Day nine, morning…

After I left Willow, I avoided her for five days and nights.

I check in with Jasha every day, make sure that she’s eating the food that is sent to her.

I hear that despite their best efforts, Lukas got away from Marya and Kris and found Willow, and she spent an hour walking around the gardens holding his hand.

Jasha says she spends a lot of her time reading and sketching.

Once, she ran into my man Jon in the hallway and asked if she could call Helenka and Yuri. He relayed the message to me. I ignored it.

Other than reports from Jasha, she is a ghost to me. I don’t even watch her on the video cameras. It wouldn’t be enough.

It’s ridiculous how much effort it’s taking for me to stay away from her. I could try to distract myself. I have plenty of women available to me; one phone call, and a gorgeous, willing submissive would be at my house within the hour, kneeling in my playroom, crying out with pleasure as I plied the whip.

The thought makes me cold. When I jerk off, Willow’s face swims in front of me. I do not make the call.

Having Willow in the house isn’t making me feel like I thought it would. I’ve taken revenge many times over the years, on the men and women who’ve betrayed me, on the people who destroyed my family while we were weak. And it was always satisfying. It warmed me, it thawed the frozen place inside me while I was doing it, while I watched the light fade from their eyes. And I felt warm for days afterward, and the darkness was kept at bay.

But there is something different about Willow.

Her pure, innocent soul, her willingness to sacrifice herself for that worthless whore Galina, the way she craves me and takes what I dish out to her and whimpers for more, no matter how I degrade her… Something about her rattles me. It makes me want things. It makes me imagine the impossible.

She isn’t staying here, and I am not claiming her. I could do that – I could make her want me, make her love me. But that was never the plan. Taking her was part of a message I’m sending to my enemies. Treating her gently, making her mine, would be admitting weakness on a level that would be the death of who I am as a man.

No. I will do what I planned from the beginning.

Best-case scenario, her uncle pays me back and I don’t have to kill her. And the best-case scenario for her is still a nightmare. Because when I free her, I’ll be sending her home to a lifetime of punishment from her family, for crimes she didn’t commit.

Mikhail and Karl are gossipy little bitches, and they’ve been telling everyone what I’m doing to her. That’s the only reason why the backstabbing traitors are here in my house – to bear witness. And because of them and their big mouths, everybody will know what I’ve done to Willow.

When I set her free, the Toporovs will not welcome her with open arms. Her family will reject her for being sullied, tainted. She doesn’t expect that, because she would never think like that. She doesn’t judge, and she forgives and forgives and forgives.

But she is ruined as far as they are concerned, and her uncles cannot let her go live her life, a walking testament to their shame. They will either quietly eliminate her or quickly marry her off to someone who will keep her locked up behind closed doors and put baby after baby in her, until her soul shrivels and dies.

I have destroyed yet another Toporov. She’s a dead woman walking. She just doesn’t know it yet.

I try to draw pleasure from that thought, and fail.

It doesn’t matter. My feelings for her don’t matter. And yes, I am forced to admit that I am developing feelings for her that go beyond simple lust. But she is only a means to an end, and there is no way to fit her into my master plan.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway. I don’t care what happens to her after I’m done with her.

Don’t you? a tormenting voice taunts me. Don’t you want to bruise her, then kiss those bruises and watch her cry with gratitude and relief? Don’t you want to terrify her, then gather her in your arms and comfort her? Don’t you want to claim her for yourself, and kill any man who looks at her with lust in his eyes? Make her scream your name as you come inside her?

There is no point in lying to myself. A part of me wants that.

So which will it be for her?

Mercy?

Torture?

Revenge?

I close my eyes. I take control of my breathing and my pulse. I slow my heartrate down.

And I realize that I truly don’t know the answer.

* * *

The entire day has passed by in a haze of distraction. I’m getting increasingly frustrated as I head outside to meet up with Feodyr, Jasha, Maks and Slavik. My thoughts are bouncing around like grease on a hot griddle.

They’re sitting under the shade of an enormous canvas umbrella, at a wrought-iron table with a top made of hand-laid decorative tile mosaic. The view of the vast blue ocean, framed by palm trees, is like a travel poster. A maid hovers in the background, out of earshot but ready to leap to attention if they want anything to eat or drink. My bartender is standing at the fully stocked bar, and classical music drifts from hidden speakers. A perfumed breeze carries the scent of thousands of roses, and my gardens stretch farther than I can see.

Imagine a group of street rats like us living like this. Finding moldy shreds of half eaten blini in a dumpster used to be the highlight of our day.

There are platters and bowls of food on the table. Knishes, Olivier salad, khachapuri bread boats filled with melted cheese.

I glance at the bartender. He knows what each of us likes to drink. He rushes over with a glass of vodka on the rocks, Stoli Elit, then just as quickly moves back to his station.

Feodyr’s been hitting the whiskey hard. His eyes are bloodshot, and I can smell it on his sweat. That’s happening more frequently these days. I’m not the only one unravelling.

Jasha glances up from his laptop as I sit down.

“Vilyat has just sold several original pieces of artwork and most of his wife’s jewelry,” he says. “He’s almost got enough to pay us back now. It’s getting harder to gather information on him, though. He’s being cautious. He knows we have eyes and ears everywhere. He’s stopped talking about his future plans with anybody, even his closest men.”

I nod.

“We’re almost there,” I say.

“I hope Edik or Latvi don’t get to him first,” Slavik grumbles, and bites into a pirozhki.

I shrug. “If they do, they’ll make it slow and ugly,” I say. “Latvi probably won’t live long enough to get to him anyway. We’ve got the girl in place.” I grin at the thought of what I have planned for Latvi. Edik and Latvi weren’t directly responsible for my brother’s death, but they knew about what Vilyat and Willow’s father Vasily were doing, and they did nothing about it. And their last name is Toporov.

I don’t personally need to kill Vilyat. I’ve been killing him for a year now. He’s a shell of what he once was. He barely sleeps, he has screaming nightmares, he has lost so much weight his clothes hang off him. He has deep circles under his eyes. He’s developed two ulcers.

He has no friends left, and lives in fear every waking minute of the day.

Like me and Pyotr once did.

Jasha takes a long, thoughtful pull on his ice-cold beer.

“Have you ever thought about what we’ll do when we’re finished with this?” he asks me.

“What do you mean?” Feodyr growls, and he empties his glass of whiskey with one gulp and signals to the bartender. “Bring me the bottle!” he yells.

We wait until the bartender has put the bottle down on the table and retreated.

“I mean, we are almost at the end. We have accomplished everything we set out to do,” Jasha says. “Where do we go from here?”

It’s true. I gathered my troops and built up this empire for one reason: revenge. We’ve lived our lives to carry out our mission. We’ve taken our enemies out one by one. The government officials who were bribed to look the other way. The gangs who hurt us when we were weak and vulnerable.

They never knew who we were, or why we were doing it. If the men on our hit list had known the connection, then the remaining targets would have known to go into hiding. To take extra precautions.

I have one rule for my assassinations. The targets have to die slow, agonizing, deaths.

Now, there are only a few names left on the list. A mayor and a few officials in the small town I grew up in. Vilyat and his two surviving brothers.

“It will never end, mudak!” Feodyr snapped. He just called Jasha an asshole. This should end well.

Jasha slams his beer down. “What did you just say?”

“Are you going soft?” Feodyr taunts him. “Do you want to settle down and make babies with some whore? Maybe you could take up gardening.”

Jasha leaps to his feet. “I’ll show you soft, you pussy little bitch.”

And they’re rolling around on the tile, raining blows on each other.

I sip my alcohol and let them fight for a bit, then gesture at Slavik and Maks, who pull them apart.

“Stop!” I shout at them. “We’ve discussed this. We’re nearing the end of our quest, but we’ve still got a business to run. We’ll still take out anyone who gets in our way.” We’ll dial back on some of our more hardcore activity, but we’ll still be in shipping, in distribution. We’ll still be fighting to maintain our position at the top of the heap. We won’t go soft.

But it will be different, I know that. For more years than I care to count, revenge has been our oxygen, our sunlight, our meat and drink. What will life be like without serving that higher purpose? We won’t know until the last enemy falls.

I think that’s behind Feodyr’s increasing surliness these days. What is it that they say about Alexander the Great? When Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer.

Feodyr doesn’t seem to hear me. He sways on his feet. His mouth and nose are bleeding and his eyes are crazed.

He needs a distraction as much as I do.

“Go shower, asshole,” I snap at him. “We’re going out tonight, and I need you to be on top of your game.”

An hour later, he’s cleaned up and changed, and we’re on my helicopter, heading to El Diamonte Casino in Las Vegas. I’ve brought Feodyr, Maks, Slavik and Karl. Men in my position don’t go anywhere without a show of muscle. It’s for the prestige as much as for the protection. If we want to be taken seriously, if we want to be able to do business, we are expected to behave in certain ways, wear certain clothes, drink the most expensive liquor, screw the most beautiful women. And we always travel with an entourage. Anyone who isn’t important enough to be a target isn’t important enough to do business with.

El Diamonte is bustling tonight as always, the usual crowd of chorus girls and supermodels, mobsters, movie stars and oligarchs.

I order drinks all round, and throw back vodka like it’s water.

I play roulette, and I can’t seem to lose. As a colorful mountain of chips piles up in front of me, I become irresistible. Gorgeous women crowd around me, rubbing their fake tits against my arms. I elbow them away and snarl.

I came here planning to fuck my way through three or four prostitutes. I can’t get hard for any of them. They’re fake, they’re greedy, they wouldn’t know loyalty if the dictionary definition was tattooed inside their eyelids. They’re the opposite of the woman I’m trying not to think about.

My men are taking turns letting women service them in an exclusive, members-only room. Right now, Feodyr is by my side. He’s sober, as per my orders, although his eyes are a little bloodshot.

One of the Italians, Carmelo, who owns a shipping business in a territory near mine, approaches me as I head to the bar.

“What?” I growl.

“Nice work you’re doing, with the Toporov family,” Carmelo says.

I lean against the bar, and the bartender hurries over with a vodka for me and a soda water for Feodyr.

“And?” I prod him. Get this over with and get away from me.

Carmelo clears his throat. “That girl you got? Willow? How much you want for her when you’re done with her?”

“The fuck you talking about?” It comes out in a snarl.

“I hear how you dress her up and walk her around. Let everyone use her.” His bulging eyes glow at the thought. I’m sure he’s hard right now.

So Karl and Mikhail haven’t just been advertising for me, they’ve been exaggerating. Probably claiming they’ve both had her. That suits my purposes perfectly.

Except the thought of people thinking about Willow like that fills me with irrational rage.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He leers at me. “I wouldn’t mind a piece of that action.”

He reeks of sweat and expensive cologne poured on by the gallon. The thought of him tearing into little Willow makes me want to slice his face off. I restrain my temper, but just barely. I don’t want to go to war with the Italians right now, not when I’m busy destroying the Toporov family. One massacre at a time.

“That’s a perk for those who work for me. You don’t work for me.” I drain my vodka in one long pull and slam the empty glass down on the bar. I turn and walk away. He keeps pace.

Feodyr scowls at him. He doesn’t take the hint.

“One million dollars. And I’d dispose of the evidence when me and my friends were done with her.” He leers. “I got a hog farm. She’d make some tasty sausage.”

I glance at him sideways, and it takes all my self-control not to end him right there. “If you want to live, don’t mention it again.”

He is too stupid to know how much danger he’s in. He just shrugs. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Yes, I do.

And if he ever comes near Willow, that knowledge will come in handy.

I turn to Feodyr. “We’re leaving,” I snap at him.

As we stand by the helicopter, with Maks hurrying toward us, Feodyr looks at me, a scowl creasing his forehead. “Sergei. Sir. You’re growing too attached to her. You’re letting her change you, and not in a good way. You should get rid of her while you still can.”

While you still can? What the fuck does that mean?

I whirl on him with a snarl, and he meets my gaze, unafraid. After living in literal hell for years, he does not fear anything, including death.

Images from our past flash before my eyes.

I will not kill him tonight.

I hope.

Instead, I speak to him in the only language he understands. I put my hand on his chest and shove him so hard he staggers back a step. “You question my leadership?” I bark at him. “Maybe you think you could do a better job?”

He throws his hands up in despair. “I don’t want the leadership! I would die for you, Sergei, you know that! I want you to keep your eyes on the prize!”

“I am keeping my eyes on the fucking prize. And Willow is just one little pawn in this game. Whether she lives or dies is of no consequence to our goal. I decide what I want to do with her, when, and how. Mind your own business, and stay the fuck out of mine. Don’t make me say it again. I’d miss you,” I say with a sneer.