Page 5 of The Debt

He had found the stuffed animal half-buried under Emma’s body, soaked in their mingled blood. In his trauma-induced haze at the hospital, he had refused to let the nurses take it away to be cleaned. It was the last thing Emma had held, her tiny fingers clutched around it even after...

The rabbit became a tether to what he had lost and what he’d become—a reminder that monsters were real, wearing expensive suits and carrying automatic weapons instead of hiding under beds. Every time he touched the matted fur, he saw Emma’s last moments and Polov’s casual stride as he stepped over their bodies.

Some nights, in the rare moments he allowed himself to feel anything at all, he would take out the rabbit and imagine he could smell Emma’s favorite strawberry shampoo instead of the metallic tang that never quite faded. Those were dangerous moments when the carefully constructed walls around his grief threatened to crack.

But mostly, the blood-stained rabbit served as a reminder of his purpose. This wasn’t about power or territory or profit. This was about a little girl who believed stuffed animals could protect her from monsters… and the monster who had proved her wrong.

To Jarek, the rabbit wasn’t a symbol of his weakness but a testament to his resolve. Every drop of blood on that toy was a promise written in his family’s blood, a contract he would fulfill, no matter the cost.

The rabbit was a symbol of his little girl’s innocence. And he would keep it until Polov had paid his debt.

“Boss?” Declan’s voice pulled him back to the present. “You went somewhere dark just now.”

Jarek turned from the display. His face was a mask of cold composure.

“Not that dark. Just remembering where it all began.” His fingers unconsciously twirled the wedding band he now wore on the opposite hand.

“Sometimes you have to go through hell to learn how to become the devil.”

Chapter Three

Tatiana

TAP United Logistics, Forest Parkway, bordering Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, Fulton Industrial District, Atlanta, United States…

The morning sun glinted off the massive windows of the corner office, casting colorful patterns across the plush carpet. The space was a testament to power and wealth—all chrome, glass, and stark white surfaces softened only by the plush leather of the executive sofa and the abstract art pieces carefully chosen to complement the minimalist décor.

From the thirty-story vantage point, Tatiana Polov had an unobstructed view of Hartsfield-Jackson’s myriad pattern of runways, where commercial and private jets arrived and departed with a precise choreography she once dreamed of leading.

“I already gave you my answer,” she said with measured indifference. On more than one occasion, his grandfatherly patience, what little existed, had been tested and stretched to accommodate the unsanctioned petulance of his granddaughter. If it had been anyone else, it would’ve been met with a thunderous rebuke augmented with a generous dose of physical pain.

Blessed with the genes of a titan and in his seventh decade, Gregor Polov commanded attention. His Herculean bulk made him a giant among men. A shock of steel-gray hair swept forward across his head like a crown, and his ice-blue eyes stared down at others from his towering height, making them feel small in his presence.

Ruthless and unforgiving, Polov had watched dispassionately as those who had betrayed his trust lost their bowels while under extreme interrogation. If found beyond redemption, a quick nod would send the offender to the hangman’s noose, where they would entertain a select audience as they shuddered and twitched at the end of a rope.

As the leader of the Polovskaya Bratva, Polov was feared from Brighton Beach to the white sand beaches of Baja, Mexico. His reputation for meting out indiscriminate cruelty was on such a grand scale, it would make Stalin blush.

As for Tatiana, unaware of his true cruel nature, she had long learned how to deflect the boisterous displays of her grandfather’s wrath.

“Yebat’, Tatiana! You are just as stubborn as your father used to be,” he growled, showering quarterly reports with hot coffee as he slammed her favorite coffee mug onto the desk.

“Now look what you’ve done,” she muttered as she quickly snatched them up.With a sigh, she crossed her legs with deliberate slowness as she brushed an imaginary speck from her Armani pantsuit. Tatiana’s height gave her movements a natural grace. Her lean frame curved in ways that turned heads wherever she went. Long blonde hair cascaded past her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face that could disarm the most steadfast opponent. The azure depths of her eyes, veiled by dark lashes, could shift from demure to sharpness in an instant, while her full, pouty lips often curved into a smile that mostly reflected pure joy. Even the simple gesture of crossing her legs and the casual brush of her hand carried the practiced elegance of someone who knew exactly how to command a room. “Please control your temper,Dedushka.”

His face bloomed red at her dismissive tone. Once, she would have cowered before such a display. Once, she had been the dutiful granddaughter, hanging on every word and soaking up his lessons like a sponge—learning to strip down a Glock blindfolded and memorizing the complex web of bribes and favors that kept their empire running. She had mastered the subtle art of adjusting the recalcitrant behavior of potential clients by issuing discreet ultimatums neatly wrapped in diplomatic language.

A Boeing 747 caught her attention as it descended. Its massive frame gracefully touched down on runway 27R. Her heart clenched with familiar pain as she watched it taxi past. That should have been her up there, commanding tons of steel through the clouds, not stuck in this gilded cage because her grandfather had deceived her for all those years.

“Another dream wasted,” she muttered, barely aware she had spoken aloud.

She remembered the pride in her grandfather’s eyes as she excelled in his “lessons” in the tricks of the trade—combat training with ex-Spetsnaz instructors, weapons handling with his best assassin, Skull, aka Ivor Smirnoff. He even taught her the intricate concept of international money laundering.

Gregor Polov had molded her into the perfect successor—or so she had thought.

What a crock of shit!It had been a rude awakening to realize what a fool she had been, believing the fairy tales of becoming the first female Pakhan, the Ice Princess of the Polovskaya Bratva, and of modernizing the organization for a new era.

The truth of the matter, having been hidden all along, had left her bitter and resentful. She had been groomed not to lead but to follow. It was a man’s world, and she had hit the glass ceiling. Never to advance beyond the limits of a well-trained subordinate whose job was to charm and entice clients at lavish venues while her male counterparts took care of the real business by cutting lucrative deals and forging new alliances in the white crime industry. Gregor Polov had sworn never to embark on the darker side of the underworld.

For years, she questioned why her grandmother had told her the dark secrets of the family. Surely, she had known where it would lead. At fifteen, she had painted her world in fairytale colors, blind to the shadows lurking at the edges. Devouring volumes of mafia romance novels paved the way for how she believed her life would turn out. Now she knew better. Her grandmother’s revelations about their family’s true nature hadn’t been meant to empower her. Instead, they were meant to bind her more tightly to the family’s will.

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