8. Chapter 8

8

Leonid

P op. Pop. Pop.

“Boss, I think this is a horrible plan.” Maksim blows another bubble with his gum. Pop.

“ Blyat . One more pop, and I’ll make you eat that gum wrapper.” I lean against the wall, keeping my distance from the ring.

“Just saying. Three hours and still nothing.” Pop. “Guy’s got more lives than my ex-wife’s cat.”

Blood drips onto the canvas. The old man in the ring spits out a tooth, adds it to the growing collection by the corner post. His gray hair is matted red, right eye swollen shut. Still stands.

I built this ring myself. Not for training. Not for sport. Every man deserves one last chance to fight back, to die with honor.

Even my enemies.

Especially my enemies.

The old bastard earned that much.

Dmitry circles him, knuckles split and bruised. For once, the Siberian Slaughterer isn’t smiling.

“Who sent you?” Dmitry’s fist connects with the old man’s ribs. A wet crack echoes through the basement.

The old man crumples, wheezing. Pushes himself up on shaking arms.

“Where’s Clara?”

Same fucking question. Always the same.

“Getting creative with retirement homes, boss?” Maksim pulls out his phone, snaps a picture. “Thought we had an age limit on sparring partners.”

“Shut up.”

The old man’s good eye fixes on me. There’s something in that stare.

“You,” his voice scrapes out. “You took her.”

I look over at Dmitry, who’s cracking his knuckles like he’s warming up for another round. This guy doesn’t know who the fuck he’s dealing with. Either that, or he’s too broken to care.

Maksim’s bouncing on his toes now, amused. “You think he’s had enough? Or should we let him keep asking dumb questions until he bleeds out?”

I shoot him a glance, but the truth is, Maksim’s right. The man’s barely holding on, his limbs trembling as he tries to stay upright. The ring reeks of sweat, blood, and defeat.

But that look . I’ve seen it before. In the mirror, five years ago, when Ludis appeared. The look of pure, unfiltered hatred. The kind that lives in your bones.

His good leg scrapes against the canvas. One step. Another. Blood trails behind him like breadcrumbs as he drags himself toward me, that dead-eyed stare never wavering.

“Where is CLARA!”

Dmitry’s boot comes down on his knee. Another crack.

The old man doesn’t scream. Doesn’t blink.

Dmitry takes a step forward, but I stop him.

“Wait.” I step closer to the ring. “Dmitry.”

“Boss?”

“Look at his hands.”

Maksim stops chewing. Moves in for a better look.

The old man’s fingers. Shamrock tattoo wrapped around his ring finger, edges faded to blue. Old school Irish mark. The kind they gave their most loyal.

“ Der’mo .” Maksim whistles. “No wonder gramps won’t stay down.”

The old man spits blood. Tries to stand again.

“Clara.” His voice is stronger now. “Where is my—”

Dmitry’s fist cuts off the question. The old man finally drops.

“Dmitry.” I fix him with a hard glare.

Dmitry just shrugs, his expression blank, as if he didn’t just knock out a man twice his age. “He wasn’t going to say anything useful. You know it.”

I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to shake the strange feeling creeping up my spine. This guy’s no ordinary captive. The way he keeps getting up, the way he keeps asking about Clara—it’s bizarre. And it’s starting to piss me off.

Maksim stretches, cracking his neck like he’s just woken up from a nap. “So, what now, boss? Want me to drag him out back, or you wanna keep him around for another round of Q&A?”

“Fuck.” I run a hand through my hair. “Check his prints. All databases. I want to know who the hell survived the purge.”

“On it.” Maksim’s already typing. “Hey, boss?”

“What?”

“Think the cleaning crew accepts senior citizen discount?”

I grab his gum pack, throw it across the room.

“Hey…” Maksim stares at his gum pack in the corner. “I just got those.”

“Get him to medical.” I nod at Dmitry. The old man’s chest rises and falls, shallow but steady.

“Boss?” Dmitry’s knuckles crack as he flexes his hands.

“Clean him up. Fix what’s broken.” I step to the edge of the ring. “I want him coherent.”

“Since when do we run a fucking retirement home?” Maksim’s already on his phone, thumbs flying. “ Der’mo . Boss, you need to see this.”

I grab his phone. The screen shows an old file—IRA connections, marked classified. A younger version of our guest stares back. Same dead eyes.

Mitchell Colgrave. Age: 61 Former IRA connections. Explosives expert. Rumored enforcer for the Caldwell family, personal bodyguard to Jake Caldwell.

Jake Caldwell?

I pause, the name tugging at a memory.

A rumor that had floated around after Jake’s death—people whispered that I, The Raven, had killed the heir of the Caldwell family.

I remember laughing at the time, thinking how convenient it was to let that rumor run wild. I never touched Jake Caldwell, but I never denied it . Why should I? Let them think the boogeyman did their dirty work. Good for business, good for fear.

Now, staring at Mitch’s file, it makes sense. This old bastard spent decades guarding Jake Caldwell. And now, after Jake’s gone, he’s what?

Trying to protect Clara?

“Well?” Maksim leans over my shoulder. “Interesting reading material, no?”

“Get Yuri.” I shove the phone back at him. “Tell him to bring his kit.”

“The doctor?” Maksim’s eyebrows shoot up. “Thought we only called him for—”

“Just do it.”

Dmitry hauls the old man up, slinging him over one shoulder. Blood drips onto his shirt.

“And Maksim?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Buy better gum. That cheap shit’s giving me a headache.”

He grins, already dialing. “Only the best for you, Pakhan .”

I watch Dmitry carry our guest out. Too many questions. No fucking answers.

Time to pay Clara Caldwell a visit.

Maybe she’ll be more talkative than her watchdog.