Chapter 31
Maksim
Ivan lies on his side on a pile of blankets in the winter garden, and it's one of the most devastating scenes I've ever witnessed.
The vet left a while ago. He removed both bullets, stitched him up, wrapped his flank in a wide bandage that covers most of his furry body.
His breathing is loud and steady as he sleeps under sedation.
His chances of pulling through are good—despite all that blood soaking the ground near the tree line where I found him, the shots missed his vital organs.
I sent the vet away without saying much and waited. Waited to see if what he'd said was really true. I needed to see for myself that the enormous bear I raised from a cub would survive. Ivan is part of me, and nothing compares to the pain and despair I felt when I saw him shot.
I crouch beside him, one knee on the ground, the other propping up my elbow. I bring my hand to his ear—so small compared to the rest of him—and stroke it slowly. I sink my fingers into his thick fur and feel the warmth radiating from his body.
There's a massive knot lodged in my throat, something that makes me want to scream. Ivan shouldn't be here. None of this should have happened. My home was invaded, and my wife had to hide while armed men gunned down my soldiers. Olga was shot, Ivan too—he nearly died protecting this house.
I clench my jaw, satisfied at the memory of putting a bullet in the heads of the three men who lay groaning and writhing a few yards from Ivan. They must have wounded him, but this bear doesn't go down without a fight—he tore each of them apart before he fell.
His breathing stays steady. Stable.
I rise with purpose, run my hand one last time over Ivan's snout, and leave the winter garden with my throat still tight. My head, however, is clearer than it's ever been, a furious determination growing and spreading through my entire body.
All of last night's attackers died at the hands of my men. Only one imbecile remains alive—one who knows how these people got into my house.
And I'm going to make sure he talks.
The warehouse on the outskirts of St. Petersburg reeks of mold, stagnant water, and piss. After my first visit to Yegorov, I ordered him brought here, far from prying eyes and ears.
I walk through the doors unhurried, removing my coat along the way and rolling up my sleeves.
No mask this time. It stays in the inner pocket of the coat I toss on a chair as I pass.
There's nothing he doesn't already know about my face, and I want him looking deep into my eyes when he tells me the rest of what he's been holding back.
The thin, filthy body is tied to a steel chair in the middle of the room.
His beard has grown too long, his lips are cracked, his hair disheveled, and his hands wrapped in filthy rags to stanch the bleeding from fingers that are no longer there.
When the light flicks on above him, he slowly raises his head, sunken eyes blinking to focus on me, his cracked mouth twisting into a sad, pathetic smile.
“Nikiforov, back to finish the job?”
“No.” I pull up a metal stool and sit in front of him, elbows on my knees. “I have more questions for you.”
“I already told you everything.” He coughs for a long moment. “There's nothing left to tell, Pakhan.”
I appreciate the respectful address. Yegorov has finally returned to his rightful place in the hierarchy, bowing to me.
“There is…” I tilt my head to the side, staring into the depths of his dull eyes. “Last night, eighteen men entered my property. My home, Dmitry. Where my wife was sleeping.”
I pause and watch his eyes widen, fear flooding his face. Then I continue.
“There's no record of the property. Very few people know where it is. So tell me, Dmitry… How the fuck did Demidov's men find it?”
“It wasn't me.” He answers quickly, desperation dripping from every word. “I've been here for weeks, tied up and pissing in a bucket. They didn't find out from me.”
“I know it wasn't you.” I stretch my leg just enough to step on his bare foot—the one that took a bullet, wrapped in a filthy bandage. “You're nothing but useless trash now, Yegorov.”
His scream echoes through the space as I press harder. Tears stream down and mix with what little saliva he can still produce. After a moment, I speak calmly again.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“There's a… a drunk.”
His voice is low, barely a thread. He's exhausted—I don't have much time. I stand and go to the sink at the back of the room, fill a bowl with ice-cold water, and return. I throw it in his face, the cold shocking his body back from the edge.
“He's not a spy or an infiltrator,” he continues without being told. “No one else betrayed you—not from your precious Circle.”
This doesn't surprise me. I never thought it could be someone from the Circle leaking information. I'd give my life for those people, and if I died at the hands of any of them, the fault would be mine alone.
“You said you have a wife now, didn't you? Demidov found out too.”
My jaw tightens. My marriage was never a secret—the opposite, in fact. It served to silence the rumors about my inability to lead. Rumors I'm now realizing were being planted in my Bratva by Demidov with Yegorov's help.
A wife was a necessity—I never imagined Anya would become the center of my world. My heart pounds against my chest, fury taking hold.
If anything happens to Svetlana…
“There’s a drunk gambler in Vysotsk who owes everyone. He’s been bragging that he’s the Man in the Mask’s father-in-law. Demidov must have heard.”
The only sounds in the warehouse are the dripping faucet and Yegorov’s heavy breathing.
Aleksei Voronov, Svetlana’s father.
When I covered his debt and took Anya with me, I never intended to leave him alive—I did it as a favor to his daughter. Now I realize my mistake. I should have put a bullet between his eyes. No favors or sentimentality.
The tattoo on my chest seems to burn, mocking me.
Have mercy on no one.
I did, and now this worm brought eighteen rifles into my house. Aleksei, with his big mouth and half a brain, never imagined he’d put his daughter in danger by running his mouth about me.
I clench my teeth again. He doesn’t care if he puts Anya in danger or not. He never cared. He sold his only daughter like cattle for a handful of rubles. He doesn’t deserve to breathe anymore—he never did. But after last night, I’ll make sure his life ends soon.
“Thank you, Dmitry.” I stand up. “You were useful.”
The man relaxes half a millimeter in the chair, looks up with relief, and runs his tongue over his fucked-up lips before speaking softly:
“You’re going to let me go? I cooperated. From the beginning I…”
I lunge forward, driving my fist hard into the middle of his face.
The first punch catches him in the mouth and cuts off the sentence mid-word. The second hits his temple. After that, I lose count. I put maximum force into each jab, each cross that finds his face. The monster inside me is fully awake and celebrating its freedom.
I see his head loll, completely knocked out by the blows, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
His betrayal over all these years is the least of my reasons. Yegorov facilitated routes and operations for Demidov to enter my territory. He’s been doing this for years—long enough to collect debts by ordering hit-and-runs on innocent women.
My wife.
Demidov collected from Aleksei and kept working. Lending money, collecting, and listening until the prize fell into his lap. He finally knew who would lead him to me.
Images flood my mind, giving me strength when I’m already getting tired.
Anya, so beautiful and so scared, getting dressed in the dark to the sounds of gunfire in the garden.
Olga, pale, her arm wrapped with a t-shirt.
And Ivan lying in a pool of blood in the garden, breathing heavily, fighting the pain and blood loss.
I punch Yegorov every time one of these memories flashes through me.
I hit, hit, and hit until there’s nothing left but my ragged breath and the sound of flesh giving way under my fists.
When I stop, I look at my hands and find only red. Blood dripping from my trembling, aching fingers.
Surprisingly, Yegorov is still breathing. Barely, failing, but still alive. This son of a bitch who served my father before me, who chose to betray me, keeps fighting to survive.
I take the knife from the holster on my calf.
I don’t say anything to him—it doesn’t make sense to give an empty speech to a half-dead man. I just put one hand on his dirty forehead, tilt his head back, and drag the blade across his throat.
Blood spurts onto me, revealing how hard his heart was still fighting to keep this trash alive.
I look at the exposed tendons, the blood flowing with less force now, and I can’t admire my work.
There’s nothing beautiful about it. No relief.
Yegorov is dead and Demidov is still out there, knowing that Svetlana is my wife and will lead him to me.
I turn my back on the dead body slumped in the chair and leave. The blood on my soles makes wet sounds with each step I take.