Zarek had heard them, and he didn’t understand it. He had told them clearly and repeatedly that he was a Riggs. Yet they still insisted on placing him where they needed him to be: as part of Masha’s family, not his own.“Because if you truly believe I am part of Masha’s family,” Zarek said, his voice dropping into a register that made the water in the spilled pitcher ripple, “then you should know exactly what that means. It means I am the son of the woman you treated like furniture. It means I’ve spent twenty years watching you swallow the world while she swept up the crumbs.”He stepped away from the table, the silver stylus clicking against the glass one last time.“You keep calling me ‘Grisha’ as if it’s a leash,” he continued, looking at Leo and Sofia, who were trembling so violently their teeth clattered. “You think that by claiming I’m ‘one of you,’ I’ll suddenly develop a conscience. But you forget… you didn’t treat me like a brother. You treated me like a stray. And a stray

The eyes that looked back at her were ancient.Flat and obsidian-dark, they were completely devoid of the warmth she had spent two decades trying to protect.There was a predatory stillness to him, a coldness that seemed to lower the temperature of the room by ten degrees.Masha stopped in her tracks, her hand flying to her throat.She searched for a flicker of recognition, a softening of his brow, a sign of the son who used to call her name in the dark. But she found nothing.The man standing before her didn’t look like he belonged to her.He looked like he belonged to the mountain, to the war, and to the ghosts of the Ackriggs.And she had no idea he was a Riggs. She couldn’t see him in that light, only through the lens of her own family name.“The Sullivans have been relocated,” Zarek said.His voice was steady, perfectly modulated, and entirely stripped of emotion.It was the voice of a judge delivering a final sentence.“The estate is now legally yours, Masha. Every stone, every

The roar of the helicopter’s blades whipped the night air into a frenzy as Zarek descended.He stepped off the skids before the machine had fully settled on the estate’s private pad.His coat snapped violently around his legs, but his stride was unwavering, a predator returning to a kill he wasn’t finished with.He didn’t head for the grand entrance. He bypassed the lit upper floors, where Masha was hopefully drifting into a forced peace.Instead, he made a beeline for the reinforced service door leading to the isolation wing.The transition from the howling wind outside to the tomb-like silence of the basement was jarring.Zarek stopped at the cell door and signaled the two guards to stand back. He didn’t want an audience for this.He swiped his clearance. Heavy bolts retracted with a hydraulic hiss, and he stepped into the small, sterile room.Robert sat on the edge of the cot, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the blank concrete wall.He looked like a man who had finally realized th

The street was slick with the oily sheen of a midnight rain, reflecting the distorted pulse of neon signs.A pair of heavy, polished boots stepped into a puddle, shattering the reflection of a flickering light.Zarek stood before a weathered façade, its paint peeling like dead skin. He dug a hand into his pocket, fingers brushing the cold silver pin, his only link to a dead sister.He tilted his head back, obsidian eyes tracking the sign swaying on rusted chains.THE DROWNED RAT.The neon R hummed with a dying spark, casting a rhythmic red glow over his sharp features.He didn’t look like a man seeking a drink; he looked like a storm front holding its breath.Inside, the atmosphere was thick enough to chew.The air tasted of cheap tobacco and the metallic tang of old grease.At a round table near the center, a group of rough-edged men leaned in close, sleeves rolled up to reveal faded tattoos. They were loud, their laughter jagged and forced.“I’m telling you, the house at the docks

The night air was a cold, wet shroud that clung to everything it touched.Zarek didn’t hurry.He walked with a steady, rhythmic pace, the click of his boots against the pavement the only sound in the desolate industrial corridor leading toward the docks.Behind him, the heavy door of the Drowned Rat creaked open once more.“He’s right there! Look at him, just strolling along like he owns the street,” Mike hissed, his voice hushed but thick with adrenaline.The man with the anchor tattoo and the one who’d been staring at the table followed him out, huddled together against the downpour. The third man, the one who had noticed the silver pin and the badge, was vibrating with a different kind of fever.“Forget the watch for a second,” he whispered, eyes wide as he watched Zarek’s retreating silhouette. “That badge he had, the one hanging off his belt? I’m telling you, even if it’s fake, it’s a realistic one.”His lips curled into a grin. “The craftsmanship on that silver, the way it caug