Bound by Vengeance

Chapter 1

VICTOR'S POV

I could smell death in the air before I even walked into Ivan's study. Not the fresh kind that still held surprise, but the old, settled kind that had been rotting in the corners of this mansion for decades. The kind that reminded you that nothing good ever happened in rooms where men wore guns like accessories and called it business.

The cigar smoke was so thick I could taste it on my tongue before I took my first breath. Ivan sat in his leather throne like some kind of twisted king, surrounded by his soldiers who knew better than to move without permission. The scar running from his ear to his lips looked deeper tonight, carved into his face like a reminder of every violent choice he'd ever made.

I stood there waiting for him to acknowledge me, my hands clasped behind my back the way he'd taught me when I was twelve. Old habits.

"Twenty-four hours."

His voice cut through the silence like a blade. I felt my jaw clench involuntarily.

Ivan's cold eyes swept over the room, taking inventory of every man standing at attention. When they landed on me, I saw something that made my blood freeze. Not grief. Not even anger. Just calculation.

"Twenty-four hours to bring me my son's killer," he continued, his voice getting sharper with each word. "Or don't come back."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Randoff was dead three days and Ivan was already treating it like a business transaction. Like my little brother was just another debt to be collected.

"Yes, father," I said, the word tasting like ash in my mouth.

He wasn't my father. We both knew it. But twenty years of pretending had made the lie automatic.

I turned on my heel and walked toward the door, my men falling into step behind me like well-trained shadows. The need to get out of that room, away from Ivan's calculating stare, was suffocating me.

The parking lot felt like freedom compared to the tomb inside. I stopped next to my car and turned to Viper, the only man in my crew who'd been with me longer than five years.

"Viper."

"Si Capo."

"Find Randoff's car. Bring it to me within the hour."

He nodded once and disappeared into the night like smoke. I watched him go and felt something c***k inside my chest. Randoff should have been here with us, making jokes about Viper's dramatic exits. Instead, he was in a morgue somewhere, cold and still and gone.

I got into my car and started driving toward my mansion. The city lights blurred past the windows but I barely saw them. All I could see was Randoff's face the last time we'd talked, three days before someone put a knife in his chest.

He'd been excited about something. Secretive. When I'd asked him about it, he'd just grinned and told me he was working on a surprise. That he'd figured something out that was going to change everything.

Now he was dead and I didn't even know what he'd discovered.

I pulled into my driveway and sat in the car for a moment, staring at the mansion that had never felt like home. The windows were dark except for the security lights. No warmth. No life. Just another tomb, smaller than Ivan's but just as cold.

Inside, one of the maids approached with a drink but I waved her away. They all scattered like frightened birds, the way they always did when they sensed my mood. I poured myself three fingers of whiskey and took exactly one sip before setting it down.

The alcohol burned but it didn't help. Nothing was going to help until I found whoever killed my brother.

I climbed the stairs to my study and stood at the window, looking out at the city where Randoff's killer was probably sleeping peacefully. The memory hit me like a sucker punch – Randoff at eight years old, looking up at me with complete trust in his eyes.

"You'll always protect me, big brother."

I'd failed him. The one person in this world who'd actually mattered, and I'd let him get killed.

A knock on the door pulled me back to the present.

"Yes?"

"Boss. We found it."

Viper's voice carried that edge it got when he'd discovered something important. I grabbed my jacket and followed him downstairs to the surveillance room.

The room was dark except for the laptop screen that cast everything in blue light. Marco, my tech guy, stood up when we walked in.

"Boss." He gestured toward the screen. "Master Randoff's car didn't go anywhere specific on the day he died. Look."

I moved closer to the screen and watched the footage. Randoff's black sedan wandered through the streets like he couldn't decide where he was going. No destination. No pattern.

Something was wrong with that picture.

"Rewind it," I said sharply.

The room went silent as Marco rewound the footage. I watched it again, studying every turn, every hesitation. Then I saw it – a split second where the car stopped in front of a familiar street corner.

George Street.

I knew that corner. Randoff always parked there when he was trying to keep his business private. When he didn't want Ivan asking questions about where he'd been.

"Get the car ready," I told Viper. "Tell everyone to gear up."

I went to my room to change clothes. The space was as lifeless as the rest of the house – all black and gray, like living inside a photograph. I pulled on a fresh suit and checked my gun before heading back downstairs.

My men were already lined up in the parking lot when I got there, standing at attention like soldiers. Which, I suppose, is what they were.

"Boss," they said in unison, their boots hitting the concrete.

"George Street," I said, getting into the car.

If my instincts were right, Randoff had been meeting someone. Someone he trusted enough to park in his usual hiding spot. Someone who'd gotten close enough to put a blade between his ribs.

We reached George Street in twenty minutes. The area looked different at night – seedier, more dangerous. Perfect for secrets and betrayals.

I followed my gut and led my men to a run-down hotel that looked like the kind of place people went when they didn't want to be found. The lobby smelled like disinfectant and desperation.

A young couple was checking in when we walked through the doors. Two of my men stepped forward and lifted their jackets just enough to show their weapons. The couple took one look and practically ran for the exit.

The receptionist – a middle-aged woman whose name tag read "Rita" – looked like she was about to pass out.

"Look, Rita," I said, stepping up to the counter. My voice came out colder than I'd intended, but fear made people honest. "I only have a few questions. Answer truthfully and you walk away from this."

"Yes sir," she whispered.

I pulled out my phone and showed her Randoff's picture. "Have you seen this man?"

Recognition flashed across her face immediately. "Jesse?"

Jesse. The fake name Randoff used when he didn't want to be Randoff Ivanov.

"So you know him," I said.

"Yes sir. He's a regular. Was a regular." She caught herself, realizing she was talking about a dead man.

"When was he here last?"

"Yesterday, sir. There was... there was a commotion when he left."

I felt something cold settle in my stomach. "What kind of commotion?"

"He came with this girl, and she ran out of the room real fast. Then he came out after her, bleeding from his head. There was so much blood on his shirt, but he wouldn't let us help him. Just left."

That explained why he'd taken a taxi to the hospital instead of driving himself. He'd been too weak from blood loss.

"The girl," I said, though I was pretty sure I already knew the answer. "Did you get her name?"

Rita's forehead wrinkled as she tried to remember. "I think it started with an S. Sarah, maybe?"

"Sarah," I repeated, and the name tasted like revenge.

I turned and walked out of that hotel knowing exactly who had killed my brother. Now I just had to find her.

"Average height. Curly black hair. Johnson's club," I told my men once we were back outside. "Bring me Sarah. Now.”