Page 47

I step deeper into the room, my boots silent against the marble floor. Vanya flanks to my right, cutting off any hope of escape through the French doors that lead to the balcony. The city lights beyond cast fractured shadows across Vlad's face, making him look like the broken man he's about to become.
"Expecting someone else?" My voice carries the weight of every sleepless night, every nightmare that's haunted me since Alina's screams echoed through our bedroom. "Maybe one of your boys downstairs? They're indisposed."
Vlad's fingers drum once against the leather desk pad before he stills them. Even now, he's calculating—measuring distances, weighing odds. It's what keeps men like us alive, this constant mathematics of survival. But his equation is missing too many variables.
"You always were dramatic, Misha." He leans back in his chair with an annoying smirk. "Breaking into a man's home, tracking blood through his halls. Your father taught you better manners than this."
The mention of my father sends ice through my veins, but I don't let it show. Instead, I move close enough to see the rapid pulse jumping in his throat.
"My father isn't here." I press the barrel of my gun against his temple, feeling him flinch despite his bravado. "Just you, me, and a conversation that's long overdue."
His breath comes faster now, shallow and desperate, though he tries to mask it with that practiced smirk. "So talk."
"The Novikovs are dead." I let the words hang in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. "Every last one of them. Viktor, hissons, even that pretty little nephew he was so fond of. They died slow, Vlad. They died knowing it was because of you."
Something flickers behind his eyes—not remorse, but calculation. Always calculating.
"You think killing my allies frightens me? There are always more?—"
"Your wife." The words cut through his bravado like a blade through silk. "Katarina, isn't it? And your children—little Alex must be what, eight now? And your daughter, Anya. Such a beautiful girl."
Now I have his attention. The mask slips completely, revealing the animal beneath. His hands grip the arms of his chair until his knuckles turn white.
"You wouldn't dare."
I lean closer, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "I would dare everything, Vlad. You took Alina and threatened my Kira. Do you believe I have more sympathy than you?"
The silence stretches between us, heavy with promise and threat. Through the windows, the city continues its restless dance, unaware that a man's fate is being decided in this room of shadows and spilled blood.
"But I'm feeling generous tonight." I straighten, the gun never wavering. "One life for three. Yours for theirs. Choose."
Vlad's laugh starts low in his chest, a humorless rumble that grows until he's showing his teeth like a cornered wolf.
"You think I'd die for them?" He shakes his head, something cold and reptilian slithering behind his eyes. "Katarina is replaceable. The children, too. I can always make more family, Mikhail. That's the difference between us—you mourn your dead wife like she was irreplaceable. Pathetic."
The rage that floods through me is white-hot, a lightning strike that momentarily blinds me. I press the barrel harder against Vlad's temple, feeling the give of his flesh.
"Wrong answer," I whisper.
Vanya shifts behind me, his presence a steadying force.
"Your father would be disappointed," Vlad says, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "Dmitri understands business. This—" he gestures vaguely at the blood on my sleeve, "—this is personal. Messy."
"It became personal when you ordered the hit on my wife." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "When you threatened Kira."
Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of genuine surprise before it's smoothed away. "So the rumors are true. The ice-cold Zhukov heir has fallen for his arranged bride." His lips curl into a sneer. "How predictable.”
"You see, Vlad, I've learned something important." I circle his desk slowly, savoring the moment. "A man who doesn't value his family doesn't deserve to live."
Vlad's eyes dart to the door, then to Vanya, calculating escape routes that don't exist. The knowledge settles over him like a shroud.
"You won't get away with this," he says, but the words sound hollow even to him. "Your father?—"
"My father sent me." The lie slides easily from my lips, tasting of opportunity and vengeance. "He sends his regards."
I watch the color drain from Vlad's face as the implications sink in. If Dmitri Zhukov has sanctioned this, there will be no repercussions, no blood debt to pay. Just another power shift in the endless game we play.
"You're lying," he whispers, but uncertainty bleeds through his words.