But it’s different when the girl you want more than air sees that truth for the first time. When the darkness isn’t just something you carry, but something reflected in her eyes.
Would she still want me?
Would she run?
Would she call me sick, deranged, depraved?
I pressed both hands into my face and let out a low, bitter laugh.
Why the fuck do I care?
I used to sleep like a baby after nights like this. No guilt, no second thoughts. Just job done, message sent, next move.
She’s a walking disaster. And somehow, I want more. I should be worried about the headlines, the retaliation, the war I just started—but all I can think about is her watching the news and deciding I’m the kind of man she can’t love.
Fucking hell, Maksym. Get a grip.
I stood up and tried to push the thoughts away. But they didn’t go quietly.
Sure, I killed him because he touched her. Because he assaulted her. Because he pinned her down, tore her dress, hurt her—and fuck, just thinking about it made me want to break him all over again.
But that wasn’t the only reason.
It was time.
Felix was Moscow’s golden boy—their clean-shaven little ambassador in a custom-tailored suit. Killing him was always going to draw attention. That was the point. I needed ripples. I needed disruption. I needed Pakhan to stop seeing me as just another tool in his arsenal and start seeing me as someone worthy of trust.
I needed to get close. Close enough to get access. Close enough to open doors.
Because somewhere in the shadows of Pakhan’s empire—buried deep inside the filth of his trafficking network—is the truth about Mila.
And I’m going to find it.
To get there, I need chaos.
I need war.
My phone buzzed next to the ashtray. Sashko.
Holy crap. There are serial killers with more restraint.
Not gonna lie... I threw up a little in my mouth.
I huffed out a laugh and ran a hand across my jaw, rough with stubble.
There’s a reason they call me the Reaper.
Let the bloodbath begin.
I leaned back in the chair, watching the news anchor drone on about the investigation while sipping vodka like it was morning coffee.
I didn’t need to move.
Not yet.
The moment Pakhan sees the headlines—his future son-in-law butchered and dumped like a warning—he’ll call me.
23
