"I’ll ask you one more time," Mikhail says. His voice is conversational. That’s the scariest part. He sounds like he’s asking about the weather while he’s standing in a pool of a man’s life. "The codes. Who gave them to you? My father, or Petrov?"
The man in the chair tries to speak, but his jaw is hanging at a wrong angle, the bone visible through a tear in his cheek. He gurgles, a wet, choking sound that makes my stomach turn.
Mikhail doesn't lose his temper. He doesn't shout. He just leans in and drives the tip of the knife into the man’s thigh, twisting it slowly. The man’s scream is muffled by the blood in his throat, a high-pitched, whistling sound of pure agony.
"You're wasting my time, Viktor," Mikhail murmurs. He pulls the knife out and wipes the blade on the man’s shoulder. "And Ihave a very beautiful wife upstairs who is much more interesting than you are. Every minute you spend being stubborn is a minute I’m losing with her. That makes me very, very unhappy."
He reaches out with the pliers and grips one of the man’s fingernails. With a slow, deliberate motion, he peels it back.
I should be screaming. I should be running. My father did things like this, but I never saw the aftermath. I never saw the clinical, bored way a man can deconstruct another human being.
"It was... Vladimir," the man finally gasps, the words barely intelligible through the blood. "He... he said the docks were his. That the Pakhan was a child... and you were a dog... on a leash."
Mikhail stops. He stands up straight, his chest heaving slightly. He doesn't look angry. He looks… satisfied. Like he’s just finished a particularly difficult puzzle.
"A dog on a leash," Mikhail repeats. He lets out a low, dark laugh. "My father always did have a way with words."
He turns, and that’s when he sees me.
I don't move. I can’t. My heart is a frantic bird against my ribs, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Mikhail stands there, half-naked and covered in another man’s blood, looking like the monster everyone says he is.
He’s a madman. He’s a butcher. And I’m still standing here staring at him. I can’t look away.
Mikhail drops the pliers. They hit the concrete with a heavyclink. He walks toward me, his boots sticking to the floor with a sickening, tacky sound. He stops inches away, the scent of copper and sweat overwhelming.
"Enjoying the show, Irina?" he asks. His eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide. He looks wild, untethered. "Or did you come down to offer a 'correction' of your own?"
"I was looking for you," I say. My voice is steadier than it has any right to be. I look at the man in the chair, then back at Mikhail. "He told you what you wanted?"
"He did." Mikhail reaches out, his hand hovering near my face. He pauses, seeing the blood on his knuckles, and pulls back. "My father arranged the warehouse. He’s been moving against Artyom from the inside. He’s been using us as a shield while he builds his own empire on the side."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to talk to Artyom," Mikhail says, his voice turning cold again. He looks at me, his gaze sweeping over my running gear, his eyes narrowing. "Now.”
"Mikhail—"
"Wait in our room," he interrupts. He steps closer, his heat wrapping around me. He leans down, his mouth near my ear.
He pulls back, his hand finally coming up to cup my jaw, leaving a faint smear of red on my skin. He doesn't seem to notice. Or he doesn't care.
Mikhail gives the man in the chair one last, dismissive look, then turns and walks toward the stairs. "Lev! Clean this up. And make sure the doctor gets here before he bleeds out. I might need him to repeat that for Artyom."
I stay in the doorway, watching him go. The heavy scent of blood is still in my lungs, and the image of Mikhail’s splattered skin is burned into my retinas.
I’m not afraid of him. That’s the terrifying part. Seeing the brutality, seeing the gore... it didn't make me want to run. It just made me realize how far he’ll go to protect what he thinks is his.
He’s going to fight his war,I think, my hand going to the burner phone in my pocket.And I’m going to fight mine.
I wait until I hear the door slam. The house is quiet again, but it’s the silence of a grave.
I have a few hours.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IRINA
I stand at the top of the basement stairs for a count of ten, the metallic tang of copper still coating the back of my throat.
