Chapter 11 Gift-Wrapped for a Predator
Gift-Wrapped for a Predator
—Maksym—
The rain had started while we were still on the highway—light at first, then turning sharp and cold. Sashko drove, his hands steady on the wheel. I sat beside him, staring out at the darkness, letting the blur of headlights and wet pavement wash over me.
Neither of us spoke at first, the hum of the engine and the rhythmic thud of the wipers filling the silence.
The job had gone clean—smoother than most. There had been no alarms, no screams, no chaos left behind except what was absolutely necessary.
And yet, the air between us felt heavier than it should have.
After a long stretch of silence, Sashko finally spoke, his voice low and steady. “You good?”
I gave him a single nod.
He didn’t take it at face value. “You sure?” he asked, eyes still on the road.
“I said I’m good.” My voice came out sharper than I meant it to.
He didn’t respond right away. Just sighed and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “Still,” he muttered, “would’ve been nice to know the judge had a bleeding heart. Didn’t peg him for the type.”
“He wasn’t,” I replied.
That got him to glance over, a flicker of curiosity in his expression.
“He was doing it for her,” I added, keeping my gaze fixed on the rain-slick road ahead. “That’s all.”
Another pause settled in.
“You think the story about her kid’s true?” he asked after a moment.
I didn’t answer. Because the truth was, I didn’t know. And part of me didn’t want to.
Sashko exhaled. “You know…” he said, surprising me. “I’ve seen some shit. We both have. But this?” He glanced over. “If it’s true… if Sokolov’s got his hands in that… kids?”
He shook his head. “That’s fucked. I mean… I didn’t even know something like that was on the table.”
“Christ,” he muttered. “I’ve got a kid. Little girl. She’s not even two.”
His lips flattened into a hard line. “I take this job so I can feed her. Keep a roof over her head. But if it turns out I’ve been protecting the kind of bastards who’d take someone like her—” He broke off again, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel.
“I don’t know, man. That’s a line. That’s a fucking line. ”
This was more than I’d ever heard him say, and it hit harder than I expected. I stayed quiet, letting his words settle in the thick air between us, because the truth was, he wasn’t wrong. And as much as I wanted to believe I’d grown numb to all of this, maybe I wasn’t as far gone as I thought.
I had done terrible things. I’d hurt people—some who deserved it, some who didn’t. But there were lines I had never crossed, and children were one of them. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Whatever else I was, I wasn’t that.
Yes, we were killers. Enforcers. Broken men trained to follow orders and silence questions.
Monsters, in many ways. But now it felt like we were brushing against something even worse, something more depraved than anything I’d allowed myself to consider.
And the part that chilled me most was the possibility that we might have been helping those things all along. Without even knowing.
Sashko said nothing, but the weight of his silence filled the car like a storm waiting to break.
For the first time, I wondered if I’d put a bullet in the wrong man.
We pulled into Kyiv just after eight. Sashko was driving me back to where I’d left my car. When we reached the gravel pull-off near the entrance to the estate, he threw the car into park and leaned his elbow against the steering wheel.
“Guess this is where I ditch you, brother.”
He smirked, but didn’t move. “You know I don’t usually say shit like this, but you’re a cold bastard to work with—and I like that. These last two weeks? I’ll remember them. Might even miss you.”
I raised a brow. “Want a hug or something?”
He snorted. “Just get out before I start crying,” then leaned back in his seat as I stepped out, gravel crunching under my boots.
Pakhan’s place was already alive with noise when I entered—voices rising in drunken bursts, laughter echoing off the marble exterior.
A black Maybach idled near the entrance, rain trailing down its sleek frame like sweat on polished skin.
At the gate, two fresh-faced guards stood stiffly in the drizzle, trying to look tougher than they were.
I didn’t recognize either of them. Pakhan’s men were usually the same faces, and if he’d hired new guards, I would’ve heard about it.
Which meant he probably had guests—important ones.
Inside, the heat hit like a wall. Leather, tobacco, and roasting meat.
Pakhan’s men were gathered near the dining room, drinking, laughing too loudly. I didn’t bother acknowledging them. I was here for one thing.
“In his office,” one of them called, half-drunk. “He’s in a mood.”
I walked down the marble hall, my boots leaving faint, wet traces on the pristine surface.
The hallway was dimly lit, the low buzz of ambient lighting dulling the sounds of celebration that filtered in from the other rooms. His office door stood partially open, the glow of a desk lamp spilling onto the polished floor.
Pakhan sat at his desk, not bothering to look up as I stepped inside. His gaze remained locked on something distant, as if he already knew what I was going to say.
“I hope you’re here to tell me the job is done,” he said, his tone as steady as the cigar smoke lingering in the air.
“It is,” I confirmed without hesitation.
Only then did his eyes meet mine, narrowing just slightly—a flicker of satisfaction playing across his features.
“Good work. Kyiv’s finally a bit quieter today,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
“Enjoy it. By tomorrow the city will be screaming—news channels, statements, investigations. Judges don’t fall without noise.
” A slow smile curved his mouth. “But let them talk. Let them panic. We give them purpose. We keep their headlines alive. They should be thanking us for the work.”
He reached into the desk drawer with a familiar ease, retrieving a black card and sliding it toward me across the polished wood.
“That’s your payment. A little extra for the efficiency.”
I took the card and nodded once. “Anything else?”
He reclined in his chair, nursing the cigar between his fingers. Smoke curled upward in lazy ribbons, mingling with the dim light as he exhaled, watching me through the haze.
“Actually,” he said after a long exhale, “yeah. Come with me. We’re having dinner. Special guest arrived today.”
I paused for a beat too long.
He caught it instantly.
“What, you got somewhere better to be?”
“No,” I said evenly.
“Then come.”
He stood, his bulk casting a shadow over the desk. As he moved past, his hand clapped onto my shoulder like we were friends. I loathed that kind of touch. But I held still. Because this was a game I knew how to play.
Together, we walked toward the dining hall. His voice boomed ahead of us as we neared the stairs.
“Kira!” he called out. “Come down, girl, we’ve got a guest!”
Movement at the top of the stairs caught my eye, and then she was there—already halfway down.
Black dress clinging like sin. Hair falling in waves that made my hands itch to fist it.
Gold at her throat like a collar waiting.
Lips glossy, begging to be smeared. She looked like something meant to be ruined.
And fuck—all I could think about was how badly I wanted to be the one to do it.
She paused when she saw me.
So did I.
Pakhan didn’t notice the look we exchanged. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t give a damn.
The dining hall beyond was exactly what you’d expect from a man like him—opulent, overdone, drowning in wealth.
The chandeliers overhead shimmered cold and bright, casting their glow onto a mahogany table long enough to seat thirty—each place meticulously arranged for tonight’s gathering.
Ornate gold trim framed every wall panel, and velvet curtains hung thick and theatrical over tall windows, shutting out the rain.
Two guards flanked the arched entry, rigid and silent, their eyes sweeping the space with mechanical focus.
Around the table sat a collection of power-hungry men—Pakhan’s inner circle and invited guests, all of them draped in tailored suits and inflated egos, laughing too loudly and watching each other too closely.
It wasn’t a dinner. It was a show of force.
All of them were quick to laugh at the wrong jokes, to toast to blood spilled and deals sealed. They barely glanced at Kira when she entered, as if she were nothing more than part of the decor, another asset on display.
And yet, she was the only one in the room who looked real.
“This is Felix,” Pakhan said, gesturing to a man already seated at the long table. “Son of Dmitri Vlasov. First time meeting, I imagine.”
Felix rose with all the grace of a predator dressed for a gala. Mid-twenties at most, tall, polished mannequin bullshit, hair greased flat like wet tar, smirk dripping with the kind of privilege that begs for a fist. My stomach turned just looking at him.
He extended a hand like a fucking diplomat. “Maksym. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I shook it, briefly. Not out of respect, but because Pakhan was watching. I didn’t say anything.
Pakhan chuckled. “Sit. Eat. Drink. We’re celebrating.”
I didn’t ask what—but it twisted in my gut. The sight of Felix sitting there like he owned the place, Pakhan beaming like a proud father, Kira done up like a gift—it was enough to make me want to break something. I had no right. I knew that. Still, I was already pissed. Already burning.
Dinner was a full spread—roasted duck glazed dark and shiny, platters of grilled mushrooms and potatoes dripping in butter, thick slices of cured meats, black bread, bowls of pickled vegetables, and caviar set out like it was nothing.
Expensive champagne stood open on the table beside heavy bottles of red.
No speech needed—Pakhan fed you excess to remind you how small you were.