Page 168 of Cruel Demands

“No.”

Taylor is somewhere injured because of him. My mother is likely terrified. My child may be hurt because Orlov decided they were leverage.

Olga lowers her voice. “If you do this, I cannot protect you.”

“I did not ask you to.”

“I can guarantee he never leaves a cell.”

“You cannot guarantee he never reaches Taylor.”

“I can try.”

“That is no longer enough.”

Orlov jerks against the chair.

“Mikhail, think.”

“I have.”

Olga’s eyes stay fixed on the weapon. “You need him. His organization will survive without him. He can give you names.”

“I already know most of them,” I say. Her eyes narrow. There’s the final confirmation. Not connected to the criminal world. Not compromised by it. Above it. Pakhan.

Orlov sees the decision in my face. “She chose you,” he says quickly. “The American. She escaped, and she came back for your mother.” I lower the gun slightly. “She could have run. She went back. She loves you.”

“I know.”

“You kill me, and you lose everything. You make what she did meaningless.”

I think of Taylor telling me the baby is not a leash. Of her saying I do not know the difference between helping and taking. Of her admitting that she is afraid of me as a man.

Olga takes another step toward me. “Mikhail.”

I look at Orlov. Then at the gun.

Olga is close to shouting now, panic laced through every syllable. “Put it down.”

I return the gun to its holster. Relief flashes across Orlov’s face. Olga exhales.

“You are wrong,” I say. I walk behind him. The tie is wrapped around the chair frame, binding his wrists. I unfasten it.

Orlov laughs shakily. “There. You see? You can still be reasonable.”

I loop the silk around his throat. Olga moves. One of my men steps between us. “Mikhail,” she begs, her voice frantic.

I cross the tie behind Orlov’s neck and pull. His body snaps backward against the chair. He claws at the tie, but his fingers are broken and useless. They mash against it, unable to pull it away from his throat.

Olga shouts for me to stop. Orlov kicks against the floor. I pull harder.

His men will not receive another order. Not from him. Taylor will never again go home to find her room raided or photographs of her throughout the day. My child will never become a message delivered to me through blood.

Orlov’s movements weaken. His heel strikes the concrete once. Then again. Then stops. I keep the tie tight until I am certain. When I release it, his body folds forward.

The room is silent. Olga stares at him, her face drained of blood, her eyes wide. They slide to me, and horror enters her face slowly.

Not because I killed him. Because I picked up the gun. Because I put it away. Because I chose to feel him die. Because Taylor was already safe, and I did it anyway.