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And soon, neither will the man who caused it.

* * *

The noon air is thick the following day with the stench of blood and filth. The distant grunts of pigs echo through the silence, their restless shuffling filling the space between the living and the dead.

I stand at the edge of Konstantin’s pig farm, my fingers curled so tightly around Cillian’s that my nails bite into his skin. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, his grip tightens, anchoring me as I wait for the moment I’ve longed for.

The moment my father dies.

He kneels before us, wrists bound behind him, his cruel eyes locking on to mine with a twisted sneer. Even now, facing death, there is no regret in his gaze. No remorse for the wife he slaughtered. No grief for the son he led to death.

Only hate.

“Look at you,” he spits, voice rough but dripping with contempt. “Standing there, thinking you’re strong because they protect you.” His eyes flick to Konstantin, then to Cillian. “You’re weak, just like your mother. Just like that little bastard brother of yours.”

Rage surges through me so violently, I take a step forward. But Cillian is already there shielding me, his body taut with barely restrained fury.

“You say one more fucking word about her, and I’ll carve your tongue out myself,” he growls.

My father smirks, but before he can open his mouth again, Konstantin steps in.

“Enough talking for you, Uncle.” He rolls up his sleeves, exposing his tattooed forearms.

My father’s expression flickers just for a second. A sliver of fear seeps through the arrogance, the realization settling in that this isn’t just a death sentence. It’s an execution. And it won’t be quick.

Konstantin doesn’t rush. He starts slowly, methodically, cracking his knuckles before delivering the first punch. My father spits blood, but laughs, even as Konstantin delivers another blow, then another.

The laughter fades when Konstantin pulls out a blade and drags it across his chest, carving slow, deliberate lines into his flesh.

The minutes stretch into eternity. My father’s body is painted red, his screams mixing with the night air. He thrashes, but there’s nowhere to go. No one to save him.

Konstantin steps back, breathing hard, his eyes cold and calculating as he signals to Aleksei, who grins and drags over a chainsaw. The sound roars through the night, a deafening, merciless noise that drowns out everything else.

My father’s eyes go wide. He thrashes his arms harder, desperation finally taking over as the blade inches toward his leg.

“Nyet—podozhdi!”No—wait!

His screams are unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Blood sprays as Konstantin drives the blade through flesh and bone, severing his leg at the knee. His body convulses, agony twisting his face.

He tries to crawl, but Konstantin is already moving, taking the other leg. More screams. More blood.

I turn away and press my face into Cillian’s chest, nausea churning in my gut. His hand slides to the back of my head, holding me close, shielding me from the worst of it. But the sound—the wet, sickening noise of flesh being torn apart, the fading gurgles of a man drowning in his own pain—it seeps into my marrow.

By the time I look again, my father is barely more than a torso. His body is slumped, his head rolling to the side. Blood pools in the dirt, thick and endless. His lips move, but no words come out. Just a pathetic, broken gasp.

And then…nothing.

He’s gone.

I should feel relief. I should feel triumphant. But all I feel is empty.

Gregory is still dead. My mother is still gone. Nothing changes that.

But it’s not over yet. Aleksei reappears, dragging two more figures into the dim light.

Ludmilla and Sonya.

Sonya snivels, her face streaked with tears, while Ludmilla stands tall, expression hard despite the bruises marring her skin.