For the last six hours, Valon had sat alone in a dark corner of the building, listening to the one they had thought was the Volkov boy sob. While he usually took pleasure in the sounds of others’ suffering, especially if they were in the ring with him, this was…this felt wrong—not to mention the fact that a girl had been burned alive mere feet away from where he stood. Despite the amount of time that had passed, he could still smell her burning flesh, and even the charred scent of the rest of her, and could still hear the echoes of her screams.

Valon had a decision to make.

Something dark inside of him had festered, true, but even that had been hard for him to watch.

After lighting her up, Jetmir had placed the blindfold back on the boy, walking away from it all without a glimmer of regret.

The others still doubted the words this—what did he say his name was?—boy spouted, but there was no Vor that Valon knew who could withstand this amount of torture and not talk. For what? He was going to die anyway. He seemed to know this, so what more did he have to hide?

Carefully, Valon got to his feet, walking the short distance between them until he was at the boy’s side, staring down at him. The boy knew he was there, could see it in the way his shoulders went tight with fear, but he didn’t beg. He had stopped pleading with them ages ago. It had been Valon’s job to break him, to make him tell what he knew, but he had failed in that regard. Except, Jetmir had failed as well because, despite the gruesome act he had performed, the boy still hadn’t broke.

Which only made Valon believe that he wasn’t who they thought he was.

When they’d put the blades through his shirt, into his chest where his stars were meant to be, they had yet to be removed, and now that Valon was thinking about it, no one had bothered to check to make sure they were there.

Now was the time to change that.

With a jerk of his hand, he dislodged one of the knives, wiping the blade off on his jeans. The boy tried to stay silent, gritting his teeth against the pain, but that added pain made him cry out, lurching back, trying to escape, but there wasn’t anywhere for him to go. Deciding it was best to get the other out as quickly as possible, Valon fisted the other free and repeated the process.

Blood, both old and new, coated the front of the boy’s shirt—very much like Valon’s—but not fazed by it, he pulled the fabric from his body, revealing the man’s chest for the first time, and promptly cursed.

Nothing.

He even swiped his hands over the areas, smearing the blood further so he could see more clearly, but he wasn’t mistaken. There was nothing there but sliced skin and no hint of a tattoo.

What the fuck?

There had been no reason for them to verify that this person was actually Mishca Volkov. Mikhail nor Viktor had ever made any mention about a twin—unless that was his plan after all. Have them—or Valon in particular—do his dirty work and start a war that they weren’t prepared for.

And more importantly, there was no loyalty. They would more than happily hand Valon over as their pawn since he was the main one who had done most of the damage. From the very beginning, it seemed, this had been a setup, and he would be damned if he stayed here to bear the wrath of the entire fucking Vory v Zakone on his own.

It almost seemed curious that on this day, Fatos had gone with Jetmir for a conversation that Valon hadn’t been privy to…

Leaving him, Valon traveled down the stairs, carefully, not wanting to be heard. Strom was standing guard at the bottom of the staircase, his back to Valon. While he might have, technically, been one of them, Valon knew that he would never be able to leave, especially not with their prisoner still living, and the fact that he held knowledge about all of this.

Palming one of the knives he’d just pulled from the boy’s chest, he crept behind him, and as the man made to turn, Valon struck, using one hand to cover the man’s mouth as he brought the glinting blade around and slit his throat. As the blood sprayed along the walls and floor, Strom could only try to stop the flow to fight Valon off. Either way, he was a dead man.

There was only one other guard left, and with a knife through his throat, he died just as quickly. Valon patted the man down, relieving him of his gun and the set of keys in his pocket.

Outside, Valon checked his watch, knowing he only had a short time before Jetmir and the others would be back, but he needed to get the hell out of there before they did.

Climbing into one of the two cars still parked outside of the warehouse, Valon started it up, speeding out of the lot, heading back the way they had come to get there. In under thirty minutes, Valon was back in the city.

He thought of making a stop first, but with his limited time, he knew he needed to get Loki before anyone realized he was gone.

The safe house was not far from where he was currently, and when he got onto the street, he parked a few blocks down, abandoning the car where it was.

With the gun in hand, he headed into the brownstone, finding the door easy enough. Stepping out of view of the peephole, Valon banged his fist on the door, not stopping even as he heard a shout from the other side.

Marco had always been ill-tempered and prone to irrationality. Today, that was on Valon’s side as the door swung open. Marco, never the wiser, came out blindly, thinking to intimidate whatever unfortunate soul was on the other side.

Without even a single blink, Valon shot him in the face, his gun barely making a noise with the new silencer attached to the end of it.

Stepping over his body, he stuffed the gun in the waistband of his jeans, grabbing Marco by the arms and dragging him back into the apartment, then carefully the door shut. Drawn by the noise, two more appeared and Valon made quick work of them. Struck from behind—as he had left his back to another door as he made his way deeper into the apartment—Valon abandoned the gun and used brute strength, reminding those that had seemed to have forgotten how exactly he had made it here in the first place.

By the time there was no one left, Valon almost felt moved by the blood splattered on his chest.

He could hear whining over the loud television, and for the first time in at least three days, Valon felt a shred of calmness worm its way through him. But before he could let Loki out, he needed to get a few things first. Hunting through the apartment, he emptied the safe of its contents, not a lot by their standards, but enough to give him a head start.

Finished with his task, he went room by room, taking anything—what little there was—that he’d brought with him from Albania before opening the rather small cage they’d stuffed Loki in once Valon was gone.

Loki didn’t jump all over him as he was prone to do if Valon were gone for long periods of time, as if he could sense something was wrong. He just sat alert, waiting for a command.

Valon took one last look at the space, no flicker of emotion hitting him as he eyed the dead bodies that covered the floor.

Leaving them, he headed back to the truck, Loki trailing behind him, hopping into the cab when he got the door open. Starting it up, he pulled out onto the street, not looking back at the old brownstone even when he turned the corner and it finally disappeared out of view.

He drove for a while, formulating a plan as best he could, knowing that he needed to get out of the city before nightfall. While he couldn’t be sure how long it would take for Jetmir or one of his other men to catch up with him, he knew eventually they would, especially since he knew the truth about what happened to the boy.

Before he left, however, he needed to make a phone call. Until he could do that, he needed a change of clothes. Pulling up to the curb, he undressed, tossing his clothes in the back seat, and then looked at Loki.

“Stay.”

He wasn’t the least bit concerned as he walked into the store wearing only a pair of boxer-briefs. At this hour, it was relatively empty. The few associates behind the registers and stocking the shelves gawked as he came in but couldn’t seem to form words as he went hunting through the store, grabbing a pair of jeans and the first shirt he saw that didn’t have a logo on it.

Valon went to the register, slapping enough cash down onto the counter to cover the costs of the clothes as he met the eyes of a young woman, no older than he was, who couldn’t tear her eyes away from his chest. Any other time, he might have been amused, but now, he was annoyed.

“Restroom.” She didn’t seem to hear him, so he repeated, a bit more forcefully, “Restroom.”

She pointed in the general direction, her eyes snapping up to his, and if anything, that only made it worse. Valon was used to the way women reacted to him. He’d slept with enough to know, but—like many parts of him—that attraction, that need for another person. He could turn that off in himself as well.

Heading in the direction she’d pointed, he didn’t stop until he was in the men’s room, the door locked behind him. He went to the sink first, splashing water on his face, over his hands and arms, absently washing away the day as best he could.

Maybe he had always known that it would come to this, or maybe his life was so dismal that he didn’t have to worry about leaving anything behind back home. Everything he valued, he’d brought along with him.

He didn’t know for how long, could be a few hours, could be days, but for the first time in his life, he was finally free of the hell he’d lived for the better part of twenty-three years.

Drying off with the paper towels, he pulled on the clothes, shoving his fingers through his hair to push it back out of his face.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Valon tried to see something other than the monster they created, but with each mark, every imperfection that made up his appearance, he saw the trials he’d endured for a life he never wanted. Valon had never wanted to follow in Ahmeti’s footsteps, knowing what it would ultimately do to him.

Did…

Because at this point, he was already that man, even if he didn’t want to be.

* * *

Lighting up a cigarette, he inhaled the nicotine, holding it in his lungs for several seconds before exhaling and relishing the burn. Loki was asleep on the seat, oblivious to the tension inside of Valon.

He turned the cell phone over in his hands, contemplating what his next move would be and whether it was worth it. He had done some questionable things over the length of his life, more than he had thought himself possible of, but now he had the opportunity to do something good, very much like what he had done for Elena. This was small compared to the damage he had done to some people, but it at least was another way to pay for his sins.

They might have thought he wasn’t listening, but Valon had retained everything they’d said and knew exactly who to call.

Valon was not stupid enough to call Mishca Volkov himself. No, he needed to call someone close to him, but one who wasn’t close to the Pakhan. Hunting through the contacts in the phone, Valon found the name he was looking for and dialed the number.

It rang three times before someone picked up, and the gruff voice on the other end sounded impatient and had a heavy Russian accent.

“Vlad.”

“Tell your boss his brother is dead,” Valon said slowly, laying on his own accent to make sure his voice couldn’t be recognized.

Over the man’s sputtering, he gave him the address repeating it twice to make sure he heard it, then hung up and tossed the phone across the field. That was the thing about people. It didn’t matter that they knew Mishca did not have a brother, but their curiosity would ultimately force them to go and see what Valon had told them.

Today was the last mistake he would ever make for The Organization.

* * *

For the second time, Valon walked toward the tattoo artist, carefully pulling off his shirt as he tossed it in a nearby chair. This time, she was better at hiding her reaction to the scars that covered his back though there were still questions in her eyes.

For the past three months, Valon had come to this place, slowly erasing the physical reminders of his life back in Albania. His hair was growing out once more, concealing the “slave” brand on his scalp, and now with the help of the artist, the long jagged scars were being covered in an intricate back piece, complete with color.

Nicole had done other pieces for him. A week after he left The Organization, he’d wandered into this shop and had a snarling tiger head inked onto his chest. He might not have wanted it this way, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Whether rightfully acknowledged, he was an enforcer as much as Gjarper had been.

If there was one person he missed from that time, it was him. He had helped him in ways that he hadn’t fully understood at the time, but now that he was free and could truly think back, without Gjarper, he didn’t know where he would be.

Nicole pulled on a pair of gloves, pushing her glasses up her nose with the back of her wrist. “Ready to finish this?”

Without a word, Valon climbed on the table, waiting for the first line. It hurt like a bitch, worse than when he was fighting, but he never protested, never took a break, just remained still until their session was up.

He deserved this pain, needed it so that it could erase the painful reminders already embedded in his skin. The scars would always be a part of him until the day he died, but he didn’t need another visual reminder of the person he had been before he had found his way out of the darkness.