"Please! I'm sorry! I'll tell you anything! I'll pay it back! I'll give you everything!" The voice choked out, thin and raspy from what one would assume was from years of smoking, or, in his case... torture.

Making his way down the stairs, Nikolai noticed the concrete floor was slick with something dark—it was most certainly blood. He noted the man tied to a spreader; his legs and hands spread as far they could go without tearing him apart, which was a lot based on the way the man kept bunching his muscles trying to alleviate the pressure. He'd also been whipped, and not the "fun kind" either, by two men, both twice his size. The man on the spreader was a low-level accountant caught skimming from one of the clubs. And this was the Russian mafia's form of pest control. Too bad, his reasons were murky at best. His son was in the hospital and needed expensive treatment, but that alone wouldn't have caused this—the Pakhan would have paid for it if he had asked. But he had let himself be led astray by someone who didn't give a damn about him. He was a fool! No one tried to outsmart the Godfather. No one!

The men didn't notice Nikolai immediately. Their focus was on angling their whips which were barbed, to draw every bit of pain and blood from their prisoner. Their cruel laughter bounced off the walls, drowning out the man's whimpers and screams for mercy. The air in the cellar was thick with the stench of blood, fear, and urine—a stench Nikolai desperately wished he had never grown accustomed to. His gaze settled on the man's trembling hands, his wrists were tied tight to the spreader. Strips of skin were already peeling to reveal muscle. He forced himself to look away, a muscle in his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly before calling out,

"Enough!"

His voice was flat and calm. He didn't raise it; he didn't have to. The two enforcers, Kirill and Sasha, paused, hands on their whips. The steady drip of blood was the only sound in the cell as they turned their heads to the doorway. When they caught sight of him, they froze, stepped back from the prisoner and assumed a military stance. Two brutes who thrived on violence held their raw, brutal energy in check by his quiet command.

Nikolai, at thirty-three, was imposing in his own right. While not as tall as they were, he stood taller than most at 6 '4", and his lean build was all wire and coiled muscle. He had often been told that he had cold, gray eyes that showed no emotion and a hard jawline. His hair was the only thing loose about him, dark with loose curls that stopped at his shoulders.

"He still refuses to talk," Kirill grunted, wiping blood from his knuckles. He smirked at the man taunting him. "He's all yours, brigada." Nikolai nodded. He walked to the man, his movements fluid and precise. The accountant whimpered, his pupils blown wide with terror and pain.

"Ivan," Nikolai said, using the accountant's name. "Let's be clear. I don't care about the money. That can be easily replaced, doubled even." He paused, letting that sink in. "Who were you working with on the inside? Who told you to do it?"

Ivan's lips, split and swollen, trembled. "I don't know who you're talking about. I—"

Nikolai's lips twitched reflexively. He had lied. Again. Another mistake, but it would be his last. He would make sure of it. Nikolai didn't raise his voice. He didn't touch him. Instead, he pulled a small, silver lighter from his pocket and flicked it open. The flame caught, a tiny, hypnotic point of light in the dim cellar. He held it close to the man's face, close enough for the heat to make him flinch but not close enough to burn.

"That lie," Nikolai said, his voice a low, chilling whisper. "It will cost you. It will cost all of you. You will give me the name, or I will let Kirill and Sasha keep you here until you beg to die. And they'll say no."

He watched the man battle with himself, then added, "You'll suffer. Your son, Jake will suffer—" He heard the hitch of breath, moved on"—but the man behind this will be caught and killed while you rot." He shrugged. "Of course, if you were to cooperate—"

The man's resolve broke. He sobbed out a name—Brutus—and a location. It was the name of one of the low-level servants who ran ground work, the one nobody ever suspected... shocking.

"Thank you, Ivan," he said, his voice completely devoid of emotion. "You've been very helpful." He turned and made eye contact with Sasha, pausing when Ivan whimpered out, "What's going to happen to me?" He turned back and gave a little smile, the picture of a man who carried out good deeds, but if one looked closely enough, they would notice it didn't reach his eyes. "Sasha will escort you back to your family... in a body bag." That last part went unsaid to avoid another bout of screaming. "And while you didn't ask, your son's treatment will be paid for. Consider it a favor for being so amenable. " His son would recover, Ivan just wouldn't be there to see it. He walked out of the cellar, leaving the unfortunate man to the mercy of the enforcers.

As he made his way up the winding stone stairs, consumed by what had happened downstairs, he didn't notice a shadow detaching itself from the gloom above. He frowned when he noticed a pair of shoes in his vision.

Nikolai appraised the person slowly from the polished black shoes and expensive suit trousers, paused for a moment at the trim waist, and the way the fabric stretched across powerful thighs, went up again to the waistcoat that fitted a broad and powerful chest, then to the face and froze.

Dmitri Volkov, the Godfather himself, was standing in front of him. His tall, imposing figure silhouetted by the light from the hallway. His gaze was fixed on him, an unreadable mix of cold appraisal and something else he couldn't identify.

"Shit! Why was he here?”