Chapter 285

ISAIAH

Blood had never looked this good.

I had been acclimated to killing, to blood spilling, for the past eleven years, but not one of the people I’d killed before had ever made me feel like this. I wasn’t one of those sick fucks who got off on adrenaline, who chased the high of a body dropping. I hated blood. Always had. Especially when it splashed on me. The smell alone could make my stomach turn.

But when you’re taken against your will and thrown into the middle of men who enjoy killing—men who wouldn’t hesitate to raise a gun or slash a knife—you adapt or you die. And adaptation has a way of numbing everything you once were.

So yeah. You get used to it.

You might be wondering what I’ve been up to.

Let me educate you.

“These are all the bodies, boss,” Sylvester said, his voice rough as he and Novik grunted in unison. They wiped their bloodied hands on their aprons after disposing of the last of the Pakhan’s men.

I stared at them blankly, the sharp thrill of the past week slowly dulling in my veins.

A heap.

Heap after heap of useless men who had betrayed me.

And God—it never stopped looking so fucking good.

So, back to my gist.

After the night Tamara and I were attacked in our home, I knew I couldn’t keep living like that. I couldn’t keep looking over my shoulder at every waking moment. I couldn’t keep calculating exits, angles, threats.

She didn’t deserve that.

I knew, deep down, that the moment I reunited with her, this life would end. Not because Tamara would ever ask me to stop. She would never coerce me into anything. That was who she was. Gentle even when the world demanded otherwise.

But because there would be no point anymore.

I had survived for years on instinct and violence. What had begun as survival had turned into obligation, and now—it was nothing but a weight chained to my back.

I was back with her.

But the bids on my head grew heavier with each passing day.

The threats followed close behind.

That same night—while Tamara slept peacefully, unaware—more men came. Tens of them. Slipping through the dark like they owned it.

I dragged them into the open field behind the house.

And I slaughtered them there.

That was the night I decided to disappear. And I had been wreaking havoc ever since. Destroying everything the pakhan owned until he had no choice but to crawl out of whatever hole he was hiding in.

I burned his routes. Poisoned his alliances. Turned his men against each other and watched his empire rot from the inside out.

I wanted him desperate. I wanted him reckless.

It wasn’t easy leaving Tamara. It dragged me back to that night years ago, when I had walked away from her with nothing but promises and blood on my hands. The difference now was that I knew I was coming back.

Even if it meant returning to her in a bloody body bag.

As long as she was safe, nothing else mattered.

If only I had known how fucking wrong I was.

“Search them,” I ordered coldly.

They both stared at me.

“The Pakhan always made sure his soldiers carried a mark,” I continued, my voice even, detached. “A tattoo at their backs. I want every single one photographed. Clear shots. Then I want them displayed on the website.”

Sylvester’s brows drew together slightly. “Displayed… for who to see?”

“For them,” I replied calmly. “For him. For anyone foolish enough to think they can still touch me. I want them to know that whoever comes after me after this is going to be in some very serious shit.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What if it doesn’t work, boss?” Sylvester asked, stiffening.

I smiled faintly, torturously slow.

“Oh, I know it won’t,” I said. “Fear only works on men who still have something to lose.” My eyes flicked back to the bodies. “But at least this way, they’ll finally know who holds the power around here.”

That did it.

They nodded sharply and got to work, moving with renewed urgency, flipping bodies, cutting shirts open, documenting every mark.

Footsteps approached behind me,

Fabian, Ian, and Baba trudged in one after the other, all three soaked in blood, just like me. No words were exchanged at first.

Ian wiped his face with the back of his arm, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. Fabian rolled his shoulders like he was shaking off ghosts. Baba came to a stop beside me, his presence solid.

Then he smirked.

“You know this isn’t going to stop him, right?” Baba said quietly. “The bastard thrives on control. And you’ve somehow managed to rip that right out of his hands.”

I exhaled through my nose, watching as one of the men was turned over roughly.

“I don’t want it to stop him,” I replied. “I want him angry. Sloppy.”

Baba glanced at me sideways. “That’s a dangerous game, son.”

I finally looked at him then, my eyes dark, steady.

“He started this game the moment he thought he could touch what was mine,” I said. “Now I’m just deciding how it ends.”

Ian stepped closer. “You’re pushing him into a corner.”

“Good,” I muttered. “Cornered men make mistakes.”

My phone vibrated against my back pocket again. I ignored it.

I already knew what it was—the Bratva’s website erupting, notifications piling in as the images my men uploaded spread like wildfire. Bodies. Tattoos. Proof. Fear packaged neatly and delivered straight to the Pakhan’s door.

The thought sent a vicious buzz through my veins.

“What about the mole?” Baba asked beside me. “Any luck?”

I shook my head slowly, rolling my shoulders as I flicked my knife from my palm and sent it flying into one of the dead men with a dull thud. I cocked my head from one side to the other, listening to the quiet, to the way the night seemed to hold its breath.

“I don’t think it’s one of my men.”

Baba turned sharply to look at me. “You don’t?”

I blinked once. Said nothing.

Because the truth sat heavy in my chest, ugly and inconvenient. For months—months—I had been pouring water into a basket, interrogating shadows, suspecting loyalty where there was none to question. Watching my own men too closely while the real rot sat somewhere else entirely.

It had been foolish. Lazy, even. The easy conclusion.

A few weeks ago, something had happened. Small on the surface. Insignificant if you weren’t paying attention. But it cracked something open in me—ripped through my chest and rearranged everything I thought I knew.

It was the moment I realized the betrayal didn’t live among the men who bled for me.

That was the night my resolve shifted.

I hadn’t told anyone. Not Baba. Not my men. Not even Tamara.

Because for the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do with a traitor.

Especially one I had known for the better part of my life.

Talk about karma.