I order. I feel bad—this is not exactly in her job description—but I need to deal with other, more pressing matters than the fickle moods of a five-year-old.
The maid nods and wisely retreats without another word. I can hear Niko sniffling long after they have rounded the corner towards his wing of the house. I storm into my office and slam the door shut behind me. I immediately take to pacing back and forth across the carpet, trying to contain my anger.
He’s back. The fucking vigilante is back. He’s still out there, rearing his ugly fucking head again. I want him dead. I want him to suffer for everything he’s done. To my family. To my business.
And now, Faddei is gone because of him. One of our best men out on a simple assignment: get the money this bastard owes us. He would’ve been back by now, had it not been for this vigilante finding his way into the mix.
Every nerve inside of me is on fire. I feel like a viper reeling back, consumed by the urge to strike. My fingers twitch, eager to swipe my desk clean. To break whatever I can get my hands on. I want to destroy this office and everything in it.
There’s a knock at the door, then it opens. One of my soldiers, Miron, coming to report on what he’s heard on the police scanner. My eyes slide to him, narrow and stern.
I don’t say a word, but he gets the message. Speak.
“He’s gone,” he says.
I clench my teeth. “How?”
“I don’t know. The police are saying he left out the back door, but they haven’t found a trace of him yet. He disappeared right before the girl called the cops.”
My hand is lightning quick, snatching up a tumbler half full of whiskey and hurling it towards the wall. It shatters instantly, staining the white wallpaper. Rivulets of amber liquid race down to the carpet, where they’ll inevitably leave stains.
Miron flinches but keeps his eyes trained to the floor.
“Get them,” I order.
“The man and his daughter?”
“Yes. Bring them to me. Quickly.”
Miron nods and excuses himself. A moment later, I hear barked orders in harsh Russian, then thundering footsteps down the hall as more of my men follow after him. I can barely sit still, but I force myself into the chair behind my desk, folding my arms over my chest.
I close my eyes and breathe.
This isn’t the end of things. I know that much. The vigilante may have gotten away again, but this is a blessing in disguise. He thinks it’s safe to come out again. He thinks that I’ve forgotten about him. That he has permission to run through the streets causing problems for people.
The one thing I’ve learned in my time as the boss of the Morozov Bratva is that the arrogance of underestimating an opponent is the quickest way to lose your life.
I’ll let him think he’s won this time. The more confident this man grows, the sloppier his work will become, and the less he’ll be expecting a counterattack. When his ego is properly inflated and his actions grow less and less calculated, that’s when I’ll lay the trap for him.
That’s when he’ll finally understand just how severely he’s fucked himself by coming after me and mine.
This rationalization is what keeps me from destroying any of my other possessions. I continue to breathe slowly and deeply, tightening the reins on the beast just below my surface.
Long minutes pass. When I’m calm again, I open my eyes and sit up straighter.
There’s a timid knock at the door, and I recognize it immediately. Nikolas. I cross the room and open the door to see him clutching his teddy bear to his chest, hair still wet from his bath. His grandfather would have never let us keep something so silly close to us, but it seems so petty to take away one of the only things left that gives him comfort nowadays.
I can never decide how to treat him. It’s a harsh world. Do we teach our children to embrace that? Or do we let them hold onto comfort, wherever it may be found? I used to think these kinds of questions were merely abstract. But now, the world has thrust them upon me in the form of a frightened, traumatized five-year-old boy, and forced me to choose what to do.
“I can’t sleep,” Nikolas says. “I’m scared.”
I sigh. The fight has gone out of me—temporarily, at least. “Come with me,” I say quietly.