Page 58

Kael

T he air inside the dimly lit chamber is heavy with cigar smoke, the lingering remnant of aged whiskey, and the underlying tension that coils tighter with each passing second.

Shadows dance along the heavy wooden doors, the low hum of murmured conversations in Russian ceasing as a hand slams on the polished surface of the table.

Kael stands before the round table, shoulders squared, his calculated calm masking the storm brewing within him.

Across from him, all the elders and men who will swear they built the Bratva with blood and brutality regard him with cold, expectant stares. Some are leaned back, arms crossed, their expression quite readable. They don’t really try to hide their rage, disappointment, and confusion.

“The ledger.” The speaker’s voice is a jagged edge cutting through stone, his Russian thickened with rage. “What’s going on? Why are we hearing that you haven’t found it?”

A murmur ripples through the room, some cursing under their breaths, heads shaking in disapproval and disappointment.

“With all due respect, Pakhan, do you know if this ends up falling into the wrong hands, if law enforcement catches wind of it, all our operations will be compromised? I mean, do you understand the gravity of this situation? Because the way you’re handling this, it seems you don’t.”

Kael’s eyes flicker to the person who just spoke. His name is John Popov, face lined with years of battle and bloodshed.

“Eugene would surely never have allowed this to happen, you know this very well,” the man adds.

Kael’s jaw clenches at John Popov’s last comment. That comparison with his adopted father is a calculated insult, one meant to prod him into action or surrender. But he meets his gaze, unwavering, unflinching.

“And yet here we are,” Kael says evenly, his voice like ice cracking over a frozen lake. “It doesn’t matter what my father would or wouldn’t have done. I will find the damn ledger. So, just continue to sit your old asses down and look pretty. Because that’s what you all are fucking good at.”

The murmur of disapproval ensues. Kael’s last words seem to have stirred some umbrage. But did they really think they were doing so much for this Bratva before? Most of them are fucking useless, just here to keep the seat warm.

“Our allies are restless, Raidon.” Adam Mogilevich—the oldest man in the clan—says, so unaware that the person before him isn’t the Raidon they think they know. “The Albanians, the Triads, hell even the Italians. Those pesky flies that are nothing without us are also making threats.”

“Is it their fault?” Someone remarks bitterly. “It’s not their fault that we have allowed them a glimpse at our end. For heaven’s sake, who loses a ledger?”

Kael takes in a sharp breath, his nails digging into the polished oak. Left to him, he will pull out a gun right now and silence them with nothing more than three silver bullets. But he won’t. Because this time, they are right, and their anger and unrest are justified. Raidon was careless, so trusting he allowed any of the soldiers to breathe around his neck, strut in and strut out of his room. So fucking careless. Now Kael is left dancing alone to the harsh tune of their new reality. But even if Raidon was here, he would still be too weak to do anything. So fucking pathetic. He is really better off disarmed, silent…gone like he never existed.

“We are supposed to be working on getting the Greek Mafia on our side,” Adam Mogilevich continues, drumming his fingers gently against the table. “This isn’t the time to be losing allies. If we lose our backing, we all lose everything. And if that ledger resurfaces with our names on it, we’re all doomed. You know the feds. They’ll tear through us like wolves through fresh meat.”

“How close are you to retrieving it?” Someone asks, more worried than angry.

Kael inhales sharply, tilting his head in the person’s direction. It’s the youngest amongst the elders. He works for the Foreign Intelligence Service. “Closer than before,” he replies, his voice calm, cool.

The scoffs that follow Kael’s assurance are filled with doubt but he doesn’t flinch. These people have got nothing on him.

“Well, hasten your effort.” The command cuts across the tense air. “Or we’ll be forced to handle this another way.

Kael is well aware of what another way means for him. It means every single one of them on this table will vote against his reign. This time, he won’t be able to pull out a gun and shoot anyone. This time, he would have to surrender. Because then, it’ll be 120 against one—with Raidon being gone.

Yet, as true as the threat seems, Kael leans against the table, a slow, knowing smirk creeping up his lips. “Do you really think anyone else can handle this better?” His gaze sweeps the room, challenging them, daring them. “If so, be my guest. But if not, sit pretty and let me do this my own way.”

And with that, he leans off the table, heading out of the chamber, the heavy sound of boots falling behind him as some of his soldiers follow him out.

As he steps into the foyer of the Volkovs old family house, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Slipping a hand inside, he fetches the device.

It’s one of his men.

“Boss.” The voice echoes through the speaker, calm, calculated.

“Found anything?” Kael’s tone is sharper in Russian, his shoulders tensing.

“Not yet, sir,” the soldier says, and Kael pauses right beside the opened door of the backseat. “There are no security cameras anywhere close to the neighborhood. It’s really hard trying to find a killer who didn’t make the mistake of leaving anything behind.”

“Well, keep searching,” Kael spits. “I didn’t give you the job to handle if I knew you couldn’t do it. How fucking hard is it to find a petty killer?”

“I’ll go back to work, Boss.”

Kael peels the phone off his ear, ending the call before slipping into the car, the door slamming with a dull bang.

The feel of warm leather against him doesn’t numb the migraine pressing against his skull, it doesn’t calm the roaring blood in his veins. The comfort it offers is fleeting as the storm in his head refuses to cease.

First, his headache has been the missing ledger. And now, he’s trying to find a killer because somehow, he has been accused of a murder he doesn’t remember committing.

The night Shiro Tanaka and his mother got attacked, Kael killed three people that same night, but he swore none of them lived a mile close to Shiro and his Mom.

Yet someone has killed them in a way that fingers only point at him.

But Kael swears it was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That day, he had taken out all the detectives who decided to insert themselves into his business. But he never touched the Japanese boy and his mother. He never had any intention to. All he wanted when he barged into their home that night was his fucking wife. He was just going to grab her and walk out. But when he got there, there were people covered in blood, while Veronica passed out somewhere.

Veronica already had this preconceived idea that if anything ever happened to her friend, it was him. Now she’s boldly accusing him of a murder he never committed. And to be honest, he’s far too exhausted to plead innocence. Besides, she is a grieving woman with a made-up mind. She won’t believe he is innocent even if he plays her a tape from that night.

The only thing he can do is find the killer. But that seems to be hard too, just like how he has failed to find the person who stole his ledger.

“Where to, Boss?” The soldier behind the wheel asks, snapping Kael from the war within him.

“Home.” Is his curt reply.

The room is quiet when Kael walks in. But it’s not the kind of silence that soothes and comforts. No, it’s the type that lingers heavy in the air, thick with something unsaid.

He looks around the room, and Veronica is exactly where he is sure he left her earlier this morning; the window side. She’s always there.

His gaze lingers on her for a moment, a faint flicker of curiosity threading through his exhaustion. What exactly does she see out there that seems to have her eyes so glued all the time? The mountains that wrap around his manor like a fortress are the same every single day. They are unchanging and eternal. Yet every day and every minute, she stares as if expecting something, as if something beyond these walls calls to her in a language only she understands. And if that is so, he needs to find that language and learn it. He needs to find that something before it takes her away from him.

Exhaling, he moves further into the room, crashing into the black leather couch. They do not speak. They never do these days. It has become a routine.

The weight of the meeting he just had and the unexciting news he also received from his soldier is a suffocating reminder of his failures. His patience is wearing thin. The search for the ledger and the killer turns up with nothing. And every day a failed result tightens the knot around his throat.

His eyes fall on his bottle of whiskey. A drink. He needs a drink. Whiskey always clears his mind and burns away the tension like fire licking through his veins.

His hand reaches for the bottle and he stills.

Something is different. The color. There’s something off about the color. Most won’t notice it. But that’s the problem. He isn’t like most men. His world is built on details, the smallest of shifts, the tiniest of tells. And he happens to know his whiskey like the weight of a gun in his palm. This whiskey is not quite right.

Yet, he lifts the wine glass to his hand, bends the bottle, and pours. The liquid swirls into the glass, releasing its scent into the air; smoke and oak, but something else lurks beneath. Faint. Wrong .

His fingers tighten around the glass, lifting it to his nose, slow, deliberate. He inhales.

Yes. Definitely, something isn’t quite right. His eyes flicker to her. She’s watching him. And he sees it too—the fear tightening her features, the way her breathing has gone shallow, the barely perceptible tremor in her fingers. He sees the way her hand twitches as if she wants to reach for him, to stop him, but she doesn’t, not yet.

It’s only when he moves the glass dangerously close to his lips that she moves. A sharp intake of breath, a lurch forward, hand thrusting to snatch the glass.

“No!” she shrieks, her fingers merely brushing the glass as he empties the content into his mouth.

Because he is so obsessed with her, he will take even the death her hands offer.

“No.” Her voice trembles.

Too late.

The burn of whiskey coats his throat. But there’s something else, something bitter. Something that sinks its claws into his stomach the moment it hits.

The pain is slow at first, curling low in his gut like an ember waiting to catch flame. Then it begins to spread, twisting, writhing, clawing through his veins like a living thing, like a thousand tiny knives slicing through him from the inside.

His breath hitches, her words doubling over and distorted, the image of her blurring.

The fire erupts, his stomach knotting violently, a sharp, tearing agony that has him doubling over. His fingers spasm, the glass finally slipping from his grasp, a distorted shattering sound when it hits the floor.

His blood turns molten, burning, breaking him from the inside. Then comes the choking. A cough wrenches from his throat, pressing as splatter of blood stains his lips, dribbling down his chin. The taste is thick and metallic, drowning out everything else.

Like a mighty king finally falling, his knees hit the floor, his body rebelling against him, spasming, every muscle seizing, twisting a pain so consuming it almost rips a laugh from his lips. Almost .

Through the haze of agony, the suffocating fog closing in, he feels her arms wrapping around him, pressing him against her body, laying his head on her lap.

His blurry gaze lifts to catch what she looks like when she finally pushes him to kneel before her.

And there it is.

Wide-eyed.

Frozen.

Beautiful.

So fucking beautiful.