Chapter 22
Maksim
Both messages arrived at once. The only two that could have pulled me away from home at that moment.
Vladimir: They’ve got information on Yegorov.
He’s being escorted to the Canal House.
Below it, Yuri’s message makes my blood boil.
Yuri: Demidov was the one who ordered it.
Demidov had Anya run over to send a message to her piece-of-shit father. The same Demidov who’s been slithering into my territory and laughing at me behind my back. I clench my jaw beneath the mask before opening the heavy metal doors of the Canal House basement.
Yegorov is tied to a steel chair in the middle of the room, head bowed, blood dripping from his nose and split eyebrow. Courtesy of Igor, who arrived shortly before me.
Dmitry Yegorov has known me for eighteen years. He was my father’s brigadier before he was mine, shook my hand the day I took over, and ate at my table with the Circle. He knows who I am, knows my face, but that won’t earn him special treatment.
Quite the opposite.
I want him to spend his last moments staring at the skull that St. Petersburg learned to fear—the same one he served and then sold out to Moscow.
“You took your time,” I say, pulling up a chair and sitting in front of him, unhurried. “Hid well, like the scared rat you are. Almost impressed me, Dmitry.”
He doesn’t answer or look at me, just keeps his head down. For now, of course. Soon enough he’ll start talking—Igor will make sure of that.
Vladimir enters the basement just then, dark coat still on his shoulders, his steps calm as always. He’s accompanied by the Boyevik who delivered Yegorov’s location—a young, ambitious kid fresh out of prison.
“What’s your name, kid?” I ask loudly, not taking my eyes off Yegorov.
“Roman Smirnov.”
I observe his serious expression from the corner of my eye, as much as the mask allows.
Good posture, ambition—I like that. Everyone in the organization knew Yegorov had a target on his back since the night he ran.
We just needed the right person to point us in his direction. Looks like I found him.
“Your loyalty will be rewarded.”
“All to serve the Bratva, Pakhan.”
He responds briefly, and I nod, satisfied.
“See, Dmitry? Everyone who stays on my side gets rewarded. You used to be like that.”
Yegorov spits blood on the concrete.
“Go to hell, Nikiforov.”
“Oh, definitely. But not today.” I lean back in the chair. “Before that, you and I are going to have a conversation about Pavel Demidov.”
The mention of the name triggers something in him—discomfort or anger, I’m not sure yet. But I know what it triggers in me.
Extreme rage. A thirst for revenge.
It was a wonderful coincidence when Yuri finally identified Demidov as the one who ordered Anya’s accident.
The same man who’s been conspiring against me for years sent a car to run down my wife without caring about the consequences. Even before I met her, Svetlana was destined to be mine, and now my purpose is to protect her and avenge every tear they made roll down her beautiful face.
It’s convenient having just one target. Demidov crossed my path twice—when he started messing with my territory and the moment he involved my woman in a debt that wasn’t hers.
I’m going to make him pay for it.
“You’re going to give me Demidov,” I state. “You can start with the routes and all the business he’s been meddling with in my territory.”
Yegorov grits his teeth in a crooked, bloody smile.
“And why would I give you that?”
I tilt my head, and the movement is enough for Igor to step closer. Yegorov shrinks away from the executioner, and I smile openly beneath the mask.
“You know there’s no forgiveness for betrayal,” I respond, my voice low and unhurried, and his eyes widen a bit more.
“Any information you give me won’t change your end.
But what you can control is how long the punishment lasts.
” I stand up, circle the chair slowly. “You can choose between a slow and painful death or a quick and painful death. Think carefully, Dmitry. It’s the last important decision you’ll ever make. ”
“You’re not going to kill me.” His voice trembles on the last syllable. “You need me.”
“I need what you know.” I give a slight jerk of my chin. “That’s different.”
Igor walks slowly, and when he reaches my side, he crouches and pulls a knife from the holster on his calf.
He circles Yegorov, who grows nervous, eyes darting everywhere, trying to predict Igor’s next move.
When the executioner stops behind him and crouches to speak near his ear, Dmitry lets out a pathetic whimper.
“Let’s start with the hands, Dmitry. How many messages did you send to Moscow with those fingers?”
The piercing scream he releases when Igor’s knife tears off the tip of his index finger contrasts sharply with Igor’s calm as he removes each fingertip.
With every howl of pain, he gives up new information that Vladimir patiently writes down.
Routes, allies, traitors, even the name of the restaurant in Tallinn where he has lunch every Tuesday with his mistress.
It lasted far less than I expected, and the monster inside me—injected with fury and a thirst for revenge—isn’t satisfied. I need Demidov. I want to make him suffer the way he made Anya suffer when he ended her career.
Igor wipes the blade on the shoulder of Yegorov’s shirt and looks at me, silently asking if we’re going to kill him.
“Not yet,” I reply.
I just turn my back and leave, thinking about the ambush we’ll set to lure Demidov. He’ll be leaving the restaurant on some random Tuesday with his whore, and before he knows it, he’ll have a bag over his head on his way to settle accounts with me.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I bring your good friend Demidov to St. Petersburg,” I say to Yegorov, already heading for the door.
He raises his head, his face dripping with blood, tears, sweat, and snot.
“So... can I leave?”
I almost laugh.
“Don’t be naive, Dmitry.”
I stop at the exit, next to Roman, who’s still there guarding the door.
“Get him a bucket,” I say. “He’s going to be here a long time.”
I climb the basement stairs and the air outside is clean, sharp, smelling of snow and canal water beginning to freeze. I breathe the cutting air in deep and relax. There’s no weight on my shoulders this time, no guilt. Just a plan in motion and a man marked to die.