Page 34 of Violent Love: Viktor (The Caged Hearts Pet Play #5)

Prologue

The man was too well-dressed for a place like this—a tailored suit, polished shoes, and a gold watch that gleamed in the dim overhead light like a smirk. His presence alone made the walls feel tighter, less like a room and more like a cage.

I didn’t rise from the floor. Couldn’t. My body had forgotten the impulse long ago. Instead, I stared at his tattooed hands as he crossed the room, his steps slow and deliberate. When he sat on the bed, the cheap frame groaned beneath him. Fitting. It wasn’t made to carry men like him.

“What do you want?”

I rasped. My voice was a hollow echo, brittle and dry like the rest of me. There was nothing left inside—only echoes of ruin that used to be a man.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice low. “A tool against my enemies, doctor.”

I laughed. Or tried to. It came out broken and jagged. “As you can see, I’m a little occupied at the moment.”

I gestured to the grey walls, the mattress without sheets, the locked window. I didn’t say you’re Bratva. I didn’t need to. His tattoos did all the talking—the type of man I used to despise.

“I can give you the men who killed your family,”

he said quietly.

My head snapped up so fast it slammed the concrete behind me. Pain flared—but it was nothing. Nothing compared to that name. My family.

“You can have a medical facility in my compound—state-of-the-art. No oversight. You’ll do whatever you want to them.”

My ears rang, not from the impact but from the sudden rush of blood. I stared at him, blinking. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t even blink.

“How do you know about them?”

I whispered. The words tore like knives in my throat.

“I followed your story,”

he said, standing now, voice still quiet, as if he didn’t want to disturb the dead. “And it led me here.”

Led him to what?

A ghost. A shell of a surgeon. A man who’d clawed at his own face. Who hadn’t slept without screaming in almost a year.

My wife’s laughter still echoed in the corners of this cell. My son’s eyes still stared at me from the walls—both of them turned to blackened bone and ash.

I closed my eyes at the memory of my screams when I saw their remains. Flesh fused to bone, blackened and blistered, their bodies warped beyond recognition. My baby—his tiny limbs charred and curled like overcooked meat. My wife’s face melted into something monstrous, her smile forever scorched away.

The smell of charred flesh. The sound of my screams. The way my knees buckled when I found them. My baby boy—unrecognisable. My wife—my light—reduced to carbon.

These images never left me.

“My name is Adrik Ilyin. Pakhan of the Bratva. I’m here to offer you a job, Dr. Novikov.”

I opened my eyes. I didn’t care if he saw the tears. Let him see what was left.

“Can you get me out of here?”

I asked flatly. My voice wasn’t mine anymore.

He reached into his coat, pulling out an envelope thick with forged freedom. “I came prepared.”

That was the moment I let go.

Let go of the man I used to be. The vows I made. The oath I swore with blood on my hands in operating theatres. First, do no harm.

Now?

First, make them scream.

Something inside me cracked—then calcified. The part of me that cared…it shrivelled, hissed, and died.

“I want a salary,”

I said, voice devoid of heat. “And a contract.”

“Done,”

he said. He smiled faintly. I could tell he didn’t do it often.

But I didn’t ask for the salary because I cared about money. No, I asked because I didn’t want to be seen as desperate, even though I was.

I would’ve signed away my soul on the blood of my son if it meant vengeance. And Adrik? Adrik had looked into my eyes and seen the monster curled up behind them.

Two devils. Shaking hands.

The idea of exposed scalpels, bone saws, and nerve endings no longer horrified me. They thrilled me. The vision of pain wasn’t frightening—it was clarity.

I rose, body aching but animated for the first time in months. I extended my hand, and the Pakhan gripped it.

In that moment, the man called Dr. Vadik Novikov ceased to exist.

In his place was something else. Something born of fire and loss. Something with purpose.

Now I just needed to get out of this asylum.

The staff who fed me through clenched teeth. The orderlies who whispered when they thought I couldn’t hear.

They’d be next.

I smiled.

Not from joy.

From resurrection.

They thought they’d buried me here.

They forgot that surgeons make the best butchers.