Chapter 2: Daniil

"It's not what you think. I swear, I can explain!"

Those pleas were nothing but pathetic words from a fool who thought he'd double-cross me and get away with it.

Jeffery…the fucking idiot used to work for me.

Until he decided to steal.

My eyes pierced through him while I sat there, legs crossed behind my imposing mahogany desk, the surface of which was polished to a mirror finish. The walls of the dimly lit office were lined with dark wood paneling, and a crystal chandelier cast a soft, ambient glow over the room.

The scent of my expensive cigar mingled with the subtle aroma of fine leather from the high-backed swivel chair that I occupied, exuding an air of power and sophistication.

My chair swiveled side to side slightly as I leaned back, inhaling from my cigar and letting a cloud of smoke leave my lips in Jeffery's direction. I watched his mouth move, spilling more useless words, begging for mercy like the fucking coward that he was.

My men had dragged him in a few moments ago, and from his swollen face and bleeding lip, I could tell he hadn't come easy.

"We caught him holed up in a ratty apartment. Had a fake I.D. and everything. I think he was trying to leave the country." My right hand, Andrei Sokolov, dropped Jeffery's documents on my table.

"Hmm. Good work, Andrei."

The Wolkov Bratva was one of the most powerful syndicates in the country—and the most powerful in this city— under my rule. Like my brothers, who also ran things in different cities, I had one man who I trusted to handle things for me.

Andrei was that man. He was a tactical motherfucker—cold and ruthless, cruel and fearless. Which made sense since he worked for me. I was known as the worst in the Bratva in terms of cruelty, but no one said anything because my way worked.

That's why Jeffery pissed me off so much. He knew what it meant to cross me…but he'd done it anyway.

"Where's my money, Jeffery?" I asked, my voice level.

Jeffery trembled as he struggled to find the words. "I…I don't have it, Boss. I…it's not my fault. I didn't plan to take it for good…. I just needed a little extra cash to invest. I was going to put it back once I made the money…but I lost it all. It was bad business."

He began to ramble, but I didn't care for his excuses.

I puffed a plume of smoke into the air, my fingers drumming against the table. "So what you're saying is…you don't have my money."

"Boss…I promise I didn't mean to…. It was a mistake…. I don't know what came over me…" he continued, his words running together in their panic to escape.

Savoring my cigar's rich and complex flavors, I reached for my gun and leveled it at Jeffery.

His eyes went wide, but that was the only reaction he could give before I fired three successive shots into his left kneecap.

The next second, the room was filled with Jeffery's screech of pain.

I blew out some more smoke, placing my gun on my table.

Jeffery cradled his shattered knee, shaking, drooling, and crying. He looked like he might pass out, but he was also too scared to allow himself to.

Pathetic.

I didn't understand why people made stupid choices. He knew this would happen…so why did he still steal from me?

I got to my feet then and went to tower over Jeffery.

"Please," Jeffery said faintly, his voice barely audible as blood leaked from his leg. "Don't kill me."

He's messing up my rug.

Of course, I wouldn't kill him; the man still owed me, and I never gave my enemies the easy way out. Killing him would be merciful, and I was not at all merciful.

In this business, loyalty was a key factor in our dealings, and the Wolkov Bratva wasn't known for its kindness or forgiveness.

We were notorious for our ruthlessness and didn't take betrayal lightly. We always exacted brutal retribution on those who dared to be disloyal.

Jeffery knew that fact, yet he decided to be stupid. He was so pathetic, begging for mercy when he knew that mercy didn't exist in our code—never had, never would.

His pleas were infuriating and disappointing. Since he had the guts to do what he did, he should have had the guts to stomach the consequences.

"Please, show mercy, Boss," he begged, gazing up at me.

"I have wasted lives for far lesser crimes than this." I cocked my head to the side. "What makes you think that I would spare yours?"

Jeffery sobbed, lowering his head.

I sighed and turned away from him, heading back to my desk, where I stubbed my cigar in the ashtray.

"Did you know that in 18th-century Russia, those who betrayed their Tsar often faced a dire fate?" I asked, my voice smooth and eerily calm. "In those times, the punishment for treachery was severe and public."

I turned back to face him, leaning half-seated on the edge of my desk. "Traitors were often given a choice: face the executioner's ax or take their own lives with poison to avoid the shame of public disgrace."

I paused for a moment, watching Jeffrey's face grow paler and paler, both from fear and blood loss.

"Of course," I continued, "the end result was always the same: death. However, the manner of it— that was entirely up to them."

"I won't kill you now, though," I said when I saw his chest begin to heave. "You stole from me, and I want my money back."

My words didn't make him feel better, though.

His eyes went wide again. "B-but I don't have the—"

I cut him off. "You will find it."

Jeffery blinked at me, opening and closing his mouth.

"You have a week to figure it out. If you can't, I will put you in the cages. You will earn me some of that money in underground matches, and when you finally die to the awful tortures those perverts call entertainment, I will harvest your organs to make up the balance."

Jeffery blanched.

He knew what underground cage fighting could look like. He was a good enough fighter, as one had to be when working for the Bratva, but there were monsters in those cages.

"I-I have some property, Boss. Some for my mother and my brother…. I'll get it," he cried out, his lips quivering.

I shrugged. "I don't care how you do it. Just get my money in a week. And after that, you better disappear."

Done with the conversation, I waved a hand to Andrei and returned to my seat.

"Get him out of here," Andrei said to the men. Then, he peered down at my ruined rug. "And take that rug with you."

"Make sure he doesn't die," I added.

"Are you really going to let him live?" Andrei asked once we were alone.

I glanced his way as his phone began to beep. "I shattered his knee. He'll lose that leg. I believe I've gotten my pound of flesh, especially since I'll be getting my money back." I paused, frowning. "What is that awful sound?"

Andrei fished his phone from his pocket. "Sorry, it's an alarm. Shit. You have somewhere to be, Boss."

I had just been about to sit, so I turned back to Andrei with a frown. "What?"

"It's a meeting with our weapon suppliers."

I sighed, grabbing my gun from the table and heading for the door instead.

We both headed to the sleek car outside where the chauffeur was waiting. I was late, but it was fine. They would wait. They always did.

Andrei opened the backseat for me, and I got in. He walked over to the other side and did the same. As the car started to move, Andrei pulled out an embossed card from the inner pocket of his jacket.

He passed it to me, and I accepted it, squinting at the card in my hand. "What's this again?"

"It's an invite to Solenoir's fashion show and after-party."

Solenoir. It was a designer brand we were investing in, helping them get into Russia with our protection.

I cast a disbelieving look in his direction. He should've known better; I didn't fancy such gatherings.

"Not interested," I said bluntly.

"I know you're not interested, Boss," Andrei said. "But you have to go regardless. Remember the deal between the Bratva and this brand. Should that deal be successful, the profit margins will be very high. We have to keep them somewhat happy, and that includes honoring their invites."

Andrei was right. For this deal to come together, I had to accept the invite. I didn't have to like it, but I had to do it out of a sense of obligation.