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The larger issue— how Novikov knew about my son— remains. Someone close to me has betrayed my trust. Someone with access to my most closely guarded secret.

The list of possibilities is short and deeply troubling.

I reach the car, sliding into the backseat. Sasha meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, noting my split lip, my missing disguise, the tension in my shoulders.

“Drive,” I tell him. “We’re leaving.”

He pulls away from the curb without question, merging smoothly into traffic. Only when we’re several blocks away does he speak.

“Should I be concerned about pursuit?”

“Not immediately.” I wipe a smear of blood from my chin. “It will appear to be an accident. For now.”

Sasha nods, accepting my assessment without further questions. His loyalty is one of the few certainties in my life.

As we drive through the darkening city, my thoughts return to Bobik. To his vulnerability. To the fact that someone— perhaps someone I trust— has placed him in danger. And to Stella, waiting for me at Blackwood Manor.

I didn’t come to The Capitol Lounge intending to kill Sergei Novikov. But intentions mean nothing in the face of results.

He threatened my son. Now he’s dead.

And anyone else who makes the same mistake will meet the same fate.

Chapter Eighteen

Aleksei

The punching bag swings wildly as I land another blow.

My knuckles burn despite the wraps, skin splitting beneath the protective layers. I welcome the pain. It’s clean. Simple. Unlike the mess I’ve created.

I throw another punch, harder this time. The chain creaks overhead, threatening to give way. In my mind, I see Novikov’s face again— the shock in his eyes as his head hit the porcelain sink. The sound. That wet, final crack that ended his life and started a war.

My fist connects again with the punching bag. Again. And again.

Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes. My lungs burn. My muscles scream. Still not enough to drown out the thoughts.

I grab the bag to steady it, resting my forehead against the leather for a moment. The gym’s silence wraps around me, broken only by my ragged breathing. Six hours since Novikov died. Four since I returned to Blackwood Manor. Almost three since I started punishing my body in this room.

My phone vibrates on the nearby bench. I check the screen— cleanup crew. Time to be thePakhanagain.

“Speak,” I answer, voice clipped.

“Scene is clean.” The voice on the other end is equally terse. “Security footage wiped. Witnesses handled.”

“Police?”

“Ruling it an accident. Slipped and hit his head. Medical examiner confirmed.”

I nod, though he can’t see me. “The staff?”

“Paid off and silenced. No one saw anything unusual.”

“Good. Double the usual payment.” I end the call without waiting for acknowledgment.

One problem managed. A dozen more to go.

I dial Sasha next, unwrapping my hands as the phone rings.