Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Sergei
The warehouse sat at the far end of the Brooklyn docks, right up against the river. One of those seventies relics—brick crumbling, iron door rusted to a dull red-brown. Winter wind cut through the cracks, carrying out the smell: damp, mold, motor oil mixed with salt water.
Bogdan shoved the door open. The hinges groaned.
Three men were tied to posts in the center, hands bound behind their backs, ankles lashed to the chair legs.
The chairs were chained to bolts in the concrete.
One of them had struggled when they brought him in last night—his nose was broken, blood dried to a dark purple crust. All three kept their heads down, but when I walked in, the one on the left tensed.
He knew who was coming.
I stopped in front of them, hands in my pockets, and scanned left to right.
Professionals. Bogdan had that right. All three, similar builds. Calluses on their knuckles—trained. Last night, they'd slipped past my men's blockade, their movements and exit routes planned in advance. Not street thugs. Someone had groomed them.
"Who sent you?"
Silence.
The one on the right lifted his head. Eyes clouded but jaw set tight.
The kind of tight that said he'd made his peace.
The middle one kept his head down, breathing heavier than the other two—he'd hit something during the escape last night.
Probably cracked ribs. The one on the left stayed rigid, wouldn't look at me.
I waited ten seconds.
Quiet.
Just the wind threading through the wall cracks and the distant rumble of a ship horn on the river.
I took off my coat and handed it to Bogdan.
I didn't need to be here.
Bogdan had more patience for this sort of thing, more systematic technique. Usually, I just waited for results. Over the past twelve years, I'd delegated most things—including this. Let the right people do the job. I only needed the final answer.
But today I came.
Last night—those words spray-painted on Ella's wall, the chemical stink still in the air, Bogdan telling me their target had been to take her—all of it had been sitting in my chest since then.
Not anger. Colder than anger. Heavier. The kind of thing that clouded judgment.
But standing here now, I had no intention of pushing it down.
I walked toward the one on the left.
He finally looked up, met my eyes for a split second, then looked away. His jaw tightened.
"I'll ask one more time," I said quietly. "Who sent you?"
Still nothing.
I leaned down, grabbed his collar, and yanked the chair back half a foot so his weight hung off the backrest. Then I placed my other hand just below his ribs—not pressing. Just resting there. Just enough pressure for him to feel it.
A low, strangled sound came from his throat. He tried to hold it in. Didn't quite manage.
"I've been doing this for thirty years," I said. "I've lost count of how many batches of you I've seen. But I remember how long it took each one to talk." I paused. "Fastest was twenty-two seconds. Want to try breaking that record?"
The one in the middle with the bad ribs—his breathing started to falter.
I left the guy on the left and moved to the middle one. Crouched down. Met him at eye level.
He lifted his head. Sweat at his temples—not from heat, the cold kind that came with pain. Lips pale.
I didn't say anything. Just looked at him.
He lasted about fifteen seconds.
"Karlov," he rasped. "Karlov arranged it."
The muscles of the other two tensed simultaneously.
"Purpose."
"Grab her," he said. "Take the woman, don't kill her, hold her somewhere and wait for orders."
"Wait for what orders?"
"I don't know. We just execute. There's another team handling what comes next."
"Where's the other team?"
"I don't know, I swear, our orders only covered this part." He sucked in a breath. "Contact info was a burner. They torched it right after."
I stood there for a moment, turning it over in my head.
Karlov.
Viktor's enforcer. Efficient, never showed his face. The kind of man who stayed buried behind results. If he was involved, it meant Viktor wasn't using outside resources this time. This was the core chain.
"What else is Viktor planning?"
"I really don't know," he said. "We don't touch that level. Karlov gives orders, we execute. That's it."
I watched his eyes. He didn't look away. Fear and desperation swimming in them, pleading.
I stood and walked back to Bogdan.
Bogdan handed me my coat, voice low. "Want me to keep going?"
"There's nothing left to get," I said. "Clean it up."
"Understood."
"Make it clean."
"Yes, sir."
I turned and walked out.
Cold air hit my face, mixed with the briny smell of seawater. The East River was close—I could hear a ship's horn in the distance.
I lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
Behind me, the door shut, cutting off the sounds inside—begging, sobbing, gunshots.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then silence.
I leaned against the warehouse wall, staring at the lights on the East River, and kept smoking.
The smoke dissolved into the cold air almost immediately.
Five minutes later, Bogdan came out.
"Done," he said. "Bodies will be gone by tomorrow."
"Good."
"Your shirt—"
I looked down.
Blood spatter on the white shirt. A few drops on the chest, some on the cuffs.
"You have a spare in the car?"
"Yes."
We walked to the car parked behind the warehouse. Bogdan pulled a bag from the trunk—fresh clothes. White shirt, charcoal vest, tie.
I changed in the backseat, shoved the bloody shirt into the bag.
"Burn it."
"Yes, sir."
Bogdan pulled out a bottle of cologne and handed it to me.
I sprayed it on my neck, wrists, shirt collar. Cedar scent covered the metallic tang.
"Anything else?" Bogdan asked.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
"No."
"What's next?"
"Keep eyes on Viktor," I said. "Double surveillance on Karlov. I want every move he makes."
"What about Dmitri?"
"Him too," I said. "Especially any contact between him and Viktor. Don't miss a single meeting."
"Understood."
"And," I paused, "dig into Viktor's finances. He's moving money. Find out what he's planning."
"Yes, sir."
I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes.
Tonight's interrogation confirmed my suspicion—Viktor wanted to kidnap Ella and use her as leverage against me.
But that was just step one.
He had to have a backup plan. Something bigger.
I had to find it before he made his move.
"Boss," Bogdan turned from the driver's seat, "straight back to the penthouse?"
I checked my watch—10:50 p.m.
"Yeah."
I pushed the door open, expecting darkness.
But the living room light was on.
Ella was curled up on the couch, legs crossed beneath her, design sketches spread across the coffee table.
A few sheets stacked, a marker tucked behind her ear.
She was hunched over a drawing, face focused, lips slightly pursed, her right hand moving the pen across the page.
Every so often, she'd stop, tilt her head, then keep going.
Misha was sprawled at her feet. She lifted her head at the sound of the door, tail thumping twice. Didn't move.
Ella looked up.
Our eyes met. She froze for a second, then pulled the marker from behind her ear and set it on the table. Sat up straighter.
"Late," she said.
"Something came up." I set my keys on the tray by the entrance and took off my coat.
She glanced at me but didn't press. Her eyes dropped back to the sketches.
I sat on a stool at the bar, loosened the top button of my tie, and leaned back.
The only sounds in the room were her pen scratching across paper, the occasional rustle of a page turning, the faint hum of traffic outside.
I just sat there. Didn't say anything.
The weight that had been pressing on my back all day started to sink, settling somewhere deep enough that it stayed down for now.
After a while, my gaze drifted to the stack of sketches in front of her.
The top one was a design for a small coat—clean lines, detailed notes on the collar and cuffs, margin crammed with revision notes. Small handwriting, but every mark deliberate.
"For Misha?" I asked.
She followed my gaze. "Yeah. Testing a new cut. I've redone this collar three times, and it still feels off."
"What's off?"
"Proportion." She handed me the sheet. "See here? The collar's too wide. With this sleeve it makes the whole thing top-heavy. But if I shrink it, it looks suffocating. Like he's wearing a bag."
I took the paper and studied it.
Lines were sharp. Her spatial instincts were solid. The problem was exactly where she said—not size, but structure. It needed a transition.
"Here," I tapped the point where the collar met the shoulder seam. "If you extend this outward and add a small fold-over collar, width about this much," I gestured at a blank space, "you can keep the current opening, but visually it'll create a natural gather. Won't look loose."
She stared at the spot, brow furrowed. Then it smoothed out.
"Yes," she said, her voice carrying that certainty that came when something clicked. "Right there. A fold-over. How did I miss that?" She took the paper back, marker flying across the collar area with quick notes. "That way I don't even have to change the sleeve cut—"
Her voice picked up as she spoke, something bright threading through it.
She looked up, eyes still lit with that clarity. Blue-green, sharp under the living room light.
I thought of the first time she'd talked about her pet clothing brand in my office—standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, coffee in hand, voice gaining momentum as she spoke, eyes getting brighter, like she was convincing herself as much as me.
"You'll make it," I said.
Her hand stopped. She looked up at me.
"Your brand," I said. "You'll make it."
She stared at me for a long time. Something complicated in her expression—layers I couldn't quite parse.
Then she slowly set the sketch down, hands resting on her knees. Didn't speak.
"Sergei," she said softly.
"Yeah."
"Today," she paused, then just said, "you had a hard day."
My throat moved.
"No."
"Yes," she said. "When you walked in—your eyes. I know that look."
I didn't argue.
She sat on the couch, the coffee table between us, Manhattan's lights streaming in through the window, catching the edge of her silhouette. Her auburn hair fell loose over her shoulders—she hadn't tied it up today. Softer than usual.
I didn't know who moved first.
Just that at some point, the distance closed. Close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. Then her hand was on the back of mine, palm warm.
I leaned down and kissed her.
Slow. Gentle. Not like any of the times before. Not the desperate surge after three months of restraint, not the impulsive heat in a bar with voices pressing in around us. Something else—like I was pressing everything from today into this one motion, and then letting it go.
She kissed me back, fingers curling into my collar. That familiar grip.
Her sleeve nudged one of the sketches crooked on the table. Misha whimpered once from under the couch, then went quiet.
Outside, Manhattan glowed, sleepless and relentless, same as every other night.