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Nikolai

The call from Kirill comes at midnight. The phone buzzes, shaking the bedside table until I snatch it, already irritated.

"What?" I grunt into the receiver.

"Nikolai," Kirill says slowly. Even after years working for him, I’ve come to know there's never warmth in his voice, never familiarity. "Still having trouble sleeping, I see."

"Well, I didn’t until this call woke me," I grunt, sitting up and trying to blink away the tiredness. Kirill has never respected sleep. Or boundaries. Or anything, really.

"Ah, forgive me," he says dryly, clearly amused. "Next time, I'll be sure to schedule emergencies around your bedtime. Perhaps a lullaby before I hang up?"

"Funny," I say flatly, running a hand over my face. "What do you want?"

He chuckles, genuine amusement filtering through this time. "I heard you knocked out two of Yuri's teeth yesterday at the gym. Was this one of your regular rough sparring sessions or a personal vendetta?"

I smile despite myself, recalling Yuri sprawled on the mat, clutching his bleeding mouth. "He talks too much." The loudmouthed rookie Kirill hired last month, always bragging about his connections and flashing money around like some spoiled heir. Yuri's the type who thinks brute force alone can buy respect. "He was boasting again about running his own crew someday, hinting that he might replace me, eventually. Thought he'd test my patience in the ring. I reminded him why that's a bad idea."

“But you don’t exactly work for me. You work with me. You have your own security company. You’re your own boss.”

“Until you want me on a case. Then I’m not, right?”

Kirill’s smile is audible, but there’s no kindness in it. "Efficient as always." His approval comes wrapped in sarcasm, and I hear the unspoken truth beneath his words.

Independence is a privilege he allows me only when it suits him.

I built my security company from the ground up, carving it out of the violence and paranoia that haunts men like Kirill. The official business is all about high-profile protection. From securing estates to guarding politicians, and making sure shady deals don’t end in scandals. But the unofficial work? That’s for Kirill.

Disposing of bodies, silencing problems before they fester. It’s me Kirill calls when someone needs to vanish, whether that means dragging them out of their fortified mansions or digging bullets out of their skulls before dumping them where the city won’t care to find them.

I take out threats, eliminate loose ends, and erase evidence like it never existed. Sometimes it's men skimming from their businesses. Other times, it's competitors who thought themselves clever enough to cross him. And when the job is particularly messy, it's me who makes sure the blood gets cleaned up before the cops catch a whiff.

"Now, down to business.” The balminess disappears quickly, replaced by his usual impassive tone. I’ve learned from years of dealing with Kirill that whenever he speaks this way, the time for banter has passed. It’s how he signals the shift from camaraderie to cold, calculated business, reminding everyone—including me—that he's not just the man who brought us off the streets; he's the one who could easily throw us back out.

“Lev Antonov has been stealing directly from Phantom Lounge’s VIP rooms, taking cash straight from the tables, right under my surveillance cameras. The arrogance," Kirill spits the word, his voice dripping disdain.

I almost laugh, shaking my head. "Lev? You handpicked him yourself."

"Even I can be wrong, everyone makes mistakes," Kirill replies dryly. He pauses, and I picture him in his lavish study, swirling expensive vodka, staring out over the city.

"But that's why I have you."

"Lucky me," I mutter.

"I want you to do your job, Nikolai." His tone is harsh now, but then softens slightly, barely enough to notice. "I haven't forgotten who you were when I found you, boy. Or what you were willing to do to rise."

I tense as the memories start surfacing, like when I was eighteen, desperate and alone on the cold streets. My first boss, Dmitri, was my only hope when he found me. He offered me a job, money, and purpose. A way out. It came with blood and obedience, but it was still better than starving.

Dmitri taught me how to kill efficiently, from quick hits to clean disposals. He had me eliminating rivals, making bodies vanish like smoke. Dumped in rivers, burned beyond recognition, buried where no one would think to dig.

I was tied to him until he died, and Kirill came along with a better offer. More independence, a crew of my own, and something Dmitri would never provide—respect.

Then, with time, I developed my security company. Running high-profile operations for politicians and businessmen by day, and handling mafia contracts by night. A front as sleek as glass hiding something sharp and deadly underneath.

With Kirill, the work became more sophisticated. Recon jobs, handling leaks, and silencing informants before they could talk. Sometimes it was guarding shipments or breaking through enemy defenses, but mostly, it was the same blood-soaked work with a prettier coat of paint. Cleaning up after Kirill’s messes, or worse, erasing his enemies like they’d never existed.

But I still answered to him. His commands were just veiled orders, draped in the illusion of choice. Kirill liked to remind me that he gave me more than Dmitri ever could. And that debt, like all debts in this life, never really went away.

“I haven’t forgotten, either,” I say. “The jobs you’ve had me do. The people I’ve put in the ground for you.”

“And yet you’re still here. So, either you like the blood on your hands, or you’re too afraid to walk away. Which is it, Nikolai?”

I don’t answer. Because the truth is, it’s both.

"Now, as I was saying about Lev. My mistake was trusting him with the books. Yours will be if you don’t handle this swiftly."

"How much did he take?" I ask, already rising from bed, reaching for my shirt.

"Enough to disrespect me," Kirill snaps, his tone becoming harder. "Enough that competitors see this kind of disrespect, Nikolai, and they start believing I'm losing my grip. I won’t tolerate whispers. Not about me. And certainly not from traitors in my own ranks. I want him gone tonight, and make sure every person in our circle knows exactly why. Let his corpse remind everyone what happens when someone thinks they can outsmart me."

I pause, understanding exactly what he means. Reputation is everything to Kirill. "I'll handle it." I sigh. Lev is one of Kirill’s accountants, and despite the fact that they’ve been in the business longer than I have, I’ve always thought the man to be too soft, always twitchy. Men like him fold under pressure like paper.

"I know you will," Kirill says quietly, dangerously calm again. "Because I remember the hungry boy who gutted three men to prove he belonged. Show Lev Antonov exactly what kind of man I employ."

He hangs up without another word.

***

My investigation starts only a few minutes later. There is no time to waste, and I know it.

My contact at the bank provides the transfer records within the hour. Amateur work - the thief didn't even try to hide their digital footprint. I track the money to an account registered to Marcus Chen, one of his aliases, with the same birth records matching his real name.

As soon as I receive this information, it’s time to crack down.

Marcus/ Lev isn't home when I break in. Smart man. But he left in a hurry, leaving his drawers hanging open, and his clothes scattered. On his desk, a hastily cleared workspace tells me he knew I was coming.

"Run the plates on any vehicles registered to Marcus Chen," I tell Pavel over the phone. "Check traffic cams, toll records, everything."

While my team works, I search the apartment methodically. Personal documents, bank statements, a hidden burner phone.

Pavel calls back within the hour. "Got him. Security cam picked up his Lexus entering Morgan Hills twenty minutes ago. It is a nice neighborhood, the best to blend in."

"Address?"

"245 Sycamore Drive. Looks like it’s his sister's place."

I smile. People always run to their families in hard times.

Half an hour later, I'm driving through Lev's sister's neighborhood. It's a quiet, upper-class suburbia with wide driveways, trimmed lawns, and perfectly manicured hedges. It's not the place you'd expect someone stupid enough to skim from Kirill to hide.

The house is dark , its windows blank. My men, Pavel and Ivan, wait outside in the SUV.

"He’s not here," Pavel says as I approach.

"He couldn’t have gone far. I’m sure someone close to him warned him," I say, irritation rising. "Check the place again."

Pavel and Ivan slip inside. I stand by the vehicle with my arms crossed, watching the shadows of their flashlights dart through the windows.

The streets at this time are empty, but a movement catches my eye, it is a flicker, subtle, but near the tree line at the edge of Lev’s yard.

My body goes rigid. Someone is watching us.

Before I can move, the figure bolts. I sprint after it, my muscles burning with adrenaline. I pursue through backyards and over fences, I run on the grass as branches whip past my face. The person is fast and knows the area better, but I'm gaining speed. Moonlight glimmers through the leaves, revealing her reddish hair.

But a glimpse is all I get of that auburn hair before she whips around a corner.

I stumble briefly over uneven ground. A curse slips through my clenched teeth as pain jolts sharply up my ankle, but it's not pain that sends adrenaline surging through my veins; it's excitement.

By the time I steady myself, the redhead has vanished into the shadows, leaving behind only a whisper of perfume in the cool night air.

I stand still, my breath harsh and uneven, pulse pounding with a thrill that's almost intoxicating. Who the hell was that? But deep down, I already know. The vibrant flicker of her reddish hair is unmistakable; it’s her. She’s been watching me, stalking me like prey that foolishly believes itself a predator.

If she wants to play cat and mouse, she's chosen the wrong man. Or perhaps exactly the right one.

Anticipation stirs inside me, a familiar hunger that thrives in these moments. I close my eyes briefly, savoring the delicious tension that hums beneath my skin. There's nothing quite like the pursuit, the slow, merciless tightening of the noose until there's nowhere left for my prey to run.

My thoughts drift eagerly to my soon-to-be victim. Lev Antonov, the arrogant fool who thought he could steal from Kirill and slip away untouched. I imagine him broken and bleeding, dangling from rusted chains in my hunting ground, the place I take people to die.

I relish envisioning the punishment I'll inflict upon Lev, recalling vividly the fate of dozens of men like him, men who crossed Kirill, men who crossed me. Men who betrayed trust or foolishly believed they could outsmart the devil himself.

The trafficker who skimmed from our shipments last month? I let him drown slowly in his own pool, kicking futilely against weighted ropes. The dealer who thought he could cheat me? I carved his lies into his skin, line by bloody line, until he confessed all his secrets before bleeding out. Each punishment is carefully designed, as a sick reflection of their own crimes.

In my twisted sense of justice, their suffering equals my satisfaction.

And now, this woman with fire-colored hair thinks she can observe me, spy on me without consequence? My pulse quickens further, exhilaration flooding through me. Well, I did warn her. It will only be a matter of time.

Let her watch for now, because every chase has its climax, and when I finally catch her, she'll understand what happens to those who toy with monsters.

I turn back toward the SUV, already craving the sweet chaos our inevitable meeting will bring.

Pavel and Ivan shove Lev into the back seat with his hands tied and mouth gagged. They found him in the basement, hiding.

"Take him to the grounds," I order. "I’ll meet you there."

Pavel nods. "Who was it?"

"Someone who shouldn't be here," I reply sharply. "But I'll deal with it."

Twenty minutes later, I'm standing under harsh floodlights at our usual spot. We call it "The Grounds," but it’s just an old warehouse on an abandoned farmland, a place stripped of life and hope.

Nothing grows here, just weeds strangling the dirt and rust slowly devouring twisted metal beams. The perfect mirror to men like us: empty, corroded, existing only to hold violence.

The place is hidden deep, overrun by tangled brush and towering weeds. Its skeletal frame looms against the desolate landscape with rust-stained metal walls creaking in the wind, and shattered windows reduced to serrated fragments glinting in the moonlight.

We use this place because the police never patrol here. We've ensured that by making the dirt roads nearly impassable, blocking them deliberately with fallen trees and abandoned farm equipment arranged by my men. Any screams are swallowed whole by the thick woods and endless emptiness.

Now, Lev hangs from a rusted iron pole with his wrists bound overhead. Sweat drips from his face, mixing with the blood already leaking from his split lip.

"Please," he begs, voice shaking. "It was a mistake. Please, I can explain - my daughter needs surgery, I was desperate-"

"Stealing isn't a mistake, Lev." I roll up my sleeves slowly. "Especially not from Kirill."

"I'll pay it back!"

"Too late for that," I say. "This isn't about money anymore."

"What…what do you mean?" His breathing quickens.

"It’s about making an example," I say as I examine my brass knuckles. "So others learn not to make the same mistake. Boss’s orders."

I strike him hard and my fist connects with his jaw. Lev’s head snaps sideways, and his teeth rattle. He cries out as blood sprays from his mouth.

"I’m sorry," Lev gasps.

"Me too." Another blow to his ribs, feeling the satisfying crack beneath my knuckles. Lev's scream echoes off the walls.

The next hour is messy. When I'm finished, he can barely stand.

I pause, trying to catch my breath. Lev dangles limply and whimpers softly. I step back, then lean against a crate, watching him. But already terribly bored.

"Lev," I say quietly, "you're free to go."

He lifts his head, eyes wide with disbelief. "What?"

"Run. If you make it to the street, you're free." I tell him flatly. "Now."

He stares for a second, confusion flickering first, then frantic hope. Pavel cuts him down. Lev staggers, then coughs out blood and is soon stumbling toward the door.

I lift my gun, steadying my hand as I aim carefully at his retreating back. For a split second, an old memory drops—another night, another chase, when I was the one running, desperate to escape fate. Weakness got me nothing then. Mercy is a lie the powerless whisper to themselves to give false hope.

I squeeze the trigger.

The shot echoes sharply. Lev collapses mid-stride, hitting the ground silently, motionless, just another body among many. There is a neat hole in the back of his head. Then I lower my weapon slowly, the echo fading along with any lingering sentiment. This is who I am. This is who I have to be.

"Clean this up," I tell Pavel. "And find everything you can about a woman with red hair who's been watching us. I want to know who she is."

"You think she’s his relative?"

"No, I know she isn’t," I reply, turning away. "But she's made herself my problem now."

As I drive home, my mind keeps returning to that flash of auburn. Someone bold enough to spy on me… someone who clearly doesn't understand the trouble she's just invited into her life.

Yet.