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I nod in greeting to several men, but don’t stop to talk as I head out to the Mercedes S-class where Yuri has been waiting for me.

The man has the patience of a saint, never once grumbling about the amount of the time he spends sitting behind the wheel while I take care of business.

According to my uncle, he passes the time reading sappy romantic novels.

It’s an unusual hobby for a Bratva soldier, but I won’t judge him for it.

He’s dependable and brave when called to action. That’s all I require from my men.

“Head for Zita’s,” I tell him as I get into the back of the car.

The drive should only take fifteen minutes, so I use the time to change into a clean shirt.

Getting bloodstains on my clothes is an occupational hazard, so I always keep fresh clothing in the car.

I’m surprised I got so much on me since I barely participated in Balogh’s torture, but I guess blood gets everywhere.

Settling into my seat, I get my phone out and search for Olivia Volante’s social media accounts.

I’ve never taken much interest in her. She’s kind of vapid, one of those socialites who cares about nothing but spending her family’s money and being seen in the right places.

I imagine she’s one of those influencer types, always looking for an opportunity to show off the lavish lifestyle she didn’t lift a finger to earn.

When I find her profile, I see exactly what I expected to. There are dozens of posts, detailing her clothing purchases, her favorite restaurants, and the cosmetics she uses. Seriously? Who gives a fuck about which eyeliner she loves?

I’m about to write her off as a desperate attention-seeker when I spot the date on her last post. It’s from over a year ago.

I check her other accounts and discover there’s nothing more up to date on any of them.

Strange. The hundreds of likes and comments she got suggest she was popular.

What made this social butterfly retreat into her cocoon? Perhaps these photographs will tell me.

“We’re here, boss.” Yuri pulls the car up outside the shithole where Balogh bases his operation.

I don’t wait for my driver to come and open the door for me. I get out and head straight into the club. It’s like stepping into the land that taste forgot. Everything in here is purple, from the velvet-clad seats to the lilac tint of the lighting.

Nobody dares challenge me as I make my way through to Balogh’s office at the back.

The door hasn’t been locked since we dragged the asshole out of here earlier.

I go inside and find the painting. Disgust churns my stomach.

It’s a portrait of an older woman reclining on a chaise longue.

Wearing a thin robe that conceals nothing of her body, she stares out from the picture.

I’d bet good money the subject of the painting is Balogh’s mother.

The sick fuck named this strip club after her.

The combination he gave me for the safe is probably her birthday.

Balogh has some twisted fascination with the woman who brought his sorry ass into the world.

He deserves a bullet to the brain just for that.

Pulling the painting off the wall, I toss it aside and find the safe.

It’s got a keypad rather than a dial, so I enter the combination and it clicks open.

Inside, there’s a pile of cash, a hundred grand, give or take.

I’ll let the girls who work here split it between them, a small bonus for putting up with their slimy asshole boss.

The bundles of cash are sitting on top of a brown envelope. I remove it from the safe and empty the contents onto Balogh’s desk. There’s a USB and an older model cellphone.

The phone is dead, so I stick it in my pocket for my tech guys to look at later.

I go to Balogh’s laptop, which is sitting on his desk.

When asked for a password, I enter the same numbers that opened the safe.

It works. Balogh’s an idiot. If I wanted to, I could probably access every part of his miserable life with that passcode.

I insert the USB into the port and open the only folder on it.

There are dozens of image files. As I open them, one by one, my rage builds.

The first is of Olivia Volante, sitting naked at the edge of a bed in a starkly furnished room.

Behind her are pale orange walls and a stripped pine nightstand.

It’s a cheap hotel room, I think. A beautiful girl like her is out of place amid such squalor.

The next photo is of her lying on the back of the bed, legs spread wide, putting her clean-shaven pussy on display. Apprehension is clear in the way she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, but there’s a gleam of hope in her eye. Whoever is taking the photos, she wants them to like her.

I open another picture to find Olivia on her knees, head bowed.

It might be an image of willing submission, but the slump of her shoulders suggests defeat.

That’s much less attractive. The next photo shows her with a man’s short, fat cock in her mouth.

Her eyes glisten with tears. There are several like this, each more degrading than the last. When I get to the last photo, I find Olivia sitting back on her heels.

Her lips are twisted in uncertainty and her cheeks are damp with tears. Regret clings to her.

Slamming the laptop shut, I decide two things. The first is that Grigori Balogh will not live until morning. He may not have taken these pictures, but it doesn’t matter. Just having them in his possession is enough to sign his death warrant.

The second decision I make is that I will never use these images to blackmail the Volantes.

My motivation isn’t altruistic. For reasons I can’t explain, Olivia has become more interesting to me.

I don’t want anyone else to see her like this.

I want to wreck the perfect mafia princess persona she presents to the world and rebuild her as my queen.

Whatever it takes, Olivia Volante will be mine.