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I’ve been careful not to nick any arteries. Streams of crimson cover the naked body strung up in front of me, red rivers cutting paths through the dirt and grime covering his skin. Down his hairy stomach and flaccid cock. He’s barely keeping his head upright at this point.
I flip the silver knife in my hand from side to side, watching the light glint off the unforgiving blade. The tang of metal hangs heavy in the cold, damp air, coating the air with its copper scent. It soaks into the walls and the floor, inescapable and unmistakable.
The traitor in front of me won’t be the first or the last to die in this basement. The only way to remove the scent of desperation and bleach and death would be to burn the whole building down.
Dmitriy’s lackey struggles, his survival instincts not allowing him to accept what his brain has already realized—there’s nowhere to go. All his movements manage to do is make the blood flow faster from every break in the skin.
Dozens of droplets fall at once, staining the cement with scarlet specks.
There’s something poetic and pathetic about it.
I could draw this out longer, but there’s little point. The man hanging in front of me—who’s refused to say a word, including his name—knew as soon as he was captured how this would end. It’s a risk every member of the Bratva accepts.
There’s only one way out of this life.
Dmitriy knew what he was doing when he captured and killed Konstantin. Knew it would up the stakes of our deadly game. Knew one of his loyal little soldiers would pay the price for his betrayal.
A slash of my wrist, and his throat is slit in a grisly fountain.
My stomach turns, but I force myself to watch him bleed out. Dozens of my men stand behind me, watching me execute the traitor. Many more than encompass the usual cleanup crew. They’re choosing to be here, to see retribution dished out.
He’s dead in seconds. It’s a more merciful death than he deserved after seeing the state of Konstantin’s body.
Once the blood slows to a trickle, I spin and stalk toward the doors. I pause long enough to bark a few orders to Roman and Grigoriy about dealing with the body, and then I’m outside, pulling up in deep lungfuls of freezing, fresh air. The temperature burns my lungs and makes my eyes water. I embrace both stings and the reminder they include—I’m alive.
People say life is short. But that’s a subjective measure of time. A miserable existence can last forever. Happiness can pass in the blink of an eye.
My mortality has always felt tenuous. I think it’s impossible to spend time in dangerous situations—tochooseto spend time in dangerous situations—and not gain a desperate appreciation for how precious life is. To not kill someone and think about how easily that could be your flesh beneath the blade or surrounding the bullet. Your blood on the floor or your eyes turning glassy.
The feeling is nothing new, but something has changed since the last time I took a life.
I have something to live for. I have a son I want to watch grow up even if I’m not there in person to witness it.
I want to see who Leo becomes.
I want more time with him, to be the one who teaches him how to talk to girls and drive a car.
The drive back to the estate is on autopilot.
I scan my fingerprint at the gate and park just outside the front door. It’s late—all the staff should be asleep.
I disable the alarm, walk inside, and set it again.
My mother always chooses to stay in the opposite wing, so I’m not worried about encountering her. Part of me wants to head to my office for a drink, but I can feel how stiff my clothing is. I’m covered with blood and need to shower. Residual adrenaline hums in my veins and heightens my senses. Usually, I’d be tempted to go to my apartment in Moscow and call for some company.
But…I don’t want to. I didn’t want to leave Lyla at the dinner table earlier when I got the call that one of Dmitriy’s men was captured, and I was eager to return. I try not to read into either feeling, but I know exactly what they mean.
My steps up the stairs are soundless. I glance down the hall that leads to the rooms where Leo and Lyla are staying. Against my better judgment, I turn that way first. I pass Lyla’s room and stop outside Leo’s.
The door is already cracked. I push it open another couple of inches. The heavy cloud hanging over me lightens as I look at my son’s sleeping face.
Leo is fast asleep, his mouth slightly open and his hair sticking up at random angles as his chest rises and falls in even, deep breaths. I stare at him for a few minutes, not realizing I’m smiling at the sight until my cheeks start to hurt.
I close his door silently and retrace my steps, passing Lyla’s closed door before turning down the hallway that leads to my suite.
The door that leads to my bedroom isn’t closed the way I’m expecting.
It’s half open, light spilling out and illuminating a sliver of the hallway’s carpet.
