Page 52 of Kane
On the sixth floor, three more Presko soldiers step out of an elevator. We’re ready. Ivan drops the first with two suppressed shots to the chest. Kirill takes the second in a brutal hand-to-hand struggle that ends with a knife to the jugular. I put three rounds into the third man before he can raise his weapon.
Blood sprays across the wallpaper.
We step over the bodies without slowing.
“Onward,” I growl, my mind focused solely on the final prize.
The higher we climb, the more tension coils in my muscles. This is it. The man who ordered the deaths of Milo and Loren is only floors away. Every step feels like justice finally catching up.
We reach the penthouse level. The corridor is quieter… thicker carpet, softer lighting, the stench of wealth. Two elite guards stand outside the double doors. Viktor and I take them downsimultaneously with perfectly timed headshots. The bodies slump without a sound.
I kick the doors open.
The luxurious apartment unfolds before us: marble floors, modern art, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city.
Don Presko sits in a large leather armchair near the windows, an old man in a silk robe, surrounded by three more bodyguards who scramble for their weapons the moment we enter.
Chaos erupts.
Gunfire fills the room—suppressed pops from our side, louder cracks from theirs. Kirill takes a graze to the arm but keeps firing. Ivan drops one guard with clinical precision. Viktor puts two rounds into another. I charge forward, shooting the last bodyguard in the knee and then the head as he falls.
“He’s fucking moving,” Ivan cries. “Get to him.”
Presko tries to reach for a hidden gun under the table. I’m on him before he can touch it. I slam my fist into his face, once, twice, feeling cartilage crunch. Then I shoot him in both legs—deliberate, painful wounds. Presko screams, collapsing back into the chair.
“You killed my brothers,” I snarl, pressing the hot barrel of my gun under his chin. “You betrayed everything our families stood for. For what? More territory? More money?”
Presko’s face is pale, twisted in pain, but there’s still defiance in his eyes. “The Kamedov name… was getting too strong,” he spits. “It had to be done.”
Rage explodes through me. I grab him by the collar of his expensive robe and haul him up. He’s lighter than he looks—old, frail, but still carrying the weight of his sins.
I drag Presko across the room toward the balcony doors, kicking them open. Cold night air rushes in.
Viktor, Ivan, and Kirill watch in silence. They know this is mine.
Presko’s eyes widen as I lift him over the railing. His legs kick uselessly, blood dripping down onto the balcony tiles far below.
“This is for Milo,” I growl. “This is for Loren.”
Then I let go.
I watch as Presko falls screaming into the night. The sound cuts off with a sickening impact many stories below.
Justice, raw and final.
I stand at the railing for a long moment, breathing hard, blood cooling on my skin. The city stretches out beneath me, alive, indifferent, forever changed.
My brothers can finally rest. The men who took them have paid.
Viktor steps up beside me. “It’s done.”
I nod slowly. The weight on my chest feels lighter, but not gone. There will be consequences. Retaliation from what remains of the Presko family. New wars to fight. But tonight, vengeance has been served.
I turn away from the balcony, wiping blood from my hands.
“Now,” I say, voice steady, “we go home.”
Home. To William. To my darling boy.
