Chapter 24 – Kirill
The warehouse district reeked of rust and stale air.
Sodium lights flickered against cracked pavement, casting long shadows between gutted buildings that had been forgotten by the city years ago.
I pulled up three blocks out, killing the engine.
Drew rolled in behind me, Timur to my left.
Damir brought up the rear in a black SUV that had seen better days but still ran silent as death.
No words. We didn’t need them.
I checked my Glock—loaded, chambered, safety off.
The weight of it felt right in my palm. Familiar.
Like typing code or breathing. The blade strapped to my thigh was just as ready, its edge sharp enough to split hairs.
I’d sharpened it myself that morning, methodical strokes across the whetstone while Barbara slept.
She didn’t need to know what I was about to do.
She needed to believe I was handling business, clean and simple.
But there was nothing clean about tonight.
Timur’s voice crackled through my earpiece. “Zetas confirmed. East entrance. Four visible. Probably more inside.”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me.
Los Zetas. The rogue faction that had splintered from the main cartel after that Yucatan bloodbath.
Desperate men. Hungry for money and revenge.
They wanted Sebastian for the crypto scam he’d pulled, the fake data packages, the torched offshore accounts. Millions gone. Their pride shattered.
We wanted him for Barbara. For her mother. For every bruise, every threat, every sleepless night she’d endured.
Strange bedfellows, Bratva and Zetas. But Vladimir had taught me long ago—sometimes you work with your enemies to destroy a mutual threat. Then you settle old scores later.
Tonight, we had a deal.
Drew fell in step beside me as we moved through the alley. His breath was steady, controlled. Combat-trained muscle and tech-genius brain wrapped in tailored violence. “You good?” he murmured.
“Perfect,” I said.
It wasn’t a lie. For the first time in weeks, everything felt crystal clear. No doubt. No hesitation. Sebastian had taken enough from Barbara. From me. From everyone he’d ever touched with his poison. Tonight, that ended.
The warehouse loomed ahead—three stories of crumbling brick and shattered windows. Graffiti covered the walls, gang tags layered over corporate logos from when this place had actually produced something other than nightmares. Now it was just another grave waiting to be filled.
Gunfire erupted before we reached the door.
Zetas had already moved in. I heard shouting in Spanish, the sharp crack of pistols, the deeper boom of shotguns. Screams. Glass shattering. Timur grinned beside me, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. “Sounds like the party started without us.”
“Then let’s crash it.”
We breached through the south entrance, low and fast. The interior was chaos, bodies moving in shadows, muzzle flashes lighting up the dark like strobe lights.
I caught sight of a Zeta enforcer taking cover behind a forklift, trading shots with someone upstairs.
Another sprawled on the concrete, blood pooling beneath him.
I didn’t stop to count the dead.
My target was deeper inside. Sebastian. The bastard who wore Douglas’s face in my memories. The ghost who’d stolen from Bratva, who’d murdered Barbara’s mother, who’d held that video over her head like a knife for five years.
I moved through the firefight like water through cracks. One of Sebastain’s henchmen swung toward me, raising his weapon. I put two rounds in his chest before he could squeeze the trigger. He dropped, and I stepped over him without breaking stride.
Timur was behind me, his presence solid and reassuring. Drew had split off to cover the west wing. Damir was handling the perimeter, making sure no one slipped out the back. We’d planned this down to the second. Every angle covered. Every exit sealed.
Sebastian had nowhere to run.
I heard boots on metal—someone fleeing up the stairs.
My pulse didn’t spike. It stayed steady, controlled, the way it always did when I was locked into a mission.
I sprinted for the stairwell, boots slamming against rusted steps that groaned under my weight.
The sound echoed through the warehouse, mixing with the gunfire and shouts below.
Second floor. Third. The stairs ended at a rusted door that hung half-open, revealing a storage wing filled with empty crates and debris. I shoved through, gun raised, sweeping the space.
There.
Sebastian stumbled into view, his face pale and slick with sweat. He’d lost his jacket somewhere. His shirt was torn. Blood streaked his temple—probably from a grazing shot. He looked exactly like he had in Barbara’s nightmares, only now he looked terrified.
Good.
“Kirill.” His voice cracked. “Listen, we can—”
I didn’t let him finish.
I closed the distance in three strides and drove my fist into his ribs. The impact was satisfying—bone against bone, the sharp exhale of air leaving his lungs. He crumpled, gasping, and I grabbed the back of his shirt, hauling him upright before slamming him into a steel support beam.
His head bounced off the metal with a dull clang.
“That’s for Barbara,” I said.
I hit him again. Harder this time. My knuckles split against his cheekbone, but I didn’t feel it. Adrenaline dulled everything except the pure, crystalline focus of the moment. Blood sprayed from his nose, painting the beam behind him in dark streaks.
“And that’s for her mother.”
Another punch. His lip split. Teeth cracked. He tried to raise his hands, tried to shield his face, but I was faster. Stronger. Angrier. Every blow carried five years of Barbara’s terror, every ounce of pain she’d carried alone.
“For the video.” Punch. “For the blackmail.” Punch. “For every fucking nightmare you gave her.”
Sebastian’s legs gave out. He would’ve collapsed if I wasn’t holding him up by his shirt. His face was unrecognizable now—swollen, bloody, a mess of torn skin and broken bones. I felt nothing but satisfaction.
This was justice. Not the kind they taught in law books. The kind that lived in dark places, in blood and broken teeth.
“Kirill.”
The voice came from behind me—calm, accented, carrying authority.
I turned, still gripping Sebastian’s collar, and found myself facing a man I’d only seen in surveillance photos.
Thick gold chain glinting against his neck.
Snake eyes that missed nothing. A pistol already drawn, though not aimed at me.
Los Zetas’ leader.
“We had a deal,” he said in English, his tone almost pleasant. “You get your revenge. We get our money.”
I glanced past him. Three more Zetas flanked the entrance, weapons ready but not raised. Professional. Waiting for orders. Andrei emerged from the shadows behind them, his tailored suit somehow still immaculate despite the carnage below. He carried a tablet, his expression cold and businesslike.
“The accounts,” Andrei said, addressing the Zeta leader. “We need access codes.”
The Zeta leader gestured to Sebastian with his pistol. “From him.”
I looked down at the broken man in my grip. Sebastian’s eyes were barely open, his face a ruin of blood and bone. But he was conscious. Barely. That was all we needed.
I dragged him to a metal table in the corner, shoving him into a chair that scraped against concrete. Drew appeared with a laptop, setting it up with quick, efficient movements. The screen glowed blue in the dim warehouse light.
“Type,” I ordered.
Sebastian’s hands trembled as he reached for the keyboard. Blood dripped from his fingers, leaving smears on the keys. Andrei leaned over his shoulder, watching every character. The Zeta leader stood on the other side, pistol now aimed casually at Sebastian’s head.
Insurance.
Minutes crawled by. Sebastian typed with shaking fingers, each keystroke labored. I could see the accounts populating on the screen—offshore holdings, crypto wallets, shell companies layered so deep even I would’ve needed days to unravel them. But Sebastian had built this maze. He knew every twist.
And now he was giving it all back.
“Zetas’ share,” Andrei murmured, his voice flat. Numbers scrolled past. Millions. More than I’d expected. Sebastian had been busy.
“Bratva’s share.” More numbers. Vladimir would be satisfied. The stolen funds from four years ago, the ones that had nearly cost me my life, were finally being returned. With interest.
Sebastian slumped forward when it was done, his forehead hitting the table. A gag appeared, and one of the Zetas shoved cloth into his mouth, muffling the sounds he was trying to make. Protests. Pleas. It didn’t matter. We’d heard enough.
I grabbed Sebastian by the collar again, dragging him off the chair. His legs barely worked. He was deadweight, a puppet with cut strings. I hauled him across the warehouse floor, past the debris and blood, toward where the Zeta leader waited with his men.
Our deal was simple. Bratva got first blood. Zetas got the kill.
I tossed Sebastian at their feet like garbage.
He landed hard, rolling onto his side, his eyes wide and terrified behind the gag. The Zeta leader looked down at him with something close to amusement. He holstered his pistol, then crouched beside Sebastian, tilting his head.
“You stole from us,” he said softly in Spanish. Drew translated in my earpiece, though I caught the gist. “You thought you were clever. Smarter than everyone. But here you are.”
The Zeta leader stood, gesturing to his men. “We had a deal,” he repeated, this time looking at me.
I nodded. “He’s yours.”
“Gracias.”
I turned and walked toward the exit. Timur fell in step beside me, Drew and Damir flanking us. Behind me, I heard the first scream, muffled by the gag but still audible. High and desperate. It cut through the warehouse like a knife.
Then another scream. Longer. Wetter.
The door shut behind us before the third one started.
Outside, the night air was cool against my skin. I could still smell rust and blood, could still feel the ache in my knuckles where they’d split against Sebastian’s face. But beneath it all was something else.
Relief.
Satisfaction.
I pulled out my phone as we walked to the cars. No missed calls. Barbara was safe at home, probably asleep by now. Our child growing inside her, protected and loved in a way she’d never been before I claimed her as mine.
Vladimir’s voice echoed in my mind, the promise I’d made two years ago when he let me move to Chicago. Don’t kill anyone.
Technically, I hadn’t.
I smiled as I slid into the driver’s seat, the engine purring to life beneath my hands. Behind us, the warehouse stood silent except for the muffled sounds of justice being served. Los Zetas would take their time. They were professionals when it came to pain.
Sebastian would die slowly. Painfully. Exactly as Vladimir had wanted—a death that would serve as a warning to anyone who thought they could steal from the Bratva and live.
And I’d kept my promise. I hadn’t killed him.
I’d just delivered him to people who would.
Drew’s voice crackled through my earpiece. “Clean?”
“Clean,” I confirmed.
Timur grunted from the SUV behind me. “Vladimir will be pleased.”
He would be. The money was returned. The traitor was punished. Barbara was safe. Our child would grow up without Sebastian’s shadow hanging over them. No blackmail. No threats. No poison.
Just us.
I drove through the empty streets, Chicago’s skyline glittering in the distance like a promise. Somewhere in that sprawl of light and steel, my wife was sleeping. Our future was growing. Everything I’d fought for, everything I’d sacrificed, had led to this moment.
Douglas—Sebastian—whatever name he’d worn when he’d betrayed me—was finally paying the price. And I was going home.
The smile stayed on my face the entire drive.