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23

Viktor

Later that evening, my screen lights up with Zasha's name, and a flicker of anticipation courses through me. I swipe to read his message; the words clear and concise: "We have him." A surge of satisfaction swells in my chest—it's about time. My fingers fly over the phone, replying with two simple commands: "Location. Now."

As I push away from the heavy oak desk, determination hardens my resolve. This is it, the key to unlocking the mystery tangled around that stripper who dances with secrets in her eyes, secrets tied to the Bratva ... to my father's cold-blooded murder. Tonight, the truth will bleed free, and I will be the one to draw it out, drop by precious drop.

I stride through the corridors of my estate, the echo of my footsteps reminding me of the path I've walked—a path stained with blood and power. The weight of the family ring on my finger is a constant reminder of the legacy I uphold.

Exiting the mansion, the cool New York air greets me. My breath plumes in the night as I settle into the backseat of the waiting car. Lev, silent as always, slips into the driver's seat, and we glide away from the sanctity of Holly Village into the heart of Blackstone.

Streetlights streak by, casting shadows that flit across my face. I'm a specter in this city, a ghost returned from the dead to claim his throne. Yet, tonight, the city feels more like a chessboard, and I'm poised to take down an unsuspecting king.

Images of my father flash before me, his life snuffed out too soon, leaving a void no amount of vengeance can fill. But someone will pay; the strip club manager's capture is a domino set to topple an empire of lies.

"Thinking of the next move?" Lev's voice cuts through the silence, showing how well he knows me.

"Always," I reply, my gaze fixed on the darkened streets. "I have stayed alive all these years by being a dozen steps ahead. And New York is my turf, so I have no excuse for not fishing out the motherfucker."

Lev nods understanding without the need for further words. We've both shed our pasts, but the scars remain, etched deep within our skin.

The car slows as the factory district begins to materialize. Grimy buildings standing as sentinels to our grim work come into focus. This is where the truth will be spilled under harsh lights and harder fists.

"Ready?" Lev asks as we draw near.

"Of course."

I am more than ready for my own kind of justice, for revenge, for the fragile hope of peace in a world that knows none. I am always ready.

The car door closes behind me with a definitive thud, the sound swallowed by the thick air of the industrial district. My footsteps echo against the concrete as I approach the nondescript warehouse that serves as tonight's stage for retribution.

Inside, the atmosphere crackles with silent tension, the air almost shimmering with it. Harsh lighting bears down from above, throwing stark shadows across the concrete floor, creating pockets of darkness where none should exist. This is no place for mercy; it's an arena where secrets are dragged into the unforgiving light.

I push open the heavy metal door, stepping into the room where the manager is held. My entrance is silent but palpable; the shift in the air announces my presence before my shadow falls upon him. The manager—a wiry man with eyes like a cornered rat—sits cuffed to a chair, his chest rising and falling quickly.

"Manager," I acknowledge with a nod, my voice even, devoid of the storm brewing within. Every step I take towards him feels measured, the space closing between us charged with the unsaid promise of pain.

His gaze darts towards me, then away, a nervous tic betraying his attempt at bravado. Even now, he clings to defiance, yet his sweat-slicked forehead and jittery legs sing a different tune. Fear is a scent that permeates the space, mingling with the musky air.

"Viktor Makarov?" he croaks as if saying my name might ward off the inevitable.

Zasha lands him a blow to the gut that sends both him and the chair he is tied to spiraling to the floor. “How dare you say his name?”

“Oh, Zasha,” I tsk. “You have to be gentle with our guest.”

Some of my men pick him up from the floor, and he spits out blood while glaring at Zasha.

His attempts to appear unbothered are feeble, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. The handcuffs rattle against the chair—a futile protest against steel—and his eyes flicker to the door, then back to me, a silent plea for escape he knows won't come.

"Let's not waste time," I suggest, savoring the control that rolls off my tongue and wraps around him like a vice.

I perch on the edge of a steel table, my fingers steepled before me. "Tell me about DanceCheck," I command, my voice a low hum in the stark room. "Its patrons, its secrets."

The manager's lips press into a thin line, his eyes defiant as they hold mine. "It's just a club," he snaps back, shoulders squared even as they're hunched. "Dancing, drinks. What you see is what you get."

"Is that so?" I muse, allowing an edge of skepticism to lace my words. "And your special guests from Moscow? They come for the ... ambiance?"

His chin juts out, a silent challenge. "We don't discriminate based on nationality or ethnicity."

"Of course not," I agree smoothly. "But perhaps you favor those with Bratva tattoos? Maybe they get VIP treatment?"

He scoffs a hollow sound. "Tattoos don't mean anything. Anyone can get inked."

"True," I concede. "But not anyone can order a hit on Igor Makarov."

The mention of my father has him flinching, but he recovers quickly, clenching his jaw. "Never heard of him."

"Never?" I repeat, feigning surprise. "A shame. He was quite influential."

"Look, I run a clean business," he insists, a hint of desperation creeping into his otherwise steady voice. "I don't deal with mobsters."

"Yet here we are," I retort, standing to circle him like a predator. "You caught in a trap you claim doesn't exist."

I circle him, each step measured, my gaze never wavering from his sweat-slicked forehead. "You think you can outlast me?" My voice is deceptively soft, a whisper against the concrete walls that close us in.

The manager's breaths come quick, chest heaving like a trapped animal. But his eyes, those defiant orbs, lock on mine with a silent dare. He's testing my resolve, pushing to see how far I'll go.

"Do not waste time," I murmur, stopping before him. My hands clasped behind my back, the only sign of my restrained eagerness. "You will tell me what I need to know."

"Will I?" His challenge is weak, a fluttering heartbeat against the stone-cold resolve of my inquiry.

I lean in close, my breath a whisper across his cheek. " Da . You will." The certainty in my voice is ironclad, a promise made by the darkness itself.

"Tell me about the girls,” I start, my voice steady as the hum of the overhead lights. "The ones who dance at your club and vanish like mist in the morning."

He scoffs, a jerky tilt of his head that sends shadows dancing across his drawn face. "Dancers come and go. It's the nature of the business."

"Is it?" My fingers tap against my thigh—a metronome to keep time with his heartbeat. "Or is it the nature of the Bratva to make things ... disappear?"

His lips press into a thin line, the defiance in his eyes bright and unyielding. "I don’t know what you're talking about."

"Come now." I step closer and watch his pupils dilate. "You can drop the act. We both know there's more beneath the surface."

"Your threats don't scare me," he spits out, yet his hands grip the chair arms, knuckles white.

"Threats?" I tilt my head, feigning curiosity. "I haven't made any ... yet."

"Lev," I call without breaking eye contact. The room echoes with the sound of my command. "Bring me the tools."

The heavy sound of the trolley's wheels rolling over the concrete floor reverberates in the small room. Lev maneuvers it with practiced ease, and the array of surgical instruments is laid out with clinical precision. They gleam under the harsh lighting—a silent choir of steel awaiting their conductor.

I watch the manager closely. The confident set of his shoulders sags, ever so slightly. His bravado, once a towering wall, now shows its first signs of erosion. His eyes dart to the trolley, then back to me, the sheen of sweat on his forehead catching the light.

"Please, you don't have to do this," he says, voice edged with a note of desperation he can't quite hide. His facade is cracking, crumbling like dry earth under pressure.

"Ah, but I think I do," I reply, my tone as cold as the metal that awaits his flesh. "You see, I have all night, and I am rather skilled with these tools."

His breath comes faster now, and his eyes are fixed on the sharp, polished instruments that promise pain. He knows the dance is about to change, and the next step could be a plunge into darkness from which there is no return.

My hand hovers over the sterile display. I draw out a screwdriver with a slender, menacing tip. It's an ordinary tool, yet in my grasp, it becomes an extension of my will. With a slow turn between my fingers, I inspect its gleam—admiring how even the simplest object can wield such power when applied with precision.

"Tools are much like information, aren't they?" My voice slices through the silence that has settled over us. "Useless on their own but invaluable in the right hands."

The manager's eyes flicker to the screwdriver, then back to me. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, betraying his mounting fear.

"Your silence," I continue, my tone laced with a dark promise, "is a tool you believe shields you. But as with all tools, it can be ... repurposed."

I step closer, the screwdriver's handle cool and smooth in my grasp. The manager's breath comes in jagged pulls, his eyes tracking every inch of my calculated advance. There's beauty in this moment—where fear and anticipation collide, where a man's resolve is nothing but a house of cards ready to topple at the slightest touch.

"Please," he chokes out, but please do not sway me. Words are wind; actions are stone.

"Actions have consequences," I murmur, close enough now that he can feel my breath. The steel tip of the screwdriver glints under the harsh light, a silent actor waiting for its cue. His gaze locks onto it, eyes dilating with the raw, primal terror of a cornered animal.

I sigh, almost in regret. Almost. With a swift, practiced motion, I drive the screwdriver down. Like a hot knife through butter, it sinks into flesh with sickening ease. His scream carves through the silence, the sound bouncing off the soundproof walls.

"Information," I say calmly as if we're discussing the weather rather than the possibility of his life ending tonight. "That's all I want."

I can't help the faint curl of my lips as his howl fills the room, an echo of agony that thrums through me with a perverse satisfaction. It's a twisted melody. One I've orchestrated countless times before—a dark reminder that I am not to be trifled with. I'm the conductor here, and he's just another instrument in my repertoire.

"Shall we continue?" My voice is a calm counterpoint to his screams, the stillness of deep water against the thrash of violent waves. I watch him, his body writhing in the chair, and I know he understands now. This is no idle threat; it's a promise of pain.

"Please," he gasps, sweat beading on his forehead, "no more."

"Then talk." My words are precise, sharp as the tools of my trade. The authority in them is unmistakable, a blade pointed directly at his resolve. "Tell me about the club. Tell me about their connection to my father's murder."

He hesitates, caught between fear and loyalty. But I see it—the crack in his resolve, the momentary lapse that speaks of secrets held within. I'm close now, so close to unraveling this mystery, and I will not stop. Not until the truth lies bare before me.

His chest heaves, each breath a ragged struggle as he tries to compose himself. His eyes, wide with desperation, dart from my unwavering stare to the bloodied screwdriver in my hand.

"Please," he chokes out between labored breaths. "I can't ..."

But his words trail off, unfinished, as if even he knows they're futile. He won't talk; not yet. Stubbornness clings to him like a second skin, a trait I despise and admire. It will make breaking him all the sweeter.

"Very well." My voice is steady, betraying none of the dark anticipation that simmers within me. This isn't over. Far from it. The night stretches ahead, long and full of promise. My promise—the unspoken vow that I'll peel away his defiance layer by layer until nothing remains but the truth.

I lean in close enough for him to feel my breath on his battered face. "You will talk. It's just a matter of when and how much you'll suffer before you do."

He tries to hold my gaze, but the pain is too much. His eyelids flutter, shielding his eyes from mine, but not from the terror they reflect. The terror that tells me he believes me. He should.

I straighten up, my back cracking slightly from the tension. Lev stands at the doorway, silent, waiting. He knows what comes next. We all do.

"Keep him awake." My order slices through the thick atmosphere of the room. I turn my back on the manager, and every step I take is heavy with intent. I'm ready to spend all night doing what I know best—torturing enemies until they break.