70. Chapter 70

70

Dimitri

T he Audi's engine roars, matching the fury burning in my gut as we tear through Chicago's mudak -infested streets. Five vans packed with my best killers flank us, ready to turn this town into a fucking slaughterhouse.

"Boss?" Saveliy's voice cuts in. "Five minutes."

I nod, my jaw clenched tight. "Let's get them out. And no one walks away alive, ponimayu ?"

The men around me nod, their eyes hardening. We've seen more wars than the average fucker, but this time, I'm sweating like a bitch.

Fuck's sake, get a goddamn grip.

I lean back in my seat, watching the city blur past us in a dark streak of lights.

And then, my phone vibrates in my hand. Unknown number. I don't need to answer it to know who it is.

" Poshol na khuy ," I mutter under my breath.

Finally, I think to myself, my finger hovering over the answer button.

I answer, keeping my voice flat. "Speak."

Elena's voice slithers through. "Long time no see, lover."

My grip on the phone tightens. Plastic creaks. For a second, all I see is red, imagining my hands crushing Elena's windpipe.

I swallow the rage, forcing it down. Can't lose my shit. Not now.

"What do you want?" I growl.

"Oh, just catching up," she purrs. "Thought you might want to know… I have the love of your life here. And your cute little baby boy."

The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the gut. My blood turns to ice.

Yob tvoyu mat', what did she say?

My mind goes blank for a second. My baby boy? What the fuck is this suka playing at?

I force myself to breathe, to think. It's bullshit. Has to be. But if she's got Wren and the kid…

My lungs release a deep breath, the air escaping in a slow, silent hiss. Didn't even know I was holding it, but now it feels like a goddamn weight has been lifted.

"It's none of my business," I spit out, hanging up before she can mindfuck me any further.

The phone hits the seat with a crack.

My fists ball up. Wren's face flashes through my mind. Yob tvoyu mat , could it be true?

Oleg's eyes flick to mine in the rearview. "We're here, boss."

My phone vibrates, the screen lighting up with that same unknown number.

Fuck that noise.

"You're gonna die screaming, you fucking suka ," I mutter, shoving the useless piece of plastic into my pocket. First things first.

The slaughterhouse looms ahead, a hulking monster of rust and decay. Graffiti screams across its walls, a rainbow of fuck-yous to a city that's forgotten this shithole exists. Perfect for these Skull Collector bastards to set up shop.

I gesture at Oleg to kill the engine, the car coming to a silent halt. The only sounds are the crunch of gravel under our boots as we step out, weapons ready.

"Split up," I growl, gesturing to the teams. "You know the drill. Silent and deadly, ponimayu ?"

Nods all around. These boys know their shit. Half of them melt into the shadows, moving toward the perimeter on silent feet. The bikers hang back, their rides hidden, waiting for my signal to unleash hell.

I survey the fortress, my jaw clenching tight enough to crack teeth. Main entrances are locked down tighter than a nun's ass. Lookouts posted everywhere, their cigarettes glowing like fireflies in the darkness. Cameras swivel, hungry electronic eyes searching for threats.

" Blyat ," I mutter. This ain't gonna be a walk in the park.

A memory flashes: Wren's laugh, her eyes sparkling as she teased me about being an overprotective mudak . The image twists, morphing into a faceless baby boy, scared and alone in this hellhole. My gut clenches, a mix of rage and something else I can't name burning through my veins.

I grimace, banishing the distracting thoughts like a fucking annoyin' fly. No time for feelings when there's work to be done.

Inside, metal groans and creaks, the wind whistling through broken windows. Ancient conveyor belts hang from the ceiling like giant, rusted snakes. Once, they carried slaughtered cattle. Now? I'd bet my last bullet they're used for a different kind of meat.

The thought of Wren or that kid chained up in there… My fists clench, nails biting into my palms hard enough to draw blood.

"Boss?" Saveliy's voice crackles in my earpiece. "We're in position."

I take a deep breath, tasting rust and decay on my tongue. This is it. No going back now.

"On my mark," I growl, unholstering my gun. The familiar weight grounds me, cold steel against my palm, a promise of the violence to come.

I lock eyes with Oleg, see the same hunger for blood reflected there. A feral grin spreads across my face.

"Let's go hunting."

Scanning the perimeter, my eyes lock onto a forgotten loading dock. Yebat , these mudaks got sloppy. One lone guard, probably half-asleep on his feet. Amateur hour.

I signal to my team, fingers dancing in the air. They nod, understanding without a word. We move like shadows, boots barely whispering against the gravel.

The guard never sees it coming. Oleg's behind him in a blink, hand clamped over his mouth. A quick, savage twist and the svoloch crumples like a puppet with cut strings.

" Khorosho ," I mutter, sliding past the cooling corpse.

We slip inside, and blyat , the stench hits me like a freight train. Decay, grease, and something else. Something that makes my stomach churn. Blood. Old and new.

Dim lights flicker, casting twisted shadows on walls stained with God-knows-what. Rusted hooks dangle from the ceiling like demented wind chimes. Cages line one wall, reminding me this ain't no fucking petting zoo.

" Chert voz'mi ," Saveliy growls, his eyes glinting with barely contained rage.

I nod, seeing the same bloodlust mirrored in his face. These boys aren't scared; they're hungry for violence.

But something inside me twists. Blyat , this feels different. Used to be, I'd be riding high on the promise of blood and pain. Now? All I can think about is Wren's face, her laugh. And that kid… my son?

Stay focused, you moron. You're here for one thing only: to fuck up anyone who gets in your way.

I motion to the team, fingers sketching out positions. They scatter, melting into the shadows like the trained killers they are. The air's thick with anticipation, the calm before the bloodbath.

My phone vibrates. Kakogo khrena? I'd turned the fucker off. A text lights up the screen:

Here's a little sentimental gift for you, mudak." - Elena

Another buzz. A picture loads, and blyat , it's like a punch to the gut. A toddler, barely two years old, stares back at me with the same ice-blue eyes I see every morning. That face… It's mine in miniature, no mistaking it. My heart stops, then kicks into overdrive.

One more message pops up:

Guess slitting your little boy's throat will make my night, D. Keep me waiting, and I'll start with his fingers. Maybe send you a few as souvenirs.

My vision blurs red.