Antonov’s breath was shallow, his face flitting between anger and something near fear. He had constructed his empire blood by blood, brutality by brutality, etching his name into the underworld with merciless precision.
But here on his knees, among the very people he had dismissed, he finally understood the nature of real power.
Damien loomed over him, his stare as sharp as a knife.
“You’ve spent years twisting and manipulating other people,” he said, his voice like ice.
“But now? You’re the person without choices anymore.”
Antonov’s lip curled even as it hurt. “You think I’m scared to die?”
“No,” Damien admitted.
“But I think you’re afraid of losing all that before you do.”
Antonov’s fingers twitched, probably craving a concealed weapon. Damien didn’t allow him the opportunity.
