Chapter 37 #2
“You…” he says, dragging himself away. “You’re the Man in the Mask.”
“I am Maksim Nikiforov.” I take slow steps, closing the distance. “The mask is a device to make small men like you piss themselves with fear.”
He backs up until his back hits the gate.
Pathetic.
“Wait…” His hand rises, palms up in surrender. “Wait, we can talk. I can work for you, I’ll hand over Orlo—”
“You touched my wife.”
He stops talking. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.
“I didn’t touch her, I swear.” His voice rises an octave. “You saw she’s intact. I ordered my men—”
“You ordered her run down. Five years ago, in an alley behind the Bolshoi Theater.” I speak in a low voice, hatred seeping through every word. “You ordered them to destroy the knee of a twenty-one-year-old girl who was going to be Russia’s greatest ballerina.”
His face goes white, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. I crouch in front of him, legs spread wide, elbows resting on my knees.
“You invaded my property, killed my men, and set up an ambush on the road to kidnap my wife.”
“I can—”
I raise my hand to cut him off.
“In what world, Pavel Demidov…” I draw out each syllable of his name, because this will be the last time he hears it. “Do you think I’m going to let you live?”
I kill Demidov the way he forced Anya to kill a man—with a blade. But I’m not merciful enough to slit his throat and end it quickly.
I start by stabbing one knee, then the other, crippling him the way he crippled her so many years ago. Then the hands, his side, his thigh—always careful to avoid arteries and vital organs.
Despite wanting to extend my revenge for as long as Anya suffered, my desire to be with her is greater. Being in her arms, where I can be myself, is better than staying here feeding the monster that lives inside me.
Demidov’s head hangs back, his face swollen from Vladimir’s punches, a trickle of blood running from his mouth.
“I was going to be the man…” His voice comes out bubbling, blood mixing with saliva. “…who delivered the Man in the Mask to Viktor Orlov.”
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks.
Pavel Demidov is a man who loves the spotlight, a man who spent years airing his grievances to anyone who would listen. He’s a damn loudmouth. There’s no way he got this close without revealing what he was about to discover.
Orlov may not have my face or my name yet, but he certainly has the location of my property, which has already been invaded, and knows that Svetlana is my wife.
My thirteen years of anonymity end today.
From now on, the Man in the Mask has a face and a name—Maksim Nikiforov—and he will bring down every enemy. Starting with Moscow and the man who put a bounty on his identity.
I grab his hair, pull his head back, and look at that stupidly ordinary face one last time.
“Look closely,” I say. “This is the face.”
His eyes focus on mine.
“You did it. You found me. You’re the only man in Moscow who knows who I am.” I press the blade to his neck. “But you won’t be able to tell anyone.”
I drag the blade hard, feeling it slide across his skin and cut through flesh.
I stay crouched there for a while, watching the life leave his eyes, feeling the weight of how my world is about to change. I’m going to war with Moscow. I’m going to hunt Orlov and end everyone who gets in my way.
Suddenly, I feel the weight of a presence. The weight of her gaze on me. I straighten up, rise slowly, adjust my posture, and turn around.
Svetlana stands a few steps from Vladimir, in the loading dock doorway.
I don't know how long she's been there, leaning against the doorframe with Igor sulking behind her.
Of course he couldn't hold her back—Svetlana doesn't obey anyone.
I want to smile at the thought, but I can't. Not when I know she saw what I just did.
My wife is looking directly at me, and at my feet lie only the remains of a man. After months of marriage, this is the first time Anya has truly seen me. Everything I spent weeks hiding from her, trying to suppress within myself—laid bare in a single night.
This monstrous part.
I can't force myself to walk to her, not with my hands still dripping fresh blood. But as always, she surprises me. Anya makes her way toward me, one step at a time. She limps more than usual. It's not just her right knee bothering her, but her foot too—she can barely put weight on it.
Vladimir offers his hand for her to lean on, but Anya doesn't even glance his way, too focused on reaching me.
“You shouldn't have seen this.”
I say it quietly as she draws close. My hands are red, blood splattered across my clothes and face. I don't understand how she can look at me.
“I wanted to see,” she says firmly. “I needed to see.”
“And now?”
And what does this mean? Now that you've seen the ugliest part of me, what will become of us? Will you still love me the way I love you?
It's everything I want to ask, but I can't put it into words. She understands, though. She always understands what I mean to say through my gaze. And to answer, Svetlana simply raises her arm and takes my hand in hers. Both stained with blood.
“Now we go home.”