Chapter 22
Wake Up, Sunshine
—Maksym—
Istood in the quiet room for a moment, exhaling slowly.
I need to erase her from this place. If anyone traced the scene back to her, if anyone even suspected she’d been here… it wouldn’t take long before her name ended up in someone’s mouth. And that someone would die for it—but still.
I started with the torn remains of her dress, the fabric still heavy with sweat, fear, and her scent.
My jaw tightened as I shoved it into the plastic bag Sashko had brought.
The sheet came next—the one I’d used to wipe her down.
That too. Soaked in me. No way I was leaving it behind.
I folded it without thinking and added it to the bag.
Her panties were near the bed, abandoned in the chaos; I picked them up and pushed them in with the rest. In the bathroom, her heels lay scattered, one tipped over as if she’d kicked it off in a rush.
I gathered those too. The belts were by the door where I’d dropped them earlier.
I coiled the leather, and slid them into the bag.
Finally, I lifted my jacket from the floor, shook it out, and pulled it on, every movement precise and mechanical.
Next, the bathroom. She hadn’t done much in there, just got dressed—but I still wiped down the handle, the mirror, the sink.
Checked the floor for any fallen hair. Swiped a towel across the counter just in case.
I’d learned how to clean a scene years ago.
Tonight wasn’t any different. Just… more personal.
I scanned the room one last time. Chaos everywhere.
The bathroom door looked like it had been kicked in by a demon, the floor reeked of milk and sweat, and the bed looked like it had seen war.
I could already see it: the police sweeping in, cataloging the damage, hunting for answers.
But when they searched, there’d be no evidence she’d ever set foot in this room. I made sure of that.
I stepped out into the hall, calm as anything, locked the door behind me, and walked like a man who hadn’t just fucked a girl, beaten her fiancé bloody, and cleaned up a murder scene all before dawn.
I opened the trunk first, where the guard’s corpse still lay crumpled in a grotesque heap. The smell hit me hard, but I barely flinched. I muttered a curse under my breath and leaned in, nudging the bastard’s limp leg aside to dig out the coil of rope tucked beneath him.
“You were in my way alive, you’re in my way dead. Consistent, I’ll give you that,” I grumbled, yanking the rope free.
With that, I slammed the trunk and moved to the back passenger door.
Felix was still out cold, slumped and half-folded like dirty laundry.
I crouched and tied his ankles tight, then bound his wrists as well—not enough to cut off circulation, but enough to make sure that when he woke up in the back seat, he wouldn’t be able to thrash or reach for anything stupid.
The last thing I needed was him snapping awake and turning the car into a wrestling match once he realized what was coming.
Then I got in the car, shut the door, and turned the engine over.
In the rearview mirror, I caught the first twitch.
He was waking up. He looked like shit—face beaten to hell, a knife still lodged in his shoulder with a deep, wet bloodstain spreading around it. Shock hadn’t worn off yet, but pain was definitely catching up.
I smirked, adjusting the mirror just enough to enjoy the show. His head rolled against the seat, groggy and sluggish, the gag in his mouth wet with spit and reeking of sour milk, the filth clinging to his chin like the aftermath of a punishment.
“Well, well,” I drawled. “Wake up, sunshine. Big night ahead. Thought you’d sleep through your own execution?”
He thrashed weakly, letting out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a curse.
“Aw. Look at you. So full of life.” I chuckled. “Any last wishes? Last words? Last meal?” I paused, then added with a laugh, “Nah. You don’t deserve a sandwich.”
He tried to sit up, twisting against the rope binding him, drooling against the gag like a rabid dog. Fuck, should’ve brought plastic sheets. Am I new at this?
“You know what cracks me up, Felix?” I said, glancing back with a sneer. “You came to a filthy little party with the cameras conveniently off, but all you really accomplished was erasing any record of me and Kira arranging your death.”
I watched him through the rearview mirror, my lip curling with open disgust.
“You like them young and helpless, don’t you?” I went on quietly. “Just like your friends. Humiliating them. Breaking them… Don’t worry. Soon you’re going to learn exactly what helpless feels like.”
He growled behind the gag, kicking like a dying animal in the last throes of fight, pitiful and loud.
“Okay, fine.” I let my head roll back with a sigh, smiling to myself. “You know your real mistake? You picked the one girl you should’ve never laid a finger on. Touched what’s mine. Hurt what’s mine. Big fucking error.”
My grip on the wheel turned white-knuckled. I shifted just enough for him to see my eyes in the mirror—see what he’d woken up.
“You called her a whore.”
My voice dropped to a growl, deep and feral. “I’m going to carve your tongue out for that.”
His eyes widened. Good. He should be scared.
“But the worst part?” I leaned toward the mirror, locking eyes with him. “You watched. You watched me fuck her. Saw the way she moaned. The way she broke. Which, technically—not even your fault. That’s on me. But you’ll pay for it anyway.”
He made a noise of confusion, rage, whatever the hell was still left in that rotted brain.
“There’s no plan,” I said. “No routine. Just instincts. And mine? They’re ugly. You touched what’s mine. So now I’m going to hurt you until I get bored or you stop breathing. Whichever comes first.”
I obviously was lying. There was always a plan.
I smiled, real slow. “I’m a fucking psycho, Felix. You don’t even know what unlucky looks like. But you’re about to.”
By the time I made it home, the sun had already risen, casting its first light over the quiet street.
I parked on the curb and climbed out, slamming the car door behind me.
Across the road, an old woman stood by the dumpster, feeding a huddle of stray cats.
She turned when she heard the noise, caught sight of me, and froze mid-motion—her plastic bag of stale bread suspended in the air, fingers curled tightly around it.
Her eyes widened to the size of saucers.
Blood had soaked clean through my shirt. It streaked across my face, clung to strands of my hair, and dried in dark patches on my arms. My boots were caked in filth. My hands stained to the wrists. I probably looked like I’d clawed my way out of a grave.
Or put someone in one.
She clutched her chest and made the sign of the cross. Her lips moved silently, prayer spilling out in panic.
I lifted a hand and offered her a casual wave. “Relax, babushka. Not your turn.”
The bag slipped from her fingers. Bread rolls scattered across the pavement with dull thuds as the cats bolted, vanishing like startled ghosts.
I pushed through the front door of my building without another glance, boots thudding on the stairs—thinking about my girl. Unstable, feral, mine. Fuck, I’d just left her and I already wanted her back.
My body ached for her. My mouth. My hands. Every part of me wanted to see her face, touch her again, make sure she was okay. But not like this. Not fucking drenched in the blood of the man who tried to take her.
I headed straight for the kitchen, opened the freezer, and grabbed the half-empty bottle of vodka. The cap twisted off with a crack, and I raised it to my lips, taking several deep swigs until the burn hit the back of my throat and spread through my chest like fire.
Clothes came off on the way to the bathroom—shirt first, then pants, underwear, all of it peeled off and left in a trail. The water in the shower blasted on, hot and furious, steam curling up the tiled walls.
Red swirled around my feet and circled the drain.
I scrubbed hard. Harder than necessary. Until my skin turned pink and raw, until there was no trace left—no blood, no grime, nothing but clean water sliding off me.
When I stepped out, I wrapped a towel around my waist and made my way to the living room. I lit a cigarette with slow, deliberate fingers, the flame dancing at the end before settling into a steady glow.
The couch groaned beneath me as I dropped onto it, muscles aching, joints stiff. I grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, letting the noise fill the silence. Smoke curled upward, lazy and slow, coiling around my head. The sun was higher now, its light slanting through the blinds in pale stripes.
The city outside was waking up.
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
I was gone before the cigarette burned out.
Iwoke to the sound of voices drifting in from the TV.
The screen was still glowing, casting a pale flicker across the walls. I blinked a few times, groggy, and rubbed a hand over my face.
“...two bodies discovered early this morning in a wooded area outside Kyiv...”
That got my attention.
I sat up fast, the sudden movement yanking the last remnants of sleep out of me.
“...sources say one of the men was found in an extremely mutilated state by local residents gathering firewood. One of them reportedly fainted at the scene.”
Shit.
I grabbed the remote and turned the volume up.
“...no arms. Tongue removed. Eyes gouged out. Authorities believe the victim to be Felix Vlasov, the son of a prominent Moscow businessman and fiancé to the daughter of a powerful Ukrainian oligarch, due to documents found on his person—though forensic identification is still pending confirmation...”
They’d already found him.
I hadn’t expected it to hit the news this fast. Just hours later, and already some unlucky assholes out collecting firewood at dawn had stumbled into my mess like clueless hikers wandering into a bear trap.
Apparently, he hadn’t even died where I left him.
There was a trail. A long one. Blood smeared through the underbrush like a breadcrumb path from hell.
He’d wandered—staggered, really—trying to escape.
No arms. No tongue. Just leaking out onto the forest floor with every step until his body gave up and bled out alone in the dirt.
Fitting, really.
I leaned forward and braced my elbows on my knees, letting out a slow breath.
Did she see this?
Had she heard already? Was she watching this exact report from her golden cage, eyes wide, stomach twisting, realizing exactly what I’d done?
And if she was—what was she thinking?
Did she think I was a monster?
I am a monster.
But it’s different when the girl you want more than air sees that truth for the first time. When the darkness isn’t just something you carry, but something reflected in her eyes.
Would she still want me?
Would she run?
Would she call me sick, deranged, depraved?
I pressed both hands into my face and let out a low, bitter laugh.
Why the fuck do I care?
I used to sleep like a baby after nights like this. No guilt, no second thoughts. Just job done, message sent, next move.
She’s a walking disaster. And somehow, I want more. I should be worried about the headlines, the retaliation, the war I just started—but all I can think about is her watching the news and deciding I’m the kind of man she can’t love.
Fucking hell, Maksym. Get a grip.
I stood up and tried to push the thoughts away. But they didn’t go quietly.
Sure, I killed him because he touched her. Because he assaulted her. Because he pinned her down, tore her dress, hurt her—and fuck, just thinking about it made me want to break him all over again.
But that wasn’t the only reason.
It was time.
Felix was Moscow’s golden boy—their clean-shaven little ambassador in a custom-tailored suit.
Killing him was always going to draw attention.
That was the point. I needed ripples. I needed disruption.
I needed Pakhan to stop seeing me as just another tool in his arsenal and start seeing me as someone worthy of trust.
I needed to get close. Close enough to get access. Close enough to open doors.
Because somewhere in the shadows of Pakhan’s empire—buried deep inside the filth of his trafficking network—is the truth about Mila.
And I’m going to find it.
To get there, I need chaos.
I need war.
My phone buzzed next to the ashtray. Sashko.
Holy crap. There are serial killers with more restraint.
Not gonna lie... I threw up a little in my mouth.
I huffed out a laugh and ran a hand across my jaw, rough with stubble.
There’s a reason they call me the Reaper.
Let the bloodbath begin.
I leaned back in the chair, watching the news anchor drone on about the investigation while sipping vodka like it was morning coffee.
I didn’t need to move.
Not yet.
The moment Pakhan sees the headlines—his future son-in-law butchered and dumped like a warning—he’ll call me.