Page 97 of The Pakhan's Captive
“This is the truth,” Lena says, her voice ringing out clear and unfaltering. “This is ten years of Pyotr Sokolova’s life. It contains the logs, the bank transfers, and the video evidence of the night the previous Pakhan was murdered. It proves that the man sitting in those chains is not a Volkov. He is a parasite who killed his own brother and framed my father to hide his greed.”
A murmur ripples through the room like a physical wave. Dmitri steps forward, plugging the drive into the central system. The massive screens on the wall flicker to life. We watch it again, the footage of Viktor entering my father’s office, the cold-bloodedexecution, the way he callously rearranged the room to point the finger at a man who wasn’t even in the building. We see the decade of offshore accounts, the money stolen from the families, the hits ordered on men who got too close to the truth.
The room shifts. The silence that follows is deafening. I watch the faces of the council members turn from skepticism to a deep, visceral disgust. Viktor’s denials start then, weak, shrill, and impossible.
“It’s a forgery!” Viktor screams, his voice cracking. “The Sokolova girl is a liar! She’s manipulated the data! Razvan, you’re letting a woman destroy our family!”
“Shut up, Viktor,” Mikhail spits, looking at the screens with a look of pure loathing. “The data is corroborated by the bank codes. The video has been authenticated by our technicians. You are a kinslayer. You are a thief. You are a traitor to the Bratva.”
I step toward Viktor, my shadow falling over his pathetic, broken form. “You killed my father,” I say, the words coming out as a low, lethal growl. “You made me hunt an innocent woman. You made me live a lie for five years while you sat at my table and pretended to be my mentor. You are nothing.”
I reach down and unlock his chains. The council watches in silence. They know what this is. This isn’t a trial anymore. This is a sanctioned execution.
“Stand up,” I command. “Stand up and die like a man, even if you never lived like one.”
Viktor stumbles to his feet, his breath coming in jagged gasps. He looks around the room, searching for an ally, but finds only the cold stares of men who have already written his obituary. He looks back at me, and for a split second I see the fox in himreturn. He knows he can’t win a fair fight. He knows I am faster, stronger, and fueled by a decade of repressed rage.
He grunts, a wet chuckle bubbling in his throat. “I have this to say,” he rasps, his voice vibrating with a sudden, jagged energy. “I should have killed you when you were a boy, Razvan. I should have finished the job I started with your father.”
Then he lunges.
It is a desperate, blurring movement. Viktor doesn’t reach for a gun or a holster. He throws his entire weight toward me, his hands empty, his face a mask of pure, primal hatred. I meet him halfway. We collide with the sound of grinding bone and heavy fabric, a mess of snarling fury and ancient grudges.
I’ve spent my life training for this. I catch his first wild swing, the impact jarring my arm, and counter with a hook that sends a spray of his blood across the polished mahogany of the council table. We tumble to the floor, rolling hard. I am faster, younger, and fueled by a decade of repressed rage. I get on top of him, my knees pinning his shoulders to the floor, my hands reaching for his throat to end the lie once and for all.
I have him held down, my focus entirely on the pulse thrumming beneath his skin, the sight of his eyes bulging as I squeeze. I don’t see his hand move. I don’t see the small, ceramic blade, a thin, lethal splinter slide from the hidden sheath in his sleeve into his palm. I don’t see the killing blow he has prepared to drive upward into my heart while I’m exposed.
But Lena does.
In a moment of pure, instinctive love, she throws herself into the gap, her hands slamming into my shoulder with a strength I didn’t know she possessed. As I’m forced back by her weight,Viktor’s arm swipes forward in a vicious, upward arc meant for my chest.
The blade doesn’t hit me. It sinks deep into her side, buried to the hilt in the soft tissue just below her ribs.
The world stops. The sound of the room vanishes, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in my ears that drowns out the gasps of the council.
I watch the shock ripple across Lena’s face, the way her breath leaves her in a sudden, silent puff of white. I see her knees buckle, the sharp black fabric of her suit instantly turning a dark, wet crimson as the blood begins to pour.
“Lena!”
The sound that rips out of my throat isn’t human. My world crashes. Everything I’ve fought for, every promise I made to her in the guest house, every hope I had for a future—it all ends in the second her body starts to tilt toward the floor.
Viktor is laughing. It’s a wet, hysterical sound. “If I go to hell, Razvan, I’m taking your heart with me!”
I reach him before she even hits the ground. I want to feel him die. I grab his throat with both hands, my fingers sinking into his flesh. I slam him back against the council table, the mahogany cracking under the force.
I squeeze hard, the sound of my heart pumping fast and hard blasting in my ears and all I can see is red. I feel his windpipe collapse under my thumbs. Viktor’s eyes bulge, his hands clawing at my wrists, but I am made of stone.
I pull my right hand back and smash my fist into his face, over and over again. I hear the wet crunch of his cheekboneshattering. I hear his jaw snap. I don’t stop. I hit him until his face is no longer a face, just a red, pulpy mass of bone and brain matter.
With one final, primal roar, I twist his head. The snap of his neck is the loudest sound I’ve ever heard. His body goes limp, his eyes staring at nothing, his life extinguished in a gory, brutal mess on the council floor. I drop him like a piece of trash. He is nothing. He is gone.
But it doesn’t matter. The vengeance tastes like ash because the world is still wrong.
I turn, my boots sliding in the blood on the floor. Lena is down. She’s curled on her side, her hands pressed against the wound, blood seeping through her fingers and pooling on the ancient wood of the chamber. Dmitri is already there, shouting for the medics, but his voice sounds miles away.
I collapse next to her, my knees hitting the floor with a bone-jarring thud. Pain soars through my body but I hardly register it.
My hands are shaking so hard I can barely touch her. I reach out, my fingers slick with Viktor’s blood, and cup her face. She’s so pale. Her eyes are open, but they are unfocused, drifting toward the high ceiling.
