Page 7 of His Hold

"Take him to the grounds," I order. "I’ll meet you there."

Pavel nods. "Who was it?"

"Someone who shouldn't be here," I reply sharply. "But I'll deal with it."

Twenty minutes later, I'm standing under harsh floodlights at our usual spot. We call it "The Grounds," but it’s just an old warehouse on an abandoned farmland, a place stripped of life and hope.

Nothing grows here, just weeds strangling the dirt and rust slowly devouring twisted metal beams. The perfect mirror to men like us: empty, corroded, existing only to hold violence.

The place is hidden deep, overrun by tangled brush and towering weeds. Its skeletal frame looms against the desolate landscape with rust-stained metal walls creaking in the wind, and shattered windows reduced to serrated fragments glinting in the moonlight.

We use this place because the police never patrol here. We've ensured that by making the dirt roads nearly impassable, blocking them deliberately with fallen trees and abandoned farm equipment arranged by my men. Any screams are swallowed whole by the thick woods and endless emptiness.

Now, Lev hangs from a rusted iron pole with his wrists bound overhead. Sweat drips from his face, mixing with the blood already leaking from his split lip.

"Please," he begs, voice shaking. "It was a mistake. Please, I can explain - my daughter needs surgery, I was desperate-"

"Stealing isn't a mistake, Lev." I roll up my sleeves slowly. "Especially not from Kirill."

"I'll pay it back!"

"Too late for that," I say. "This isn't about money anymore."

"What…what do you mean?" His breathing quickens.

"It’s about making an example," I say as I examine my brass knuckles. "So others learn not to make the same mistake. Boss’s orders."

I strike him hard and my fist connects with his jaw. Lev’s head snaps sideways, and his teeth rattle. He cries out as blood sprays from his mouth.

"I’m sorry," Lev gasps.

"Me too." Another blow to his ribs, feeling the satisfying crack beneath my knuckles. Lev's scream echoes off the walls.

The next hour is messy. When I'm finished, he can barely stand.

I pause, trying to catch my breath. Lev dangles limply and whimpers softly. I step back, then lean against a crate, watching him. But already terribly bored.

"Lev," I say quietly, "you're free to go."

He lifts his head, eyes wide with disbelief. "What?"

"Run. If you make it to the street, you're free." I tell him flatly. "Now."

He stares for a second, confusion flickering first, then frantic hope. Pavel cuts him down. Lev staggers, then coughs out blood and is soon stumbling toward the door.

I lift my gun, steadying my hand as I aim carefully at his retreating back. For a split second, an old memory drops—another night, another chase, when I was the one running, desperate to escape fate. Weakness got me nothing then. Mercy is a lie the powerless whisper to themselves to give false hope.

I squeeze the trigger.

The shot echoes sharply. Lev collapses mid-stride, hitting the ground silently, motionless, just another body among many. There is a neat hole in the back of his head. Then I lower my weapon slowly, the echo fading along with any lingering sentiment. This is who I am. This is who I have to be.

"Clean this up," I tell Pavel. "And find everything you can about a woman with red hair who's been watching us. I want to know who she is."

"You think she’s his relative?"

"No, I know she isn’t," I reply, turning away. "But she's made herself my problem now."

As I drive home, my mind keeps returning to that flash of auburn. Someone bold enough to spy on me… someone who clearly doesn't understand the trouble she's just invited into her life.

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