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OLEG

The setting sun streaks across the sky like a vengeful comet.

I see vermillion splattered along the edge of the horizon. Scarlet. Crimson. Garnet and more. Each new shade I see, I imagine to be the blood of a different Martinek brother.

Look at me… Oriana had predicted it early on.

“ You strut around like you’re the top dog, ” she said to me once. “ But deep down, you’re a poet, Oleg Pavlov. ”

She turned out to be right—I am a poet.

And blood is the medium I choose to paint in.

“We’re coming up on them, brother,” Artem says from my right shoulder. “It’s open water, so they’re going to see us coming.”

“Let them.” I glance back over my shoulder to the four men standing at my back, just in front of enough firepower to blow up Moby fucking Dick. “You boys ready? We can’t afford mistakes.”

All four stand at attention, their eyes homed in on the horizon, at the tiny dot in the distance that’s getting bigger and bigger with each passing second.

The music hits us first. The mudaks have cranked up the rap so loud that the echoes send ripples across the water. I can practically see the sea life racing for their earmuffs.

Just another reason to kill them all.

“Rifle!” I call, throwing my palm out.

The cool metal lands against my hand.

I raise it and squint down the laser scope. Through it, I can make out figures hunched over a table on the bow of the yacht.

As far as I can see, no one has noticed that there’s a speedboat slicing through the water towards them.

If they’re truly this blind, they deserve to die.

“What’s the status?” I ask Artem, who’s got his binoculars out.

“I can see both brothers,” he informs me and the crew. “And four others. All look sloshed off their asses. They’re fucking clueless.”

“Not for long,” I say, taking aim. “Soon, they’ll be brainless.”

With four quick squeezes of the trigger, I shoot four holes into the boat’s hull, removing any chance of a quick getaway.

“We’ve been spotted,” Artem declares as their vessel lurches to a side.

The men jump to their feet unsteadily, their bodies turning in our direction. We’re close enough now that I can see the vacant, slack-jawed expressions on their faces turn to shock.

Then fury.

They start scrambling around, trying to get to their guns. But I’m already one step ahead of them.

If they want firepower, I’ll give them firepower.

I hand off the rifle and pick up the pièce de résistance, the finishing touch of my little revenge cruise: an industrial flamethrower.

Their fury fades.

Their fear comes in like the last tide they’ll ever see.

There’ll be no final words for any of them. But at least their bodies will serve the ocean—it’s all part of the circle of life, after all.

The poetry continues, it seems.

With one final smirk, I unleash the flamethrower. Fire, wild and pure, bursts forth with a fury, reaching twice the distance as a normal flamethrower and with twice the power. The men scramble, darting for cover as though they can escape my wrath.

But as heat bites down around us with dripping jaws, I hear their screams.

Then I smell it—familiar and punctuated with memory of loss—burning flesh.

I can see my sins dancing across the water’s surface, dark in the shadow of that sleek yacht that’s now alive with fire. But I don’t feel possessed by them anymore.

It’s taken almost two decades, but at last, I realize—fire cleanses all sins.

As the flames swallow my enemies whole, I recognize a shift in my soul. Before Sutton, violence was business. Cold, calculated, a means to victory. It was a move on a chessboard, each one drawing me closer and closer to the top spot, making a king out of me.

But now, it’s different.

There’s a primal need to this violence. A personal vendetta that requires an answer.

I don’t care about business or power or politics.

The only thing that matters anymore is Sutton.

The need to destroy anyone who threatens her burns hotter than any explosion any man could engineer.

With sweat dripping down the sides of my face, I hand the flamethrower over to one of my men. Then I stand back to admire my handiwork.

The fire still curls around the other yacht, as black, wispy tentacles reach for the sky. Heat still rains down on us like confetti at Satan’s parade.

Artem steps to my side. “Just got word from your sniper. It’s done.” He holds up his phone, displaying a picture of Matvey Martinek on a tiled floor, his head angled to the side, his eyes staring unseeing into the camera, a bullet wound puncturing his forehead in a neat red circle.

“It’s done,” I murmur with finality. It’s finally fucking over. “Move out,” I order, raising my hand.

Our work is complete. And thanks to my tech, no one will ever know we were here.

I have no desire to linger. No desire to revel in this victory. The only thing I want now is to get home as fast as I can.

Because I have a woman who needs me.

And promises to keep.