Mikhail’s POV

The flames rose high into the night sky, licking the air with a hunger that matched the rage boiling in Mikhail’s veins. Smoke curled into the wind, carrying the scent of burning money, charred wood, and wasted fortune.

His fortune. His shipment. His power.

Gone.

His men stood frozen at the docks, fear etched onto their faces as they watched millions of dollars worth of weapons and cash turn to ash.

Mikhail stood in the center of the carnage, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His fists trembled at his sides. His breath came in ragged, furious bursts.

Damien Volkov.

That filthy, ruthless bastard.

“Who let this happen?!” he roared, his voice a storm of fury.

His men flinched. No one dared to speak.

Mikhail turned on them, his cold eyes glinting like a predator’s. The nearest man—a lieutenant—opened his mouth, perhaps to stammer out an excuse, but before he could, Mikhail pulled out his gun and fired.

The bullet ripped through the man’s skull. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Silence followed.

The others didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

Mikhail exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face. Control. He needed to regain control.

Damien thought this was a victory? That burning his money would cripple him?

He was wrong.

He would repay this insult. With blood.

And he knew exactly how to do it.

A commotion at the far end of the warehouse caught his attention. A few of his men rushed toward him, dragging a body between them.

Mikhail raised an eyebrow.

Then he saw who it was.

Elijah Carter.

Blood dripped from his temple. His suit was torn, his arms restrained, his body limp but still breathing.

Mikhail let out a slow, amused chuckle.

“Oh,” he mused, stepping closer. His men dropped Elijah onto the cold concrete floor at his feet. “This is unexpected.”

Elijah groaned, barely conscious. Mikhail crouched down, gripping his chin and forcing his head up.

“You just couldn’t stay away, could you?” Mikhail’s voice was smooth, taunting. “Tell me, Carter… was this a suicide mission? Or were you just desperate to impress Valarie?”

At the mention of her name, Elijah’s bloodied eyes flickered open, blazing with weak defiance.

Mikhail grinned.

Ah, this was perfect.

First, Damien burned his fortune.

Now, he had Valarie’s lover at his mercy.

His lips curled into a smirk as an idea twisted in his mind—dark, cruel, and oh-so satisfying.

He stood, adjusting his suit, towering over Elijah’s broken form.

“Change of plans,” he said to his men, voice dripping with sinister amusement. “We’re not killing him.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances.

Mikhail rolled his shoulders, the fire of vengeance warming his blood. “No, no. That would be too easy.”

He turned, staring out at the burning remains of what Damien had stolen from him.

He was going to return the favor.

Not with money.

Not with shipments.

But with suffering.

Volkov and the Ivanovs had no idea what was coming for them.

******

The room was cold. Dimly lit. The scent of blood clung to the air like a sick perfume.

Mikhail leaned back in his chair, watching the man tied to the steel frame of a chair in the center of the room. Elijah Carter.

The former officer was barely conscious, his body slumped forward, blood dripping from a deep gash on his temple. His once-pristine dress shirt was torn, soaked in red, clinging to his battered skin. His breathing was ragged, uneven.

Mikhail smirked, tapping his fingers idly against the table beside him.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked, raising a hand.

Elijah lifted his head slightly, eyes hazy with pain and exhaustion. He didn’t answer.

Mikhail sighed. “That’s a shame. I was hoping you’d still have some fight left in you.”

He stood, strolling lazily toward the broken man. Then, with no warning, he grabbed Elijah’s hair and yanked his head back.

Elijah groaned in pain but clenched his jaw, refusing to make a sound beyond that.

Mikhail chuckled. “Still trying to act strong?” He tilted his head, amused. “You do realize you lost, don’t you?”

Elijah spat blood onto the floor, his lips curling in defiance. “Go to hell.”

Mikhail’s smirk widened. “Oh, I intend to. But not before I take you with me.”

He released Elijah’s hair, letting his head drop forward again. Then, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, thin blade.

The glint of the knife in the dim light made Elijah’s shoulders tense.

“Do you know what I love most about knives?” Mikhail mused, running the cool metal along the bruised skin of Elijah’s forearm. “Unlike bullets, they let you take your time.”

Without hesitation, he pressed down.

A sharp, clean slice. Skin splitting. Blood bubbling to the surface.

Elijah gritted his teeth, his body trembling from the sharp pain, but he didn’t scream.

Mikhail grinned, dragging the knife lower, down to Elijah’s wrist. “No reaction? Tsk. You’re no fun.”

With a flick of his wrist, he sliced again—deeper.

Elijah hissed, fingers twitching against the restraints. Blood dripped onto the concrete floor beneath him.

Mikhail laughed. “There it is.”

He wiped the blade clean on Elijah’s sleeve before stepping back, admiring his work.

The once-proud detective, reduced to a beaten, bleeding mess.

But this was only the beginning.

Mikhail turned, pacing leisurely as he thought. This wasn’t just about Elijah. No, he had a much grander plan in mind.

He tapped his chin, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

First, he’d use Elijah to lure Valarie.

Valarie Ivanov—the fierce, untouchable officer. The woman who thought she could protect her loved ones. The woman who thought she could win.

She’d come for Elijah. Of course, she would. And when she did… he’d break her.

And once she was broken?

Luca would follow.

The lawyer. The soft-hearted little brother Damien adored.

Damien Volkov had already taken everything from him. His shipments. His money. His men.

Now, Mikhail would take something that truly mattered.

One by one.

He turned back to Elijah, who was barely holding on to consciousness.

“You think you were fighting for her,” Mikhail murmured, crouching beside him. “But in the end… you only led her straight into my hands.”

Elijah’s bloody lips curled into a weak smirk. “She’ll kill you.”

Mikhail grinned. “I’d like to see her try.”

Then, he laughed—low, twisted, obsessive.

Because this time, Volkov wouldn’t be the one holding all the power.