He should have felt something. Rage that the kill wasn’t his. Relief that it was done. Satisfaction, at the very least, that the man who had destroyed his father’s life was now unrecognizable in a chair.
But there was just...nothing. A blankness where the purpose used to be. And the blankness was worse than grief, because grief at least had a shape, and this had none.
“Sir.”
Detective Kotov was in the corridor, unwilling to step inside the room uninvited. Smart man. In this part of Russia, a detective who wanted to keep his career intact learned early which rooms belonged to him and which belonged to the Almazovs. Behind him, the scene was working: uniformed officers at the perimeter, forensic techs in the stairwell, a guard logging evidence by the front entrance. All of them deferring. In this part of Russia, everyone deferred.
“We found something.”
Kotov held up the evidence bag. Alexei pulled on gloves and took it.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper with burnt edges. He opened it. The words were written in blood. Pavlov’s, most likely. The handwriting was neat. Almost elegant.
Cursed are you who reads this.
Alexei read it twice. Then he folded the paper, put it back in the bag, and handed it to Kotov.
“I’d appreciate a copy in my inbox.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Any leads?”
“The accelerant is military grade. My men are canvassing. This wasn’t amateur work.”
“Keep me updated.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alexei walked out of the building without a backward glance. The street was grey and wet. November in Saint Petersburg, which meant the air tasted like diesel and river water and a cold that got into your bones whether you wanted it to or not.
He got in the car. Typed the message.
Sandro Pavlov is dead. Someone else got to him first.
He hit Send.
Andrei’s reply came in less than a minute. Good.
Artem: It’s over.
Anton: Tell me you’re coming home.
Three brothers. Three replies. For them, this was enough. The man was dead. The chapter was closed. They were ready to move on with their lives.
Alexei wasn’t.
And he couldn’t explain why. It wasn’t about wanting to be the one who did it. It wasn’t injured pride or some unsatisfied bloodlust. It was simpler and worse than that: for twenty-two years, this had been the reason he got out of bed. The reason Ace Royale existed. The reason he had turned himself into a man who could stand in a room with a burnt corpse and feel nothing at all.
Take that away, and what was left?
A billionaire with an empire and no reason to run it.
He put his phone away. The driver pulled onto the motorway without being told where to go. The airport. Where else.
The grey city thinned into grey suburbs. Alexei leaned back and closed his eyes and tried to figure out what a man was supposed to do with the rest of his life when the thing that had driven it was gone.
His phone rang.
