Page 1 of The Debt

Chapter One

Jarek

Museum of Science. 1 Science Park, Boston, Massachusetts, United States…

Through narrowed eyes, Jarek Farrel studied the towering Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton looming above him. The massive prehistoric predator, poised mid-roar with its razor-sharp teeth bared, cast a long shadow across the polished floor of the Museum of Science. Light from the vast skylight animated the massive silhouette of the extinct apex predator, which took its last breath over sixty-five million years ago.

“With all due respect, Jarek, do you even remember what we’re up against?” Declan Byrne’s voice eclipsed the silence in the cavernous space.

Jarek, referred to as The Dark One in whispered conversations and feared as the Boss of the Somerville Irish Gang in the Boston area, caught the tremor in his underboss’ voice and let it hang in the air, unanswered. His imposing height and powerful build—a complete contrast to the lean young medical doctor he had once been—filled the space between them with unspoken menace. The dove-gray eyes that tracked Declan’s every twitch held nothing of their color’s gentle nature; instead, they gleamed cold and sharp, flecked with shadows of darker intent.

He shifted slightly, the movement causing his long, dark hair to slide across his shoulders despite the restraint of its usual ponytail. The neatly kept beard framing his square jaw and wide mouth added to his forbidding presence, while heavy brows drew together over his straight nose in an expression that rarely softened into anything resembling warmth. Though women often noted his rough-hewn attractiveness, they quickly learned that Jarek’s handsome features masked something dangerous—a truth evident in the way he held himself now, like a predator savoring the moment before the strike.

“Those Russians…” Declan continued, his footsteps clicking against the marble as he followed Jarek past displays of fossilized eggs and ancient sea creatures. “They’re different from others around here. You know more than anyone that they are the most cunning and ruthless bunch of misfits in organized crime. They spare absolutely no one, nor do they have the slightest remorse for the crimes they commit… not even against women and children.”

“That,” Jarek ground out with his jaw clenched tight, “is something I know better than anyone.” Unbidden memories threatened to surface, but he forced them down as he moved deeper into the exhibition.

Around them, life-sized dioramas depicted prehistoric scenes in stunning detail. A pack of Velociraptors stalked through artificial foliage with their curved claws glinting under spotlights. A massive Brachiosaurus stretched its long neck toward fabricated treetops.

But Jarek saw none of it since his mind was fixed on Atlanta’s underground empire.

The Polovskaya Bratva, currently deemed one of the richest ROC groups in the United States, had carved out their territory with brutal efficiency. In the late nineties, their founder chose to immigrate to the United States, where he had cemented his position as one of the most powerful mobsters in the world.

Under Gregor Polov’s iron fist, they had claimed Atlanta as their crown jewel by crushing any opposition with methodical violence. While other criminal enterprises—from Mexican cartels to local gangs—had tried to muscle in, none had succeeded. Polov’s network ran deep, and he had successfully controlled the ROC in Atlanta for over thirty years, all while avoiding prosecution. His influence, which reached every corner of the city, was protected by an army of merciless enforcers.

“So, you understand why I’m worried,” Declan muttered, casting a nervous glance at a passing group of tourists. “Nobody’s challenged that particular Bratva group in over five years. At least, nobody’s fucking lived to tell the tale if they tried.”

Jarek’s lip curled slightly at Declan’s words. The tremor in his underboss’ voice should have concerned him. Declan wasn’t known for being skittish. He was Irish-tough, prison-hardened, and had weathered more than his share of gang wars, but here in a goddamned dinosaur exhibit, he was practically shaking with anxiety.

Twenty years ago, Jarek had shared that fear. He had felt it coursing through his veins like fire. But fear was a luxury he had burned away long ago—replaced by something colder, something sinister and dark, earning him the name ‘The Dark One.’

He paused before a display case housing a collection of raptor claws. His ghostly reflection shimmered across the glass. The vision staring back at him barely resembled the twenty-six-year-old young man who had lost everything to senseless violence.

Good. That young man is dead… just like my family.

“Your concern is noted, Declan.” His calm voice carried the same lethality that made hardened criminals wince. “But fear has no place in what’s coming. And the Polovskaya Bratva’s reputation for invincibility?” He turned to face Declan with eyes glittering like shards of ice. “That dies with Polov.”

The child who darted past Declan barely registered in Jarek’s peripheral vision. What caught his attention was the way Declan reflexively stepped back. It soothed his ego that a hardened mafioso was reduced to prey instinct by mere eye contact.

Good. Fear is a useful tool, even among allies.

Declan’s parched throat was put to work just to swallow. How many times had he seen that same reaction? That moment when someone realized exactly who and what they were dealing with? But Declan wasn’t a street thug or rival enforcer. He was family—or at least the closest thing Jarek had left of one.

“Understood, Boss.” Declan’s voice came out gravelly and, for the first time ever, sounding uncertain. Jarek could practically taste his discomfort as he continued, “It’s just that... Polov miraculously survived three assassination attempts and two FBI investigations. Even that business with the Georgians in 2019. His power has magnified over the years.”

Declan’s hand creeping up to clutch his hidden crucifix didn’t escape Jarek’s notice. It was a tell he’d never managed to break his underboss of after having tried for more than a decade. It was almost endearing. The man who had helped him build an empire still clung to religious icons when uncertain.

“But you’re right. Fear has no place in this. You know I’m always there for you, no matter what… I’m your man.”

Jarek allowed himself a slight nod. This was why Declan had survived so long as his second-in-command. He knew when to swallow his concerns and fall in line. Others had questioned or tried to talk him down. They hadn’t lasted long.

His loyalty was genuine and had been proven numerous times. Declan had stood beside him through everything—through the bloody rise to power, through the gang wars, and through the creation of the Somerville empire. He had earned the right to voice his fears and concerns.

“Indeed, you are, Declan,” he drawled in a deep tone. “But Polov’s survival record? The failed attempts on his life? The Federal investigations he beat? His growing power? None of that matters.” His lips drew back in an ugly sneer.

Those who had tried before didn’t have what Jarek had—twenty years of carefully cultivated rage and hatred, a network that stretched across the Eastern Seaboard, and the kind of patience that came from having nothing left to lose from exacting revenge.

Let Declan worry. Let him clutch his crucifix. Jarek had stopped believing in divine justice the night his wife and daughter had died. The only justice left was the kind that came from a well-aimed bullet—or, as he had come to decide over time, something much more painful and intimate.

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