Even though I put a bullet through his face, it doesn't make me feel better. It wasn't enough. He got off too easily. I wish I would have taken him too. Kept him in a cage and tortured him for weeks.
Shit, even cutting off his dick wouldn't erase what he did to Elena or make any of this any easier.
No, I just have to trust my brother and help her with whatever she needs.
I turn and start pacing.
Another thing that bothers me is that this Volkov family manages a whole fucking network of monsters who think they can buy and sell women like livestock.
Between that and Elena, I want to go to Moscow and tear through every Volkov stronghold, every safehouse, every brothel, until there's nothing left but corpses.
I want to make them pay for every second Elena spent in that hell, but I can't.
Elena needs me here, to protect her, and that's the only job for me.
The front door clicks open, and I whip around, my hand instinctively going to the gun tucked into the back of my waistband.
Victor steps inside, shutting the door quietly behind him.
He looks rough.
His usually immaculate suit is wrinkled, his tie loosened, his hair disheveled.
Dark circles shadow his eyes, and there's a tightness around his mouth that wasn't there before.
"Where the hell have you been?" I demand, keeping my voice low.
Victor doesn't answer immediately.
He takes off his coat and tosses it over the back of a chair, then moves to the bar cart in the corner, pouring himself two fingers of whiskey.
He downs it in one gulp, then pours another.
"You look like shit," I say. "What's going on?"
He finally turns to face me. "Oh, just cleaning up your mess," he says.
"My mess?" My voice rises, and I take a step toward him. "I saved her."
"You killed a Russian diplomat on Swiss soil," Victor says, his tone sharp. "You shot three men in a château full of international politicians and security personnel, not before you released a dozen trafficked women who are now causing trouble since they claim someone who looks an awful lot like you is the one who freed them."
He pauses and takes a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving mine.
"And one claims it's the same person he saw running out of the room where the dead Russians were."
I glare at him, not saying anything.
"So yes, Adrian. Your mess."
I scoff. "I'd do it again."
"I know you would," Victor says. "And I'm not saying you were wrong. I'm saying there are consequences, and I'm fucking tired."
He sets his glass down on the table and crosses his arms.
"The Swiss police have been tearing the château apart for the last two days. They finally acknowledged Maxim's death. That's why I couldn't come back sooner."
My stomach twists.