Sashko said nothing, but the weight of his silence filled the car like a storm waiting to break.
For the first time, I wondered if I’d put a bullet in the wrong man.
We pulled into Kyiv just after eight. Sashko was driving me back to where I’d left my car. When we reached the gravel pull-off near the entrance to the estate, he threw the car into park and leaned his elbow against the steering wheel.
“Guess this is where I ditch you, brother.”
He smirked, but didn’t move. “You know I don’t usually say shit like this, but you’re a cold bastard to work with—and I like that. These last two weeks? I’ll remember them. Might even miss you.”
I raised a brow. “Want a hug or something?”
He snorted. “Just get out before I start crying,” then leaned back in his seat as I stepped out, gravel crunching under my boots.
Pakhan’s place was already alive with noise when I entered—voices rising in drunken bursts, laughter echoing off the marble exterior. A black Maybach idled near the entrance, rain trailing down its sleek frame like sweat on polished skin. At the gate, two fresh-faced guards stood stiffly in the drizzle, trying to look tougher than they were. I didn’t recognize either of them. Pakhan’s men were usually the same faces, and if he’d hired new guards, I would’ve heard about it. Which meant he probably had guests—important ones.
Inside, the heat hit like a wall. Leather, tobacco, and roasting meat.
Pakhan’s men were gathered near the dining room, drinking, laughing too loudly. I didn’t bother acknowledging them. I was here for one thing.
“In his office,” one of them called, half-drunk. “He’s in a mood.”
I walked down the marble hall, my boots leaving faint, wet traces on the pristine surface. The hallway was dimly lit, the low buzz of ambient lighting dulling the sounds of celebration that filtered in from the other rooms. His office door stood partially open, the glow of a desk lamp spilling onto the polished floor.
Pakhan sat at his desk, not bothering to look up as I stepped inside. His gaze remained locked on something distant, as if he already knew what I was going to say.
“I hope you’re here to tell me the job is done,” he said, his tone as steady as the cigar smoke lingering in the air.
“It is,” I confirmed without hesitation.
Only then did his eyes meet mine, narrowing just slightly—a flicker of satisfaction playing across his features.
“Good work. Kyiv’s finally a bit quieter today,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Enjoy it. By tomorrow the city will be screaming—news channels, statements, investigations. Judges don’t fall without noise.” A slow smile curved his mouth. “But let them talk. Let them panic. We give them purpose. We keep their headlines alive. They should be thanking us for the work.”
He reached into the desk drawer with a familiar ease, retrieving a black card and sliding it toward me across the polished wood.
“That’s your payment. A little extra for the efficiency.”
I took the card and nodded once. “Anything else?”
He reclined in his chair, nursing the cigar between his fingers. Smoke curled upward in lazy ribbons, mingling with the dim light as he exhaled, watching me through the haze.
“Actually,” he said after a long exhale, “yeah. Come with me. We’re having dinner. Special guest arrived today.”
I paused for a beat too long.
He caught it instantly.
“What, you got somewhere better to be?”
“No,” I said evenly.
“Then come.”
He stood, his bulk casting a shadow over the desk. As he moved past, his hand clapped onto my shoulder like we were friends. I loathed that kind of touch. But I held still. Because this was a game I knew how to play.
Together, we walked toward the dining hall. His voice boomed ahead of us as we neared the stairs.
“Kira!” he called out. “Come down, girl, we’ve got a guest!”
