Not happening.
My body is pulled by an invisible tether as my hands finally release the wheel and I fumble shakily with the handle. The sound of the car door opening is like a haunting noise—a gateway to something I have to witness.
My mind is now trying to reason with everything despite the stark evidence presented.
It’s a misunderstanding.
It has to be.
I thought I saw Kaden, but it wasn’t him.
It can’t be…
My tennis shoes slide across the gravel, my gaze caught on every step ahead as I keep my head tucked close to me. I don’t want to look up near the warehouse full of barked, male voices and shouts. All out of fear that it will become too real.
Even in my state, no one notices me as I halt near the corner of the gaping shop doorway. I close my eyes tightly, bracing myself for whatever I’m about to see. My pulse races past my ears, nearly drowning out the sounds of the men as they laugh and talk in Russian.
I release my bated breath, letting my eyes flutter open to utter chaos. There are at least twenty other people spaced around. Some huddle together, dressed in suits with expensive wrist watches glinting. Others appear as if they’ve been hard at work, sweat slicking their brows and their undershirts stained with perspiration. At the head of it all, Ivan stands like an immovable wall, his hands crossed in front of him as he observes the cogs of his machine with an astute eye.
He’s like a king overlooking his subjects—imposing and severe. For the first time in years, I don’t need to question his place. This only proves the suspicion I’ve had about him since the very beginning. He’s powerful and in charge of something greater than I could ever comprehend. He’s abeast.
We make eye contact across the warehouse, and I feel myself stop breathing. He could give me away with a single word, and the danger that radiates from him freezes me in place. I can’t move.
He nods subtly, as if there’s a silent understanding between us, before he addresses the room with a booming voice that isn’t from the same man I knew growing up. No, he’s far more commanding and prominent. “Tonight, the underworld belongs to me.”
“Slushayas,“ the men answer in unison.
“Boris the King will no longer exist after this night,” Ivan booms, and the warehouse erupts in shouts and cheers. “Bring him forward,Smerti.”
Kaden pushes ahead, the mutilated man staggering beside him. Everything around me becomes clouded—my vision blurs and sounds fade to nothing. The man I love, the man who’s taken my every first, has a sickness I’ve never seen before, clouding his eyes as he slams his victim to the ground in a crumpled mess of limbs and groans. There’s no light inside Kaden. No life in his blown pupils.
He’s getting some kind of thrill from this. As if he’s anticipating the end for the man at his feet.
My stomach revolts as I slap a hand over my mouth. I feel so ill at the image that I quickly turn away, choking back my gagging the best I can. The scene of the warehouse continues without a hitch, and I have to force myself to see. I need to know that what I just witnessed isn’t true.
It’s just a farce. This isn’t real.
It can’t be…
A big, burly man slaps a hand over Kaden’s back, whispering something heavy into his ear. My brother’s expression remains passive, not an ounce of emotion in him as he produces a pistol from his back pocket. He holds the weapon at his side before sliding a magazine into it. He cocks it, the metallicshlunksounding through the dead air. It’s a sharp crack that makes my eyes squint as I remain unmoving.
“End this,Smerti,” the big man purrs.
Kaden levels the gun at the man’s face, and I gasp. My shoe slides across the gravel, but it isn’t enough to distract my brother from his mission. There’s a moment before anything happens—the air thinning and the world stopping on its axis—as if the hesitation is shared among every witness. In that pause, Kaden’s eyes change.
It’s not a bright burning anger or repugnance for what he’ll do. It’s cold—arctic unforgiveness that chills you to the bones. Whatever warmth once lived in him is gone, replaced by something humorless and vile.
As if he’s done this dance before, he radiates a natural confidence in his aim, lifting the dark barrel with a calm, unshaken hand. His finger squeezes on the trigger, not fully pressing, but enough to know where this is headed.
“Death to the King,” Kaden says with intense cruelty, tilting his head as if this is a game and he’s won.
There’s nothing that can prepare you for the harsh crack of a gun. Especially if you’ve never heard the sound before. It’s nothing like the movies with a neat, contained pop. The air itself shreds, ripping in two at the sharp and violent fire.
I jump, slapping a hand over my mouth as an instantaneous reaction clogs my throat. It’s like trying to breathe through sandpaper, my windpipe crushing under the weight of my agony. Tears fall unbidden, wetting my cheeks as I stumble back, sending me to the rough gravel below me.
Blood sprays like a fountain, gushing from the man’s face as an open wound pulses and throbs. His limbs twitch jerkily, the sounds of celebration for this horrid ritual sounding like demons in the night. No one can hear my choked sobs past the chaos of the warehouse.
I think it’s over until Kaden drops to his knees, bracketing them on either side of the dead man. His gun skitters across the concrete before he plunges his hands into the red essence and rips something round from the man’s face. In the dulled lighting, he holds up a perfectly intact eyeball, showing it to the men as if it’s a trophy.