Page 25

Epilogue: A Week Later

Mikhail

I step over the last bodyguard's corpse, his blood pooling into the Persian rug like spilled wine.

Vanya moves like a shadow beside me, his breathing controlled despite the carnage we've left in our wake.

Three floors of Petrov's mansion, and not one of his men proved worthy of the bullets we put in them.

The silence now feels almost sacred—a cathedral of death that we've built with our bare hands and loaded guns.

I pause outside the mahogany doors of what I know to be Vlad's office, my fingers tracing the cold steel of my Makarov. Through the crack beneath the door, warm light spills out, and I can hear the faint scratch of pen on paper. The bastard doesn't even know his empire is bleeding out around him.

"Ready?" Vanya's whisper carries the weight of years of loyalty, of shared kills, of brotherhood forged in fire.

I don't answer with words. Instead, I kick the door open with enough force to splinter the frame, my gun already trained on the man behind the ornate desk.

Vlad Petrov looks up from his ledger, his pale eyes widening for just a fraction of a second before that familiar arrogance slides back into place like armor.

"Mikhail Zhukov," he says, setting down his fountain pen with deliberate calm. "I was wondering when you'd come calling."

The scent of expensive cologne and fear mingles in the air between us, thick as smoke.

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, his sons, 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.

I shrug, the weight of my gun comfortable in my hand. "Call him. Ask him yourself." I nod to the phone on his desk, knowing he won't reach for it. Knowing he can't risk being wrong.

The silence stretches between us, thick with possibilities. Outside, rain begins to patter against the windows, nature's quiet applause for the drama unfolding within these walls.

"What do you want?" Vlad finally asks, his voice cracking slightly. "Money? Territory? Name it."

I lean in close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. "I want you to know fear, Vlad. The kind Alina felt when your men broke into our home. I want you to taste desperation like Kira did when your lackeys cornered her."

His eyes widen fractionally. "The girl wasn't supposed to be harmed. That was never?—"

"Save it," I cut him off, disgust churning in my gut. "Your intentions mean nothing against your actions. You know you wouldn’t have let my wife live."

I straighten, stepping back just enough to see his whole face, to memorize the moment. "You know what the difference is between us, Vlad? I would die for my family. You won't even live for yours."

His hand moves suddenly—a desperate lunge for the drawer where I know he keeps a revolver. Before his fingers can touch the handle, my bullet catches him in the shoulder, spinning him back into his chair with a howl of pain.

"That was discourteous," I say, my voice eerily calm even to my own ears. "I wasn't finished speaking."

Blood blossoms through his crisp white shirt, a crimson flower unfurling in slow motion. He clutches the wound, his breath coming in short, pained gasps.

"Mikhail," he manages, voice strained. "Be reasonable. We can work something out."

"Like you worked things out with the Novikovs?" I ask, circling behind him.

I press the barrel of my gun against the back of his head, feeling him tremble. The power is intoxicating—this moment of perfect control, of justice balanced on a knife's edge.

"Please," he whispers, and the word sounds foreign on his tongue. "My children?—"

“You don’t give a damn about your children or your wife. It’s too late to have a heart. You won’t be needing it anymore.”

I nod to Vanya. He moves with practiced efficiency, securing Vlad's wrists to the chair arms with zip ties that bite into his flesh. The sharp plastic clicks as they lock into place.

"Your children will be fine," I say, holstering my gun. "Better than fine, actually. They'll grow up without a monster for a father."

Vlad struggles against his restraints, blood seeping through his expensive shirt. "You're making a mistake, Mikhail. There are things you don't understand—alliances that will crumble when I'm gone."

"Let them crumble." I remove my jacket, folding it carefully over the back of a leather armchair. The room is warm, the scent of copper hanging heavy in the air. "Some things deserve to fall."

Vanya sets a black duffel on the desk, unzipping it with deliberate slowness. The metallic gleam of tools catches the lamplight—pliers, knives, a blowtorch. Instruments of confession. Of retribution.

"You don't have to watch this part, Misha," Vanya says, his voice soft despite the violence his hands promise. "I can handle it."

But I shake my head, rolling up my sleeves. "No. I need to be here for this."

Vlad's eyes widen as understanding dawns. His bravado finally cracks, revealing the coward beneath. "Wait—wait! I can give you names! The people who helped me, the ones who betrayed you!"

"I already know their names," I tell him, selecting a pair of pliers from the bag. The metal is cold against my palm, heavy with purpose. "But you're going to confirm them anyway."

The next hour passes in a symphony of screams and confessions.

Vlad breaks easily—too easily for a man who has caused so much pain.

He gives up his contacts, his hidden accounts, and the names of every traitor within my father's organization.

With each revelation, my suspicions are confirmed.

The conspiracy runs deeper than I imagined, touching people I've trusted for years.

Through it all, Vanya takes meticulous notes, his expression never changing. This is business to him—necessary, if unpleasant. For me, each scream is a balm on wounds that have festered for too long.

When Vlad has nothing left to give but whimpers, I clean my hands on a monogrammed handkerchief I find on his desk. The white silk comes away stained crimson.

"Do you want to know something, Vlad?" I lean close to his ear, his blood hot against my skin. "I lied earlier. My father doesn't know I'm here. This isn't business—it's personal, just like you said."

His one remaining eye widens, bloodshot and desperate.

"But he'll understand when I tell him what you've done. What you planned to do." I straighten, nodding to Vanya. "We're finished here."

Vanya draws his gun, the silencer already attached. "Any last words for him, Misha?"

I consider the broken man before me. In the end, Vlad Petrov was nothing but a greedy coward who reached too far. It's not worth the elaborate speeches I've rehearsed in my darkest moments.

"No," I say finally. "Nothing he deserves to hear."

The silenced shot is anticlimactic—a soft bang that barely disturbs the room's heavy silence. Vlad's head slumps forward, his secrets and sins finally silenced.

I feel... nothing. Not the satisfaction I expected nor the weight of another death on my conscience. Just emptiness where vengeance once burned.

"We need to go," Vanya says, already packing up our tools. "The staff will return by morning."

I nod, slipping my jacket back on. "Make it look like a rival hit. The Sicilians, maybe."

"Already planned for it." Vanya's efficiency is comforting, a constant in my chaotic world. "Listen, Misha, we need to talk about the next steps."

"Next steps?" I ask, my mind already drifting to Kira, to the warmth waiting for me at home.

"I need to head back to LA. My men have been without me for too long." He zips the bag closed, wiping down surfaces as he speaks. "Then Mexico City. Inez Bravo expects a personal thank you for her assistance with Petrov’s plans. Her help wasn't cheap."

"When do you leave?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Tomorrow." Vanya's expression softens slightly. "No rest for the wicked."

I cast one final glance at Vlad's body, already beginning to cool in the air-conditioned room. Another ghost to add to my collection. Another debt paid in full.

"No, but you’ll be missed.” I follow Vanya toward the door.

The night air hits my face as we slip out through the service entrance.

Somewhere across the city, Kira waits, and for a moment, I allow myself to imagine a different life—one where I am simply a man returning to the woman he loves, not a killer with responsibilities heavier than most men could bear.

But such fantasies are dangerous in my world. They make you soft and vulnerable. And I cannot afford to be either.

Not yet. Not until everyone who threatens what's mine is in the ground.