Page 36 of Obsessive Vows

"The Odessa situation," Anton elaborates unnecessarily. "Word's spread about how you handled it."

Three weeks ago: a warehouse on the outskirts of Odessa, a suspected informant, and five of Markov's men looking to me for leadership. The memory flashes between frames of my family's murder—another burden to carry.

The man tied to the chair, face already swollen from preliminary questioning. His pleading eyes finding mine as I enter, perhaps seeing something different there than in the others.

"Viktor, he's not talking," Dmitri says, the hulking enforcer deferring to me despite his twenty years' seniority. "Thought you might have better techniques."

The careful calculation—how much brutality is enough to maintain my cover without destroying what remains of my soul? The cold mask settling over my features as I remove my jacket, folding it with deliberate precision over a nearby crate.

"Leave us," I order, my voice carrying the aristocratic authority inherited from generations of Bratva nobility—the very lineage Markov sought to erase from history.

Dmitri hesitates. "Markov wanted witnesses."

I turn slowly, fixing him with a stare that's sent braver men retreating. "Do I look like I require supervision, Dmitri Alekseyevich?"

His massive frame seems to shrink slightly. "No, of course not. We'll be outside." He gestures to the others, who follow without question.

When the door closes, I approach the informant, placing my phone on a crate with the voice recorder activated. If he knows anything about Markov's operations that might prove useful, I need that information before proceeding.

"I'm going to ask you questions," I tell him quietly. "You're going to scream periodically regardless of whether you answer. Understood?"

Confusion replaces terror in his eyes. "What?"

"Markov sent me to extract information and administer punishment. I'll do one of those things. Which it is depends on your cooperation."

Understanding dawns. "You're not with them. Not really."

"Answer carefully," I warn, aware that the wrong words overheard through the door would be a death sentence for us both. "Who are you reporting to?"

For the next twenty minutes, he provides names, dates, details of a rival Bratva faction's attempts to infiltrate Markov's operation. Nothing useful for my purpose, but valuable currency within the organization. Between responses, he screams on cue—a convincing performance born of genuine pain from his earlier treatment.

When he's told me everything, the grim reality settles between us. We both know how this ends—must end—if my cover is to remain intact.

"They'll check for a pulse," I tell him, genuine regret coloring my voice.

He nods, fear returning but tempered with resignation. "Make it quick then. And—" he swallows hard. "My sister in Kharkiv. She has children."

"I'll see they're taken care of," I promise. One more debt to pay when this is over, if I survive.

I position myself behind him, hands moving to his neck in what appears to be a brutal chokehold. To the observers who will eventually enter, it will look like I strangled him in rage. In reality, I apply precise pressure to the carotid arteries—a technique learned during special forces training that renders unconsciousness in seconds, death in minutes, but offers a narrow window where resuscitation remains possible.

When the others return, they find what they expect—a motionless informant and a cold-eyed Viktor Baranov straightening his cuffs as if disposing of traitors is merely an unpleasant task that wrinkled his shirt.

What they don't see is the card slipped into the man's pocket with contact information for an FSB agent who owes me a favor—someone who will arrive after the Bratva departs to retrieve a body that isn't quite dead, to arrange a new identity and protection for a sister and her children in Kharkiv.

"Impressive," Dmitri says, checking for a pulse and finding none. "Not even blood spatter on your shoes. That's... clean."

"Efficiency isn't messy," I reply, retrieving my jacket. "Report to Markov. I have other business to attend to."

As I leave, I feel their eyes tracking me—fear and newfound respect in equal measure. The perfect balance for advancing through Bratva ranks.

"Viktor." Anton's voice pulls me back to the present. "You disappeared again. This is happening more frequently."

I stand, rolling my shoulders to release the tension that always accompanies these memories. "I'm fine."

"You're not," he counters bluntly. "And that night in Paris isn't helping your focus."

At the mention of Paris, a different memory intrudes—softer, more dangerous in its own way.

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