Page 82 of Filthy Little Fix
The doctor cleans his metal forceps. Luca got stitches. "I would recommend you rest, sir," the doctor says. His voice dies with each word as Luca glares at him.
"Sal's family," I say, ignoring the doctor. "Find them."
He doesn't question it. He knows we need to follow protocol regardless of who disappears. Luca stands, leaving the doctor to shrink into himself, and pulls out his phone, walking out of the mansion. He winces in pain. If he weren't able to be functional, he would have said so. I let him go.
"Does Dmitry know yet?" I ask Svetlana.
She nods. "He's on his way. But the security systems are compromised. We can't track their entry point."
"They knew," I state. "The rat gave them the keys. It doesn't matter. Every one of them will be dismembered until Nyx's whereabouts are revealed."
Rage bubbled inside me. They touched what is mine. That son of a bitch drives me crazy, but he'smyproblem. No one else has that right.
"I want every camera, every access log, every motion sensor from the last month turned inside out," I order, turning to the men who remained, many injured, but all with their eyes fixed on me. "If there's a single fingerprint, I want it. And if there isn't..."
Svetlana flinches. She understands the implications. Blind retaliation means blood. A lot of it.
"And the Malakovs?" she asks.
"The Malakovs are the main target. They will pay for this. Every property, every street they think they control, every man.They will regret the day they thought they could turn my fucking house upside down and take what's mine."
The air smells of broken plaster, gunpowder, and the sweet, metallic scent of cooling blood. Blood doesn't stain marble if you clean it fast enough. My men move like frightened ghosts, cleaning up the mess, collecting bullet casings as if they were seashells on a beach. They look at the floor, at the walls, anywhere but at the earthquake's epicenter. Me.
They took what is mine.
That phrase is an echo. A goddamn chorus in my head. They took the only thing in this fucked-up world that makes no sense. The only thing that makes me question if the control is real or just a joke.
Svetlana and Dmitry, with their spreadsheets and projections, will never understand that. He's an addiction. He's the stupid duck song that plays in your head in the middle of a board meeting. He's fucking insanity staring back at you with pale eyes and asking for more.
Dmitry arrives. Impeccable, as always, his gray suit without a single crease. He looks like an expensive watch ad that just walked onto the set of a massacre. He analyzes the destruction with a calmness that makes me want to vomit.
"A precise response is needed," he says quietly. "We need to identify the exact cell that did this. A broad retaliation exposes us to an all-out war. Are you hurt, Dante?"
I ignore him. "I don't want a retaliation, Dmitry, I want anextermination."
"Dante..."
"No," I cut him off. "They entered my territory. They hurt my men, stole my asset, and nobody fucking touches what is mine."
Dmitry stares at me.
"This is about the boy," he states.
The bastard. My younger brother. A fucking suit that costs more than a car. The infuriating calm of someone who solves everything with a phone call. Always him. Ever since we were kids and our father taught us that weakness was a contagious disease, Dmitry learned to read me.
I remember a meeting room in Prague, years ago. A deal with the Chinese triad that was souring. I was calm, with a trained smile and a voice of polished steel. But Dmitry saw it. He saw the way my thumb pressed against the whiskey glass, the tension in my jaw. He saw the violence accumulating beneath the surface. Later that night, three members of the triad disappeared, and Dmitry just handed me a handkerchief to wipe the blood from my knuckles, without a word. He already knew.
He sees the same pattern now. The same disproportionate fury. The same readiness to burn the world down for an affront that, on paper, is just a business problem. There is no logic. There is no protection to be offered. There is only the boy. Dmitry knows. He can't categorize this, and that's why his gaze is so dangerous right now. He's trying to solve a problem that has no solution.
And the only answer I have is a lie I know he won't buy.
"This is about them breaking into my house," I lie.
The house is just concrete and marble. What they took has no walls. It breathes. And, for some sick reason, I need it back more than I need air.
Itisabout the boy. It hasalwaysbeen about the boy. From the moment I saw him on his knees in that warehouse,hardfrom his own abduction. The whole world has become a blur since then.
Svetlana sighs. She pinches the bridge of her nose as if that would rid her of this headache.
