I gave him a slow smile. Not the kind that invites trust—the kind that warns you not to.
“You don’t. But you’ve got money, power, and a job I want. That’s enough—for now.Just don’t expect blind devotion—I’m not that kind of dog.”
He studied me like he was trying to peel my skin back with his eyes. The way men do when they’re deciding whether to use you or kill you.
“Who do you answer to now?” he asked, casually enough.
I shrugged. “No one. Never have. But I can follow a man worth following.”
That made him tilt his head a little.
“And what do you want from me?”
“I like heights,” I said. “The view’s better from the top.”
He was quiet for a beat too long. Then, as if the whole conversation had been a warm-up, he threw in the last spark.
“I saw you talk to my daughter.”
Here we fucking go.
“What do you think of her?”
I kept my face blank. But my thoughts? My thoughts were a firestorm.
You mean the brat in the silk robe who stared me down like she owned the world? The one whose thighs would probably feel like sin but whose mouth talks like she’s never been told no?
“You’ve got the wrong guy if you want me babysitting,” I said, already done with the subject.
A thin smirk curled at the edge of his mouth, like he’d gotten the reaction he wanted.
He turned slightly, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a heavy bottle of vodka and two shot glasses.
He poured. One for me, one for him.
I took the glass without a flicker of hesitation, skipped the formalities—no sniffing, no toasting—and drank it in one clean, practiced motion before setting it back down with a quiet tap.
“Now,” I said, licking the burn from my teeth. “Tell me who dies.”
He slid a folder across the desk, as if he were handing me a menu instead of a murder contract.I opened it.
A photo. A name. A cop.
“That’s it?” I asked. “Just a cop?”
I didn’t even bother hiding the boredom in my voice. I’d taken out worse over unpaid debts and bad attitudes. This felt beneath me.
Pakhan’s smile barely moved. “Just a cop. But the kind who doesn’t listen when he’s warned. The kind who’s been sniffing too close to my shipping lanes.”
He leaned forward. “I don’t like noise, Maksym. I want this noise removed.”
He paused, then added, “I could’ve sent anyone for this. But you have a reputation. They call you theReaperfor a reason, yes? I don’t just want him gone—I want the message burned into every cop dumb enough to look my way.”
There it was—the nickname. I swallowed the urge to roll my eyes.
Now it all made sense.
He didn’t want silence.
