fine.
If the bastard wanted to see my dick to keep his leash off my neck, so be it.
I scanned the room. A flash of dark hair caught my eye.
A brunette with grace and attitude. A weak echo of something my soul was already screaming for. For a half-breath, she looked like her. Moved like her. My pulse skipped for the wrong reasons. And fuck me, I almost fell for it. But then logic kicked in.
Kira’s not a type. She’s a fucking anomaly. And Pakhan was watching like he could read my mind. I couldn’t let him see the crack.
No.
I turned away, jaw tight, and found a blonde instead.
She was busy entertaining two others—letting one feed her strawberries while the other sucked on her neck and slipped a hand under the scrap of lace between her thighs, fingers moving like he owned her.
She moaned for effect, eyes half-lidded, mouth open in a drunken grin.
I grabbed her wrist.
She blinked once, surprised, then smiled—wide and curious, the way a woman smiles when she’s already imagining her mouth on you.
The men looked irritated but kept their mouths shut.
She came with me without a word, heels snapping against the floor while I dragged her to the side of the room like she was my property.
She slid into my lap before I even sat down, already grinding against me, needy and shameless, a bitch in heat.
“Want me to take care of you, baby?”
I didn’t answer. Just stared at her like she was an insect crawling too close.
She reached for my buttons.
I caught her wrist and squeezed hard.
“Get me a drink first. Make yourself useful.”
She blinked at the tone, then smirked and slipped away, ass swaying like she thought I cared. Came back with something amber and strong.
I snatched the glass, downed it all in one burn, and dropped my head back against the seat.