Chapter 1: Alexei

"You're late again, Alexei. You trying to make it a habit?"

"Only for you, Dmitri. Gotta keep you on your toes somehow."

I stroll into Dmitri's office, which is more like a cave—a dark, quiet place where no one would dare speak out of turn. Except me, of course . . . okay, and Valentina. I'm no longer his one exception.

The leather chair squeaks as I drop into it, legs stretched out in front of me, hands laced behind my head. The ceiling fan above spins lazily, as if bored with the whole affair.

Dmitri stands behind his desk, staring down at a map laid out in front of him. He doesn't look up. "I don't have time for your games today."

"Who said I was playing?" I drawl, though I know exactly how to push his buttons. It's one of my favorite pastimes, if I'm honest. I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "What's got you all worked up?"

Finally, his cold eyes meet mine. There's that familiar intensity that would make most people break into a sweat. Me? I find it kind of endearing. "Sergei Marakov."

"Ah, Sergei. Our favorite psychopathic father-in-law," I say with a smirk, already feeling the familiar thrill of the hunt. "He's finally poked his head out of the snake pit?"

Dmitri's gaze narrows. "He's on the move, and he's consolidating power. He's more dangerous than ever, and we can't afford to sit back."

I sit up straight, all traces of humor gone. Dmitri might enjoy my antics, but when he's serious like this, I know it's not a drill. "What's the plan?"

He straightens, pushing the map across the desk toward me. "You're not going in alone this time."

I blink, staring at the map, then back at him. "Say that again?"

"Alexei," Dmitri's voice is as steady as the hands he folds behind his back, "you're going to need someone watching your six. This mission is too important to let your . . . methods . . . compromise it."

"Methods," I repeat with a smirk. "You mean my unparalleled charm and finesse."

"I mean your reckless disregard for anything resembling caution."

I let out a low laugh. "You wound me, Dmitri. But fine, who's the unlucky soul?"

"Irina Petrovna," he says, and the name lands between us like a bomb.

The smirk fades. "Irina Petrovna? The Irina Petrovna?"

"The very one," he confirms with an edge of authority that brooks no argument.

I lean back, arms crossed, mind racing. "She's a legend. Heard she's been hunting Sergei for years. Some say she's got a vendetta so deep, she's practically digging her own grave."

"She's the best," Dmitri says, eyes locking onto mine. "And you'll need the best if you're going to survive this."

"Survive?" I raise an eyebrow, letting the word hang in the air. "You're not getting rid of me that easily, Dmitri."

"I wouldn't dare try," he replies, but there's a flicker of something in his expression—maybe concern, maybe something darker. He's good at hiding his cards, but I've played this game long enough to know when the stakes are higher than he's letting on.

"So," I say, leaning back again, the cocky grin returning, "when do I get to meet this Irina?"

Dmitri doesn't smile. He rarely does. "Tonight. I'll send you the details."

I nod, pushing the map back toward him. "Guess I better dust off my Sunday best."

"Alexei," he says, just as I'm about to stand, and there's that note of warning in the way he sounds. "This isn't just another job. Sergei's more dangerous than ever, and Irina . . . she's not like anyone you've worked with before."

I pause, my hand on the back of the chair, looking at him seriously for the first time. "You don't trust her?"

"I trust her to get the job done," he says carefully. "But she's got more scars than you can count, and she doesn't trust easily. You'll have to earn it."

"Challenge accepted," I say with a grin, though inside, I'm already recalculating my approach. Dmitri's warnings aren't to be taken lightly.

"Be careful, Alexei," Dmitri adds, softer this time, almost as if he's talking to himself. "This mission could get you both killed."

"Wouldn't be the first time I've danced with death," I reply, turning to leave. "But don't worry. I've got the best partner, right?"

The door closes behind me, and as I step into the hallway, the thrill of the hunt buzzes in my veins. Irina Petrovna, the woman who's been chasing Sergei for years. This is going to be interesting.

***

The sun's warm rays hit the back of my neck as I walk down the street, my backpack slung over one shoulder, the weight of my textbooks making me lean just a bit to the side. I can still hear the laughter from school echoing in my ears, a joke one of the guys told during lunch replaying in my head. It's been a good day. No pop quizzes, a solid game of soccer during gym, and a promise from Mom that she's making my favorite dinner tonight. Life doesn't get much better than this.

"Dude, you're not serious about joining the soccer team, are you?" My best friend, Mikhail, is walking beside me.

"Why not?" I kick a stray pebble off the sidewalk. "I've got skills."

"You've got the skills of a baby giraffe on ice," he snorts. "Stick to what you're good at—being a math nerd."

"Hey, I can be a math nerd and a soccer star." I punch him lightly on the arm. "I'm multi-talented."

"Sure, sure." Mikhail shakes his head, but he's grinning too. "Just don't cry when you don't make the team."

We round the corner, and there's my street, the same one I've walked a million times. It's quiet, peaceful, the kind of place where nothing bad ever happens. The air smells like freshly cut grass, and a few of the neighbors are out, tending to their lawns or chatting by the mailboxes. I give a wave to Mrs. Petrova, who's pruning her rose bushes with a look of fierce concentration.

"Later, Mikhail," I say as we reach my house. He lives just a few blocks down, so we usually part ways here.

"Later, Alexei. Don't forget, we've got that algebra test tomorrow," he calls over his shoulder as he starts to walk away.

"Like I could forget," I mutter, though I'm still smiling as I head up the driveway.

Just as I'm about to reach the front door, something catches my eye. It's a van parked a little ways down the street. It's nothing special, just an old, beat-up thing with rust spots along the edges. The engine's running, a low, steady hum that seems out of place in the otherwise quiet afternoon. I frown but then shake my head. It's probably just someone waiting for a friend or something.

I'm about to reach for the door handle when the sound of screeching tires makes me freeze. The van lurches forward and speeds up the street towards me. Before I can react, the side door slides open, and three men jump out. I barely have time to register what's happening before one of them grabs me by the arm in a vise-like grip.

"Hey! What—" I try to pull away, but another man clamps a hand over my mouth, shoving a cloth against my face. The smell is sickly sweet, overpowering, and I gag, my vision blurring as I struggle.

My backpack slips off my shoulder, hitting the ground with a dull thud. I twist and kick, trying to break free, but it's like fighting against a brick wall. My heart is hammering in my chest, panic flooding my veins as the world starts to go dark around the edges.

"Got him," one of the men grunts, dragging me toward the van. "Get the door."

The last thing I see is the sky, that endless blue sky, before everything goes black.

I wake up to the sound of the van's engine rumbling beneath me, my head pounding like it's been split open. For a second, I don't know where I am. The floor is cold and hard beneath me, and there's something tight around my wrists and ankles. When I try to move, plastic ties bite into my skin.

Panic surges through me as I blink, trying to focus. It's dark, the only light coming from the small windows at the back of the van, casting long, eerie shadows across the floor. The air smells stale, like sweat and fear, and my stomach churns.

I try to scream, but my throat is raw, my voice coming out as a strangled croak. "Help!"

There's no answer, just the low murmur of voices from the front of the van. They're speaking in Russian, too low for me to make out what they're saying. I struggle against the ties, but they're too tight, so they only cut into my skin. My heart is pounding so hard I think it might burst right out of my chest.

How did this happen? One minute, I'm joking with Mikhail about soccer tryouts, and the next, I'm bound in the back of a van with no idea where I'm being taken. I try to piece together what's going on, but nothing makes sense. I'm just a kid—who would want to hurt me?

The van jerks to a stop, and my heart leaps into my throat. There's the sound of doors slamming, then heavy footsteps. The back doors swing open, and harsh sunlight floods in, blinding me. I squint, trying to make out the shapes of the men standing over me.

"Get him out," one of them orders, gruff and impatient.

Two pairs of hands grab me, yanking me out of the van and onto my feet. My legs are shaky, and I almost collapse, but they hold me up, dragging me across a gravel lot. I stumble, the sharp rocks digging into the soles of my shoes, and I blink against the brightness, trying to get my bearings.

We're in some kind of abandoned industrial area, surrounded by rusted fences and crumbling buildings. The air is thick with the smell of oil and decay. My head is spinning, and I'm starting to feel sick.

"Where are you taking me?" My voice cracks, sounding small and terrified, even to my own ears.

"Shut up," one of the men snaps, shoving me forward. "You'll find out soon enough."

They drag me toward one of the buildings, a squat, gray structure with barred windows and a heavy metal door. One of the men raps on the door, and after a moment, it swings open with a loud creak.

Inside, it's dark and cold, the walls lined with metal shelves and crates. The air is stale, and there's a faint hum of machinery coming from somewhere deep within the building. I'm shoved forward, stumbling over my own feet as I'm led down a narrow hallway.

Finally, we reach a small room at the end of the hall. The door is pushed open, and I'm thrown inside. I hit the floor hard, the breath knocked out of me as I land on my side. The door slams shut behind me, the sound echoing in the small space.

I struggle to sit up, my wrists burning where the ties have rubbed the skin raw. The room is bare, with just four concrete walls and a single flickering light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There's a metal chair bolted to the floor in the center of the room and a small table with a few items on it that I can't make out in the dim light.

My head is throbbing, and I can feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I'm terrified, more scared than I've ever been in my life. I don't understand what's happening, why they've taken me, or what they want.

But then the door opens again, and two men step inside. They're both wearing dark suits, their faces hard and cold. One of them is holding a briefcase, the other a phone. They don't speak to me; they just walk over to the table and start setting things out. I try to push myself further back into the corner.

"Your parents," the man with the phone says suddenly, low and menacing. "They're on their way."

My blood runs cold.

My parents? What do they have to do with this?

"Please," I whisper, my voice shaking. "Let me go."

"Soon enough," he replies, glancing at his watch. "As soon as they get here."

It's maybe an hour later when I hear footsteps echoing down the hallway, growing louder and louder until they stop just outside the door. My whole body tenses, and I strain to hear what's happening. There's a muffled argument, voices raised in anger, and then the door bursts open.

"Alexei!" My mother's voice is frantic and desperate.

I look up, and there she is, standing in the doorway, eyes wide with terror. My father is right behind her, his face pale, and his hands are clenched into fists. For a split second, relief floods through me. They found me. I'm safe.

But then I see the men flanking them, guns drawn, and the realization hits me like a freight train. This isn't a rescue. This is something else. Something much, much worse.

"Mom, Dad," I choke out, struggling to get to my feet. The ties cut deeper into my wrists as I try to pull free. "What's going on? Why are you here?"

"We're going to get you out of here, sweetheart," my mother says, but there's a tremor in her voice that betrays her fear. "Just stay calm."

My father's eyes flick to the men standing beside them, then back to me. "Alexei, listen to me. Whatever happens, you stay quiet, you understand? Don't say a word."

"I—" My voice breaks. "I don't understand. What do they want?"

But he doesn't answer. Instead, he looks at the man with the briefcase, his jaw tight. "Let him go. You have what you want."

The man with the briefcase steps forward, opening it to reveal stacks of money neatly bundled and secured. "This is what we want?" he asks.

My father nods. "It's all there. Now let my son go."

"Your son?" The man laughs, but it's a harsh, bitter sound. "You really don't know, do you? Your son is just a pawn in this game."

My father's face goes white. "What are you talking about?"

The man with the briefcase snaps it shut and hands it to one of the other men. "Your son was born into something he shouldn't have. It's a shame, really. He could have lived a nice, quiet life."

I can see the confusion on my father's face, mirrored by my mother's. But then the man pulls something else out of the briefcase—a small, clear plastic bag filled with white powder. He tosses it onto the table, and my mother's gasp is like a punch to the gut.

"No," she whispers, shaking her head. "No, it's not true. We stopped—"

"You never stop," the man interrupts. "Once you're in, you're in for life."

"What are you talking about?" I shout, my voice cracking as I struggle against the ties. "What is that? What's going on?"

But my mother is crying now, her hands covering her mouth as she stares at the bag on the table. My father's face is a mask of horror, his eyes darting from me to the men holding them at gunpoint.

"This is the price you pay," the man with the briefcase says, his tone almost mocking. "You thought you could get out, but no one gets out alive."

Before I can fully process what he's saying, one of the men pulls the trigger. The gunshot is deafening in the small room, and I watch in horror as my father crumples to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.

"Dad!" I scream, my voice raw and broken.

My mother turns to me, her eyes wide with shock, her mouth moving, but no sound coming out. Then she too collapses, a single shot to the chest. The world tilts on its axis, and I'm screaming, thrashing against the ties, desperate to get to them, but it's too late. They're gone. Just like that, they're gone.

"Take him," the man with the briefcase orders, devoid of any emotion.

I'm barely aware of the hands grabbing me, dragging me out of the room. My mind is a whirl of disbelief, terror, and grief, but most of all, a burning, searing hatred. They killed my parents right in front of me. They killed them, and now I know why.

They were smuggling cocaine. My parents—my mom, who made cookies from scratch, and my dad, who coached my soccer team—were criminals. And now I'm a criminal's son.

The men throw me into the back of the van again, and this time, I don't struggle. I don't have the strength. The van's door slams shut, and the darkness closes in around me. My parents are dead, and I'm alone.

And that's when I realize, with a cold, sick certainty, that I'm never going home again.

***

I take a deep breath, shaking off the memory that's clawing at the edges of my mind. I can't afford to go there, not now. The past is a black hole that I've long since learned to avoid. Sergei Marakov will get what's coming to him. I'll make sure of that. And it won't be Irina Petrovna, with all her righteous vengeance, who gets to deliver the final blow. No, that honor is mine. I've earned it in blood and sweat, and I'll be damned if anyone else takes it from me.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, staring at the rundown building in front of me. The bar is a dump. It's one of those places where the floors stick to your shoes, and the air reeks of cheap beer and bad decisions. I hate places like this. They're reminders of everything rotten in the world, of the filth that people try to drown themselves in when they've got nothing left to lose. But I'm here for a reason, and I'll swallow my disgust, like I've done a thousand times before.

Irina's inside, waiting for me. I've heard all about her. How she's spent years chasing Sergei, how she's carved out a reputation for being relentless, unforgiving. But none of that matters to me. All I care about is getting to Sergei first, putting a bullet in his head, and walking away with the satisfaction of knowing that I finally buried the past where it belongs.

I kill the engine and step out of the car, the cool night air doing nothing to wash away the sour taste in my mouth. The neon sign above the bar flickers weakly, as if even it's ashamed to be seen here. I roll my shoulders, shake out the tension in my neck, and stride toward the entrance.

The moment I step inside, the smell hits me: stale alcohol, smoke, and the faint undertone of sweat. The place is dimly lit, with only a few patrons scattered across the room, hunched over their drinks like they're praying to gods long dead. I push down the revulsion threatening to crawl up my throat and force a casual smile onto my face.

This is just another job. Keep it professional. Keep it clean.

I spot her almost immediately, sitting in a booth in the back, a cigarette held between her fingers. Even from across the room, there's something about her that catches me off guard. She's pretty. No, scratch that, she's stunning in a way that's both effortless and dangerous. The kind of beauty that makes you forget, just for a second, that she could probably kill you without breaking a sweat.

Her eyes are locked on me the moment I walk in, and there's no mistaking the way she sizes me up, like she's already decided I'm not worth her time. I force my legs to move, crossing the sticky floor until I'm standing in front of her.

Up close, she's even more striking. Dark hair pulled back, cold blue eyes that seem to see straight through me, and a face that's all sharp angles and fierce determination. She's trouble. I knew that before I got here, but now it's staring me in the face.

"Mind if I join you?" I say, nodding to the empty seat across from her, trying to keep my tone light, almost playful. Small talk, break the ice, get a read on her.

She doesn't reply right away; she just takes a long drag on her cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a slow, measured exhale. Her eyes never leave mine, and I can feel the weight of her scrutiny, like she's trying to peel away the layers and see what's really underneath.

"You're late," she says finally, like she's already decided she doesn't like what she's found.

I feel a smirk tug at the corner of my mouth. Of course, she's the type to skip right to the point. "Fashionably so," I reply, sliding into the seat across from her.

But she doesn't smile. She doesn't do anything except flick the ash off the end of her cigarette and continue to watch me with those sharp, assessing eyes. I know right then that this partnership, if you can even call it that, is going to be anything but easy. And I wouldn't have it any other way.