Page 5 of His Hold

Kirill’s smile is audible, but there’s no kindness in it. "Efficient as always." His approval comes wrapped in sarcasm, and I hear the unspoken truth beneath his words.

Independence is a privilege he allows me only when it suits him.

I built my security company from the ground up, carving it out of the violence and paranoia that haunts men like Kirill. The official business is all about high-profile protection. From securing estates to guarding politicians, and making sure shady deals don’t end in scandals. But the unofficial work? That’s for Kirill.

Disposing of bodies, silencing problems before they fester. It’s me Kirill calls when someone needs to vanish, whether that means dragging them out of their fortified mansions or digging bullets out of their skulls before dumping them where the city won’t care to find them.

I take out threats, eliminate loose ends, and erase evidence like it never existed. Sometimes it's men skimming from their businesses. Other times, it's competitors who thought themselves clever enough to cross him. And when the job is particularly messy, it's me who makes sure the blood gets cleaned up before the cops catch a whiff.

"Now, down to business.” The balminess disappears quickly, replaced by his usual impassive tone. I’ve learned from years of dealing with Kirill that whenever he speaks this way, the time for banter has passed. It’s how he signals the shift from camaraderie to cold, calculated business, reminding everyone—including me—that he's not just the man who brought us off the streets; he's the one who could easily throw us back out.

“Lev Antonov has been stealing directly from Phantom Lounge’s VIP rooms, taking cash straight from the tables, right under my surveillance cameras. The arrogance," Kirill spits the word, his voice dripping disdain.

I almost laugh, shaking my head. "Lev? You handpicked him yourself."

"Even I can be wrong, everyone makes mistakes," Kirill replies dryly. He pauses, and I picture him in his lavish study, swirling expensive vodka, staring out over the city.

"But that's why I have you."

"Lucky me," I mutter.

"I want you to do your job, Nikolai." His tone is harsh now, but then softens slightly, barely enough to notice. "I haven't forgotten who you were when I found you, boy. Or what you were willing to do to rise."

I tense as the memories start surfacing, like when I was eighteen, desperate and alone on the cold streets. My first boss, Dmitri, was my only hope when he found me. He offered me a job, money, and purpose. A way out. It came with blood and obedience, but it was still better than starving.

Dmitri taught me how to kill efficiently, from quick hits to clean disposals. He had me eliminating rivals, making bodies vanish like smoke. Dumped in rivers, burned beyond recognition, buried where no one would think to dig.

I was tied to him until he died, and Kirill came along with a better offer. More independence, a crew of my own, and something Dmitri would never provide—respect.

Then, with time, I developed my security company. Running high-profile operations for politicians and businessmen by day, and handling mafia contracts by night. A front as sleek as glass hiding something sharp and deadly underneath.

With Kirill, the work became more sophisticated. Recon jobs, handling leaks, and silencing informants before they could talk. Sometimes it was guarding shipments or breaking through enemy defenses, but mostly, it was the same blood-soaked work with a prettier coat of paint. Cleaning up after Kirill’s messes, or worse, erasing his enemies like they’d never existed.

But I still answered to him. His commands were just veiled orders, draped in the illusion of choice. Kirill liked to remind me that he gave me more than Dmitri ever could. And that debt, like all debts in this life, never really went away.

“I haven’t forgotten, either,” I say. “The jobs you’ve had me do. The people I’ve put in the ground for you.”

“And yet you’re still here. So, either you like the blood on your hands, or you’re too afraid to walk away. Which is it, Nikolai?”

I don’t answer. Because the truth is, it’s both.

"Now, as I was saying about Lev. My mistake was trusting him with the books. Yours will be if you don’t handle this swiftly."

"How much did he take?" I ask, already rising from bed, reaching for my shirt.

"Enough to disrespect me," Kirill snaps, his tone becoming harder. "Enough that competitors see this kind of disrespect, Nikolai, and they start believing I'm losing my grip. I won’t tolerate whispers. Not about me. And certainly not from traitors in my own ranks. I want him gone tonight, and make sure every person in our circle knows exactly why. Let his corpse remind everyone what happens when someone thinks they can outsmart me."

I pause, understanding exactly what he means. Reputation is everything to Kirill. "I'll handle it." I sigh. Lev is one of Kirill’s accountants, and despite the fact that they’ve been in the business longer than I have, I’ve always thought the man to be too soft, always twitchy. Men like him fold under pressure like paper.

"I know you will," Kirill says quietly, dangerously calm again. "Because I remember the hungry boy who gutted three men to prove he belonged. Show Lev Antonov exactly what kind of man I employ."

He hangs up without another word.

***

My investigation starts only a few minutes later. There is no time to waste, and I know it.

My contact at the bank provides the transfer records within the hour. Amateur work - the thief didn't even try to hide their digital footprint. I track the money to an account registered to Marcus Chen, one of his aliases, with the same birth records matching his real name.

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