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“Good fucking riddance, if you ask me. At least now the boss will come to his senses. I mean, if he only wanted a pretty younger man to fuck—for Mr. Zhukovsky, I wouldn’t say no to getting down on my knees.”

“That’s fucking weird, man. Speak for yourself. That’s where I draw the line. No man’s coming down my fucking throat. I wouldn’t say no to getting mine sucked, though.”

The world went red-gray at the edges. I grabbed the front door and yanked it open so hard it nearly came off its hinges. The laughter died instantly.

They stared up at me—three men who served under me, who owed me loyalty, who swore in blood to protect me and mine. Yet they were doing the opposite.

“Mr. Zhukovsky!”

I bared my teeth. “You’d better pray to every god you believe in that he’s alive,” I growled, voice low and lethal. “Because if Yuriy Orlov dies tonight, I will bury each of you alive with him to serve him beyond the grave.”

Igor’s face drained of color.

I didn’t wait for excuses that would only insult me.

I turned, motioning to Daniil, Tyom, and Frank. “With me.”

We continued the short distance to the warehouse on foot, since we didn’t know what the situation was. If we alerted them and the men got trigger-happy, our presence could do far more damage. The air vibrated with muffled shouts and rapid bursts of gunfire from inside as we approached from the side. My pulse slammed into my throat, and I could barely breathe.

The steel door was shut tight, padlocked from the inside.

“Blow it now,” I ordered.

Tyom kneeled instantly, pulling a compact breaching charge from his coat, military-grade, controlled blast, designed to take down doors without leveling the entire building. He set it against the hinges, adhesive crackling in the cold.

“Clear,” he warned.

We stepped back.

A sharp thump rattled through the metal, sending dust and rust flying. When the smoke thinned, the door sagged inward, hanging by warped hinges.

I went first, although our security protocol called for me to have a man in the front and back at all times, but I wasn’t waiting another minute to lay eyes on Yuriy. Inside smelled like blood and gunfire. A single overhead bulb swung violently, casting light on the chaotic scene in front of us.

My mind cataloged everything in a single, freezing instant. Arty, dead on the floor, eyes open, blood pooling beneath him. Nico, slumped against a crate, clutching his arm, his face ashen. Zasha, still tied to a chair, shaking, his face bruised but alive.

And Yuriy.

My Yuriy.

On his knees, face covered in blood, one eye nearly swollen shut. Breathing in harsh, broken pulls. Bruno towered over him, gun pointed at Yuriy’s chest.

My heart stopped.

Then restarted as something violent and full of rage, every whisper of the pakhan I was roared awake.

“Stanislav,” Yuriy rasped, lifting his head an inch. “You came.”

Bruno turned, eyes widening. “No—no, he⁠—”

I fired.

The bullet ripped through his thigh, dropping him with a scream. He hit the concrete, gun skittering away.

“Keep them alive,” I barked to my men. “Every last one. I want them conscious. I want them to suffer.”

Tyom moved to free Zasha, whose sob cracked as he met my eyes.

“Yuriy—”