Page 34 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

She's right. Sergey is already destroyed and broken beyond repair.

Killing him would be an act of emotion, of rage, and the old ways that have governed my life for so long.

But I've already won. His betrayal has been exposed, his co-conspirators have been eliminated, and his power has been stripped away.

What remains is just cleanup. The disposal of a man who's already dead in every way that matters.

I look away from her and look back at Sergey. Slowly, I lower the torch back onto the table.

Viktor raises a brow but remains silent. He knows better than to question me in front of her, knows that the dynamics of power have shifted in ways that go beyond simple hierarchy. He's seen how Elena has changed me, how her presence has introduced new variables into the equation of my leadership.

“You're not dying today,” I tell Sergey, my tone the finality of a judge pronouncing a sentence. “But you're not walking out of here the same man either.”

He exhales a shuddering breath, relief flashing across his face. For a moment, hope dares to show itself in his eyes like a man who's been granted an unexpected reprieve from death.

“That wasn't mercy,” I growl, stepping closer until I'm looming over him again. “That was Elena.”

The distinction is important. He needs to understand that his life has been spared not because he deserves it, not because his crimes are forgiven, but because the woman I love has chosen to save him from my wrath.

He owes his continued existence to her compassion, her wisdom, and ability to see beyond the moment to the larger picture of what we're building together.

Elena walks out, and I nod to Artur and Viktor.

They haul Sergey to his feet, his legs barely able to support his weight, and drag him to the center of the room.

His shoes scrape against the concrete, leaving dark marks on the floor.

They force him to his knees again, positioning him under the harsh light where every detail of what's about to happen will be visible.

Artur unbuttons Sergey's shirt, revealing the tattoos inked across his chest and arms. Each mark tells a story, representing a moment of commitment, a pledge of loyalty that once meant everything.

The emblems of brotherhood, of shared purpose, of the blood oath he swore to me and to the organization that gave his life meaning.

I meet Sergey's gaze, seeing the understanding dawn in his eyes.

He knows what's coming now and knows that death would have been kinder than what I'm about to do to him.

His breathing becomes more labored, more desperate, as Sergey realizes the consequences of what he's betrayed for the empty promises of a woman who never truly wanted him.

I nod again, the gesture final and irrevocable.

Viktor takes the iron from the brazier, its tip glowing red-hot, almost white with heat.

The metal has been heating since we brought Sergey down here, building temperature until it reaches the perfect point for what needs to be done.

He brings it forward with steady hands, the tool of erasure that will strip away every mark of brotherhood and every symbol of belonging.

Sergey tries to move away, his body's instinctive reaction to the approaching pain, but Artur holds him steady with iron-strong hands.

There's no escape now, no reprieve from the judgment that's about to be carved into his flesh.

The iron hovers inches from his skin, its heat radiating outward like the breath of a dragon.

The hiss of searing flesh echoes through the chamber.

The scent of burning skin thickens the air, acrid and nauseating.

Sergey screams, his voice hoarse and animalistic, stripped of all humanity by the pure agony of the moment.

Viktor burns each tattoo with the precision of a surgeon, erasing the symbols one by one, and branding him as an outcast until no trace of brotherhood remains on Sergey's skin.

When it's done, Sergey collapses in a heap, his body convulsing with residual pain and shock. He twitches and moans, his consciousness fading like smoke from a snuffed candle.

I stare down at him, this broken thing that was once a man I trusted with my life. He's barely recognizable now, stripped of dignity and identity, reduced to his most basic elements. Pain. Shame. Regret.

“You're no longer Bratva,” I pronounce, my words delivered with the force of excommunication. “You'll find no refuge in Russia, no protection in Europe. Your name will be spoken only in warning. A ghost in the dark. A cautionary tale.”

The sentence is worse than death. In our world, identity is everything, brotherhood is sacred, and belonging is the difference between life and meaningless existence. I've stripped him of all of it, made him a non-person, a warning to others who might consider betrayal.

He doesn't respond. He's barely conscious, his mind retreating from the pain and the horror of what he's become.

I turn to Artur, who's waiting just outside the doorway. He steps forward at my gesture, ready to receive his orders.

“Prepare the transport,” I instruct. “He's going to Siberia. That old settlement near the permafrost. No cells or comforts. Just a shovel, a coat, and the choice to work or die.”

Artur nods, understanding immediately. The settlement is a place of exile, a frozen hell where men go to disappear.

It's not a prison in any traditional sense, but a place where survival itself becomes the punishment.

Sergey will have to work to live, earning every breath, every meal, and every moment of warmth.

It's a slow death, a gradual erosion of everything that makes life worth living.

And that's the real punishment, the true justice. Death would be an escape, a release from the pain of understanding what he's thrown away. But living with the knowledge of his betrayal, existing in exile with the memory of what he used to be, that's a fate worse than any death I could devise.

The door slams shut behind us as we leave him in the dark, alone with his pain and his regret. Whatever happens to Sergey now in the frozen wastes of Siberia is no longer my concern. He's been judged, sentenced, and removed from my world as surely as if he'd never existed.

Later that night, I stand on the terrace outside my study. The sky above is lit with stars, oblivious to everything that happened beneath them. The city breathes with its own rhythm, unaware of the justice that was served in the darkness below its streets.

Elena joins me quietly, her presence immediately transforming the atmosphere from solitary contemplation to one of shared peace. She slips her hand into mine, her fingers intertwining with mine in a gesture that speaks of partnership, unity, and two people who've chosen to face the world together.

“Do you regret it?” she asks, her voice soft against the night air.

The question probes deeper than simple curiosity. She's asking if I've compromised myself or shown weakness that could be exploited. If I can live with the choice I've made and accept the consequences of mercy in a world that rarely rewards such decisions.

“No.” I look down at her, brushing a hand over her belly where our child grows. “Because I'm not just a pakhan anymore.”

The words signal a transformation, an evolution from one thing to another. I'm still the head of the Rostov Bratva, still the man who makes the hard choices and bears the terrible responsibilities. But I'm also something more now, encompassing and transcending the role I've played for so long.

She leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder, her warmth seeping through the fabric of my shirt. “No. You're something better.”

I hold her close in a comfortable silence.

Tomorrow will bring more battles, more choices, more moments where I'll have to decide between the old ways and the new path Elena has shown me.

But tonight, I've chosen something stronger than vengeance, and more lasting than revenge.

I've chosen legacy. The future over the past, hope over hatred, love over the endless cycle of violence that has defined my world for too long.

And in making that choice, I've found something I never expected to discover in the darkness of my life. I've found peace.