12. Ilya
ILYA
The blue light of the security monitors reflects off the glass surface of the war room table, throwing cold shadows across the map of the northern territory.
I trace the red line marking the east perimeter fence with my pen, the plastic casing clicking rhythmically against my thumbnail.
The timestamps on the logs don't lie. The security feed for the east gate didn't fail due to an electrical surge. It was manually looped for exactly four minutes, just long enough for Petr’s strike team to cut through the chain-link barrier and slip into the tree line without triggering the silent alarms in the guardhouse.
Dmitri stands across from me, his arms crossed over his chest, his face cast in grey shadow. He tosses a thick manila folder onto the glass.
"The log-in credentials used to access the secondary server belonged to Grigori. He was scheduled for the west tower patrol, but the gate logs show he checked out three hours early. His locker was empty. His service rifle was left in the armory, but his personal vehicle was still in the lower lot."
I don't open the folder. I know what's inside. Grigori has been on my payroll for six years. He’s a quiet man, an enforcer who never complained about the cold shifts or the low-level security details on the docks. But quiet men are cheap to buy if you find the right pressure point.
"Where is he?"
"In the cellar under the west wing. Lev found him trying to slip through the drainage canal behind the greenhouse. He had fifty thousand dollars in cash zipped into a waterproof duffel bag."
I stand up, the heavy leather of my holster creaking in the quiet room. "Bring the iron tray. We’re going to need the heavy tools."
The basement beneath the west wing is older than the rest of the estate, a damp, limestone cellar built during the old cold war era.
It smells of wet cement, mold, and the sharp, chemical tang of the rust-inhibitor spray we use on the pipes.
It’s a dead space, completely insulated from the world above.
A man could scream in here for three days, and the maids in the kitchen wouldn't even notice a vibration in their teacups.
Grigori is secured to a heavy oak chair bolted to the floor, his left hand clamped flat inside a massive, cast-iron machinist’s vise that is bolted directly to the heavy steel workbench.
His face is a swollen, purple mess, his nose broken so badly that every wet, rattling breath he draws sprays a fine mist of red onto the cold metal of the table.
He’s been here for three hours, the steel jaws of the vise resting cold against the skin of his knuckles.
I slowly turn the lead screw of the vise, the heavy iron handle groaning as the pressure begins to build.
Grigori thrashes against the leather straps holding his chest to the chair, his head shaking violently. "Ilya, please. I didn't have a choice. The underground casino on Fourth... they were going to take my hands. They had my markers. They were going to kill me."
I don't look up from the vise. I slide a flat, black-handled scaling scalpel from the leather roll on the table. "Your hands belong to me, Grigori. Every circuit you patch, every security wire you loop. You sold the encryption key to my estate to pay off a bad hand of blackjack."
"I only gave them the backup relay!" He lets out a high, terrified whine as I tighten the lead screw another quarter-turn. "Nothing else! I swear on my mother’s soul! I didn't know they were going to blow the lock! I thought they were just going to cut the cameras!"
"The key was used to bypass the north wing smart locks," I say, my voice flat, completely devoid of the anger currently humming in my veins. "Twenty-two of my men are in body bags because of your debt. That means each of your fingers is worth exactly one life."
I grab the heavy iron handle of the vise and give it a sharp, ruthless twist.
The sound of his index finger bone shattering under the relentless pressure of the iron jaws is a dry, sharp snap, like a dry twig breaking in the winter.
Grigori’s scream is a high-pitched, gargling shriek that bounces off the wet limestone walls.
His body arches off the chair, his right hand clawing frantically at the leather straps as his eyes roll back into his head, exposing the whites.
I don't release the pressure. I pick up the scaling blade, the silver edge catching the harsh glare of the single overhead bulb. "Who bought the key, Grigori? I want the name of the broker."
"Pavel!" He gasps, his spit pink and bubbly as he chokes on his own tongue. "He... he works the Russo docks! He met me in the back of the warehouse! He had the cash in a gym bag! Please, Ilya! Open the vise! I can’t breathe!"
"Pavel is a low-level runner," I say, my thumb sliding down the flat of the blade. "He doesn't have the clearance to authorize a thirty-man hit. Try again."
I position the tip of the scalpel directly under the fingernail of his middle finger, right where the raw nerve endings meet the skin.
"Ilya."
I freeze, the scalpel still held steady in my hand. I turn my head slowly toward the heavy steel fire door at the end of the corridor.
Via is standing in the threshold.
She’s wearing the oversized grey sweater and black leggings she’d taken from the dresser, her hair falling over her shoulders in a messy, golden tangle.
Her face is entirely white, her hazel eyes wide and glassy as she looks at the blood pooling on the concrete, the raw, crushed skin of Grigori’s hand, and the heavy iron vise on the workbench.
My heart hits my ribs with a sudden, heavy thud.
I lower the blade, my boots squelching in the shallow pool of red as I step away from the hanging man. "Who let you down here?"
She grips the heavy frame of the steel door, her fingers white, her chest rising and falling in short, rapid movements.
"Ekaterina’s finger. She scraped it on the old iron drawer in the parlor.
It was bleeding, and she was crying. I went to find Yara to get the first-aid kit, but she wasn't in the kitchen.
I heard... I heard a thumping down the stairs. I thought it was the boiler."
She’s lying about the boiler. She heard the screams. She’s smart. She wanted to see what was behind the red door, to see the monster in his element.
I walk toward her, my boots heavy on the wet concrete.
I’m covered in Grigori’s blood. It’s splashed across my white shirt, smeared down the front of my leather apron, and dripping from my knuckles.
I look like a butcher. I expect her to scream, to turn and run back to her windowless suite, to beg me to spare her the sight.
Instead, she stands her ground. Her shoulders are rigid, her chin lifted as she stares directly into my face, though I can see the rapid, panicked flutter of her pulse in her neck.
"This is inefficient," she says, her voice shaking but her tone flat. "And messy."
I stop three feet from her, the scent of her vanilla and clean skin instantly cutting through the copper stench of the blood. I tilt my head, watching her face. "Inefficient?"
"You’re using brute force. You’re making him scream so much, his vocal cords are tearing. He’s choking on his own blood, Ilya. He can’t give you names if he’s suffocating."
I let out a low, dry chuckle, the sound rough in my chest.
"And what would you suggest, little bird?" I step closer, my massive frame completely blocking her view of the room. "Should I ask him politely?"
"The nerve bundle under the arm," she says, her eyes rising to meet mine, hazel and defiant.
"My father’s men used to use a thin needle.
Just behind the armpit. It doesn't draw blood, but it feels like your skin is being poured with boiling oil.
They don't scream as much, but they talk faster. And you don't ruin your nice boots."
I stare at her, my blood instantly running hot. She’s terrified. I can see the tiny tremor in her lower lip, the way her hands are clutching the fabric of her sweater to keep from shaking, but she’s using her intellect, her dark upbringing, to match my brutality. She’s showing me her teeth.
"Your father taught you well, Via," I murmur, my hand coming up to cup her face.
I stop before I touch her. My hand is covered in dark, sticky red. I don't want to stain her pale skin with Grigori’s blood. I lower my arm, my jaw setting. "Go back to the kitchen. Yara is in the pantry. Get the kit for Ekaterina."
"Are you going to kill him?" She looks at Grigori, her voice dropping.
"Yes."
"Okay."
She turns away, her bare feet padding softly on the stairs.
I watch her go, my chest expanding as I take a deep, ragged breath. The silence of the basement returns, but everything feels different now. Hotter. Heavy with the scent of her.
"Boss," a voice calls from the corridor.
Oleg, one of the newer enforcers standing guard at the bottom of the stairs, steps into the light.
He’s staring up the stairwell where Via just disappeared, his eyes fixed on the tight curve of her black leggings, a slow, greasy smile spreading across his lips.
"I have to admit, the Bratva princess has a very nice—"
In a flash of movement, I’m across the room.
I grab Oleg by the throat with my bloody hand, my fingers squeezing his windpipe until his breath leaves him in a sharp, choking gasp. I slam his head back against the stone wall, the impact cracking the plaster behind his skull.
"What did you say?" I rasp, my face inches from his.
Oleg’s eyes go wide with a sudden, wild terror. He tries to claw at my forearm, his legs twitching as he struggles for air. "Ilya... please... I didn't..."
"You look at her again, and I will gouge your eyes out with my bare fingers. You speak her name again, and I will rip your tongue out of your skull and feed it to the dogs. She is your Pakhan’s wife.
She is a Kovalevskii. You do not look. You do not speak.
You do not exist in her presence. Do you understand me? "
He nods, his face turning a dangerous shade of blue.
I release him, letting him collapse onto the concrete floor in a gasping, coughing heap. I turn to Dmitri, who is standing by the table, his face perfectly blank.
"Remove him from the estate. Send him to the docks. If I see his face in this house again, put him in the river."
"Yes, Boss." Dmitri gestures to two other enforcers, who grab Oleg by the arms and drag him up the stairs, his boots scraping loudly against the stone.
I look back at the table of tools, my hand still shaking slightly from the sudden, violent spike.
I walk back to Grigori, picking up the chisel from the tray. I don't use the hammer. I think of her words—the nerve bundle under the arm.
I slide the iron under his armpit, putting just enough pressure to make his body shake.
"Pavel," Grigori gasps immediately, his eyes bulging as he spits up a fresh wave of pink foam. "Pavel has the ledger! It’s in the safe at the dock office! The combination is twenty-four, twelve, eighty-six!"
I pull the iron back.
"Thank you, Via," I murmur, a cold, dark smile spreading across my lips as I raise my gun.
Grigori goes limp, his head hanging down his chest, his blood dripping silently into the pool on the floor.
I turn and walk out, my boots heavy on the concrete. I need a shower. I need to wash the blood off my hands.
And then, I’m going to find my wife.
I head up the stairs, the cool air of the main floor hitting my face, a sharp contrast to the stifling heat of the basement.
I strip off my blood-stained shirt and leather apron, throwing them into the laundry chute, and step into the master bath.
The hot water washes the crimson off my skin, turning the drain water a dark, muddy pink before it clears.
I dress in a fresh black button-down shirt, not bothering to button the collar, and slide my Glock back into its shoulder holster.
She’s in the library.
I find her sitting under the high glass skylight, the pale afternoon sun throwing long, silver bars of light across her face.
She has a heavy leather-bound book open in her lap, her fingers slowly tracing the edge of the page.
She doesn't look up when I enter, but the sudden tension in her shoulders tells me she knows I’m here.
I stop at the edge of the rug, my hands resting in my pockets. "Ekaterina’s finger is patched?"
"She’s fine. Yara had the antiseptic. It was just a scratch."
"And you?" I step closer, the scent of her vanilla instantly wrapping around me. "How is your head, Via?"
She slowly closes the book, the heavy paper making a dull thud in the quiet room.
She looks up at me, her hazel eyes completely steady, though her lower lip has a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor.
"My head is perfectly fine, Ilya. I’ve seen my father's men clean the drains before.
It takes more than a little red water to make me lose my appetite. "
I watch her, my jaw clenching. She’s trying so hard to be the tough, unyielding Bratva princess, but I can see the exhaustion in the dark circles under her eyes, the way her small hands are clutching the book like a shield.
"Your suggestion was correct. Grigori gave up the safe combination. We have the ledger."
She stands up, setting the book on the table, her shoulder tensing as I step into her personal space. "Then you got what you wanted. You don't need to thank me."
"I don't thank people, Via." I reach out, my fingers wrapping around her chin, forcing her face up.
This time, my hand is clean, my touch surprisingly gentle.
I trace the soft curve of her jaw, my thumb rubbing against her bottom lip.
"I protect my assets. And tonight, you showed me that you’re much more valuable than I thought. "
She tries to turn her head away, but my grip is steady. "I’m not your asset, Ilya. I’m your hostage."
"You're my wife. And the sooner you accept that, the easier this is going to be."
I release her chin, turning on my heel and walking toward the door. I don't look back, but as the door clicks shut behind me, I can feel her eyes on my back, hot and defiant.
She’s going to be the death of me, but I don’t care.