Chapter 2 KOSTYA

Confucius was wrong. I’d only be digging one grave tonight. The one for the dead motherfucker lying on the floor of my basement. It had taken me a decade to find my mother’s killer. The proverbial fly in my soup who had been poisoning me for years was finally no longer alive. I put the knife down on the table next to the chainsaw. The last pieces of light inside of me extinguished. It was all darkness, pitch black now. There was a silence inside me, and it was beautiful. Maybe Sergei had a point. Men like us, the criminal, live in the shadows. We are not quite dark, not quite light. Blood was dripping from my hand and once again I waited for it to happen. Waited for when I would feel a base emotion again. Joy, rage, happiness...anything. All I felt was content, which was a ridiculous feeling for a monumental moment like this. Perhaps it was because this hitman was just the first domino to fall; merely the beginning of the chain. I didn’t have the clout yet to take on the bastard who’d hired him. The man who ruled the state of Denver. A man who was considered to be untouchable. A man who was the worst of the worst; a freaking politician. I would get to him eventually if it was the last thing I did. Maybe then finally I’d feel something, have peace, and find a spark of light in the darkness shrouding my vision. Monsters weren’t born, after all—they were made. And I was one of them. The door cracked open and Vladimir sauntered in, bringing with him the scent of smoke and a hint of gasoline. He glanced at the body. “Good, you’re finished. There’s a situation.” There always was. “Unless the house is on fire, I don’t care right now.” An indescribable look appeared on his face, which was weird. Usually, I could read him like a map, which led down one of two roads; rage or a thirst for violence. Ever since his girl had left him to marry another man, he had an extremely short fuse. Like me, the man lived for vengeance. “Not the house,” Vladimir said. “Then I don’t care.” “You will.” After those ominous words, he simply left. Perhaps the Jamaicans, who believed they could cut in on our gun trade, had set one of our cars on fire. I stepped over the body and followed him outside. As soon as I reached the backyard, the acid smell of burnt flesh hit my nose. It couldn’t be one of our soldiers; Vladimir wouldn’t have been that calm. A sense of foreboding washed over me before I even saw the motionless form on the ground. It wasn’t a man at all. It was the one thing that brought me joy like no human ever could. A few soldiers stood around the still sizzling remains of my dog. They gave me a wide berth when they saw me coming. Never show anyone your pain, Aditya. Pain is for the weak. Only the weak give their enemies tools to use against them. My mentor’s sprout of wisdom resonated deep within me. Of course, the bastard had been flogging me while he spoke those words. He’d been beating the shit out of me for going against one of his damn rules back in Saratov. Basic Navy SEAL training had nothing on Sergei’s boot camp. I towered over Cleo’s remains. My gaze fell on his silver collar a few feet away. They had taken it off so there would be no doubt in my mind whose dog this was. When I continued to stay silent, the soldiers left to return to their job of patrolling the perimeter. I clenched and unclenched my hands. No one would tell any tales about me flipping out over a mutt. I was the one who decided to feel rage, hurt, or whatever the fuck I was supposed to feel. No one else but me. “There’s also another matter.” Vladimir leaned against the wall, lurking there like a gargoyle. “Some woman called, claiming she was your mother’s...” I tuned him out and eyed the remains of my dog again. They’d set him on fire. Someone had fucking set my dog on fire. “The twins know about this?” Vladimir shook his head. “Haven’t told them yet what the Jamaicans did. You know how they feel about animals.” I knew. There was a reason for the legendary stories about their exotic pets. Most of them were no more than that—urban legends. But the stories all had one thing in common: they spoke to the twins’ love for animals. Either of them would kill a man without blinking an eye, but they would never harm a defenseless animal. To them, it was a cardinal sin. Vladimir eyed me closely. “What do you want me to do?” What could a man do when his dog had been burned to a crisp? Apparently, I was digging two graves today, after all. “To get me a shovel.” And grenades. And a whole lot of AK-47s. Lots and lots of them. Tomorrow night, the head figures of the Russian Bratva were gathering at my house. I had to show them I was cool, collected, and in control. But the morning after they left I was setting the city on fire, because we were going to war against the Jamaicans.