As quietly as I came in—before I did something I couldn’t take back.
It was Saturday.
The sky was colorless. No wind, no sound. The cold settled into your bones and made everything feel slow, tense, and on edge.
I made myself stop thinking about her. Or tried to. Monitoring her movements after dark was just another precaution, no different than checking a perimeter.
Still, I’d kept my distance. Mostly.
That morning, I showed up at the mansion to see Pakhan. I was there for my payment. Overdue by three days, and I wasn’t in the habit of sending friendly reminders.
He handed me the envelope like he was doing me a favor. Like I should bow or kiss the ring. I took it without a word.
“Got plans for tonight?” he asked, already pouring himself a drink.
I blinked. What the fuck kind of question was that? Was he about to ask me on a date?
“Yeah,” I said, slipping the envelope into my coat. “Got something.”
And I did. A gentle talk penciled in with Kira’s delightful fiancé—a little conversation about what the hell went down that night. Depending on the answers, it’d end in either a warning or a hospital bed.
“You should come by tonight,” Pakhan said, swirling his glass like some bored Roman emperor. “Small party. Some of the men. Food. Drinks. A little poker. Beautiful women. Top shelf. The cherries of Kyiv.”
Of course. Their idea of fun: moaning girls on their backs and vodka dripping off their tits. I used to fuck through that fog. But not anymore.
I didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him.
“I insist,” he added, tone still casual but eyes not. “You’re new. Time to build rapport. Show face. Let the men know you’re one of us.”
I sighed internally. For fuck’s sake. Was he gonna keep pushing?
The only cunt I want tonight is your daughter’s, and you’re dangling brothel-grade distractions like that’s supposed to tempt me?
Fuck. Not these thoughts again. Every time I tried to forget her, my mind betrayed me.
Maybe going wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Let some stranger choke on my dick while I bury this stupid obsession and build myself a clean little alibi.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll swing by.”
He grinned, pleased in a way that made my skin crawl. “Good man.”
I didn’t smile back. Just turned, walked out and went straight to the car.
I didn’t drive far—just across town, to the stretch of gated mansions where Stanislav Boychenko’s family mansion sat behind marble columns and armed security. I parked down the street, out of view, and waited.
I sat for hours, watching the gates like a patient animal. I didn’t know his schedule and I didn’t care. I just needed eyes on him. If he didn’t crawl out today, there was always tomorrow.Rats rarely stay hidden for long. But luck was on my side. There he was. Smug little bastard, stepping out like Kyiv owed him something, sunglasses on even though the sky looked like a dirty dishcloth.
So I tailed him. Shadowed him like a second skin. I stayed just far enough back not to be noticed, close enough not to lose him. Shops. A late lunch. A stupid detour into a watch store. Nothing useful. Just noise.
Evening bled into night.
He ended up at a bar near Podil—music spilling out onto the street, bass vibrating through brick and bone. Neon. Cigarette smoke. Girls in short dresses laughing too loud. He walked in like he owned the place.
I took a seat where I could see him without being seen.
He moved through the room alone—no greetings, no distractions. Just him, and that worked in my favor. I got to watch the show unfold. Ten minutes, tops, and a girl was melting against him. She laughed like she’d forgotten her dignity at home. They danced. She ground against him and his hand slid right to her ass, like it was his birthright. That’s fiancé of the year behavior, I guess.
There was something about that face—so punchable it felt like a challenge. One I was ready to accept.
