"Approximately fifteen." He lowered the phone onto the table with a soft thud.
I leaned back in my chair, both hands cuffed to the table, the weight of the restraints pressing into my wrists as if to remind me I wasn't going anywhere.
The room was small and harshly lit, a single bare bulb swinging faintly above a metal table, Concrete walls closed in, and a metal table sat in the center. A chair was chained where I currently sat.
"Twenty." I lifted both of my cuffed hands and fingers forming a crude two-zero in the air. "I killed Fourteen of your men" I leaned forward slightly, letting my voice drop, teasing the edge of danger
"Including those goons you sent to my apartment—and six more who chasing me across the desert. Can you believe that?"
I couldn't tell if it was bravado or pure sarcasm.
"I even blew up their fucking car" I added, pointing my finger like a gun, the motion exaggerated.
He leaned back slightly, watching me carefully. I could feel the intensity of his gaze pressing into me.
He's kind of amused and for goddamn sake... I might as well kiss myself for making this situation worse
Technically I'm in the line between life and Death...and here I am, provoking the death itself like I've got nothing to lose.
The fucking reason why I'm in this situation, well...
Let's wrap it all together—
----
Hongkong at night feels calm, yet alive. The tall buildings glow with soft lights. Among few shops, Mandarin signs hang proudly, colorful enough that can cast their glow onto the pavement.
Yellow light hung lazily above the green felt, I leaned over the table, cue stick steady between my fingers, eyes narrowing as I traced the perfect line,
A sharp crack broke the stillness as the cue ball struck—clean, precise. The striped ball rolled, kissed the corner, and dropped with a satisfying thud.
"Nice shot" I straightened slowly, chalking the tip of my cue.
"What bring you to Hong Kong Dave?" I curiously ask.
Across the table, he rested his cue against his shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
"I came to see you"
"And what exactly reason to see me for" I tilted my head, signaling him to take the shot.
"It's been so long since the last time we talked"
"You flew all the way from Berlin to Hong Kong... just for a talked?" He forced a laugh as he clumsily lined up his shot.
The KTV hub was empty. Neon light from the screens buzzed across the walls, throwing fragmented colors over the green felt of the billiard table. He'd rented the place.
"Three weeks ago," he began, resting the cue stick against the billiard table, "the Zenin clan leader Urigawa's daughter—Hitomi Kaito—was kidnapped during the gang clash in Shinjuku district, it was Reported throughout Japan"
I leaned my back slightly over the table, gripping my cue, waiting for him to continue. The neon lights from the KTV screens flickered.
"The authorities involved did not disclose the incident and reported it as just another gang clash, a routine brush of violence in the city streets. but the Zenin known very well that Kaito's involvement must not go unnoticed."
I raised an eyebrow, sharp and skeptical.
"Behind all of It, is the Dasirov, a Russian figure, who pull the string just to force Urigawa to hand over a Cargo shipment contain high-grade, unregistered weapon intended for export to Taipei—but misdirected during transit and accidentally shipped and ended up rerouted in Osaka port, seized by Zenin."
I let the information settle, the hum of the neon lights buzzing faintly above.
"...Reason" The KTV's music continued, distorted and faint behind the glass walls.
"...I'm here to offer you a job."
I reached for a soda can resting on the edge of the billiard table, I let the cool metal press against my palm.
Dave's fingers slipped into the inner pocket of his jacket; he pulled out several photos and tossed them onto the billiard table.
"Last night A Japanese Convict, reportedly escaped from Moscow six months ago has been found dead in the harbor river near in Tokyo." I look at the photo; it was a lifeless body of the Japanese guy in different angle.
"Authorities are still investigating the possible connections of the criminal to the recent bombing that happened at Moscow"
I met his gaze while taking a slow sip from my soda, I hear it, News channels broadcast the Incident across the globe.
Near Savyolovsky railway station, in central Moscow... a bomb exploded. The explosion tore through Savyolovsky District one of the city's busiest train hubs.
"Then, a week after the incident in Shinjuku district, authorities confirmed that a bomb threat had been discovered near Shibuya Station. It was a clearly a threat Z, and the provocation had pushed Urigawa to the edge"
The taste of soda intact in my tongue "So... Urigawa had initiated the bombing at Savyolovsky Railway Station."
He nodded silently.
"Twenty civilians were caught in the blast, I heard" he nodded once more confirming my remarks.
"And several illegal weapons were seized in the aftermath. But Dasirov... he took it to another level. He kidnapped Urigawa's daughter—Hitomi Kaito"
"Is she still alive?" He just shrugged
"No details, the employer keep it disclosed" He pulled a cigarette from the back pocket of his jeans and lit it with the lighter tucked into his jacket, the small flame catching the tip of the cigar
"The employer wants Dasirov's brother, the youngest one perhaps" he said, I tap my finger against the metal can in rhythm. "Kind of revenge for attempting the life of his daughter...and for another agenda"
"Mob war, eh"
"Technically yes"
I have no intention of getting tangled in a feud between two Mob.
"What an interesting job you've got there, Dave," I said, tossing the empty soda into the bin. I grabbed my jacket from the black couch, shrugging it on as I straightened. "But I'll gladly refuse."
I took a step toward the door, ready to turn down the offer,
"The employer is offering 1.7 billion dollars, Z," he said, calm, deliberate. "Half will be wired immediately, the rest after the job is done."
Hold on...
1.7 fucking billion dollars? My heartbeat slammed against my ribs. The number didn't just register, it hit me like a neon sign exploding in the dark, flashing across every thought in my head.
"1.7 billion dollars..." I repeat while turning myself to face him slowly, letting the number hang in the air.
He nodded
"What was the job for?" I added, He step back slightly as he shifted in surprise.
"Huh?"
"I accept the offer, Dave."
He blinked, several times, as if trying to process what he'd just heard. Minutes passed before he finally nodded, registering the words fully.
The plane touched down on the icy tarmac of Sheremetyevo International Airport, the roar of engines fading into the cold Russian air.
The cabin lights flickered off as the passengers began to gather their belongings,
I stood, adjusting the strap of my leather satchel,
I stepped into the terminal, the cold air brushing against my skin, footsteps echoing against polished floors, voices blending into a low, constant murmur. Fluorescent lights stretched endlessly across the ceiling.
I sent Nigel a quick message, telling him I'd landed in Moscow. For a moment, my thumb lingered over the screen before I slipped the phone back into my pocket.
Well, the last time I saw him, he was absolutely fuming in anger
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?!"
I winced, instinctively bringing a hand to my ear as Nigel's voice tore through the room of my apartment here in Hong Kong
"I've thought this through carefully, Gil," I shot back. Well... it was a lie.
The moment I heard the money offer—and billion dollars involve; my brain went on autopilot. And automatically agree without knowing the terms.
I even heard the cashing sound in the back of my head.
Can you believe it.
"Dasirov is one of the largest syndicates! For Fuck's sake, Z—" He slammed the refrigerator door shut so hard it rattled, then turned to face me, eyes blazing.
"I know."
"Yet you Accept the Job"
"Yes...?" He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, frustration written all over him.
"Tell me everything Zaharya" His gaze pinned me in place.
"Well..." I hesitated, blinking a few times before spilling out the Info, recounting the illegal shipment incident, Bomb threats and Billion dollar offer, I feel like a student caught sneaking in past curfew at two in the morning.
"...Dave said I'd be living in the Dasirov mansion itself—a perfect vantage point to observe... and eliminate the youngest Hakem Dasirov, if I pull this off, I walk away with a billion dollars."
"You're going to be the death of me." he muttered, and I forced a smile, though I can feel his irritation
"I know." With a curse under his breath, he yanked open a can of beer and took a long, rough swig.
"Next." I was pulled back to reality when one of the immigration officers called out
I stepped forward sliding my passport across the counter. The officer didn't greet me, just flipped it open, eyes moving quickly over every page, every detail.
Seconds stretched longer than they should have.
Then—
Thud.
The stamp hit the paper. Approved.
He pushed the passport back without a word.
Irana Sokolova.
The name printed on the passport felt foreign, distant—nothing like Zaharya Craige.
A new identity I'll assume—the one Dave laid out, A long-distant cousin of Dasirov.
Irana's been in Moscow but moved out when she was 8 years old. From then on, she lived in Berlin but later moved to Bernese for college. She returns here in Russia for a vacation.
A harmless story. Yeah
Irana Mother, Dina Dasirov Sokolova , is 13th in the family line, only quite few know her but doesn't change the fact that she's officially a distant cousin of the House
I sighed, I didn't know how Dave managed to pull all this off, but one thing was certain—I could rely on his capabilities.
I'd worked with him more than a few times and he handled everything precisely. His intel was excellent and there was no denying it.
I slipped the passport back into my coat and walked past the checkpoint.
I checked my phone once more, but my attention snapped away, on a large signboard held by a man in a black suit —Irana was written on it, beside him is another man wearing the same black suit, they both standing rigid among the milling crowd.
I reached into the right pocket of my coat and pulled out a lollipop, peeling back the wrapper and popped it into my mouth.
I watched the two men carefully before approaching, sucking on the lollipop and the creamy sweetness of the vanilla milk lingered on my taste buds.
"Hi" I greet, they both turn around in union.
"Miss Irana Sokolova?" one of them asked, his voice calm but precise.
I forced a friendly smile, kept it casual, and nodded.
"Yes, you must be Denver..." slowly, I turned to the other man. "And... Mikael?"
Dave mentioned that the ones expected to meet me at the airport were Dasirov's trusted men, Denver and Mikael.
"I'm Mikael" He pointed himself, correcting me "...and this is Denver." He gestured to the other man.
"My bad...Not really good at guessing... by the way Nice to meet you both" I said, my voice steady, watching their movements closely.
"We're here to pick you up Miss Irana." Mikael remark
"I know" I jabbed the tip of my lollipop toward the sign he was holding, pointing it out without breaking my gaze.
I handed over my luggage to Denver without hesitation.
Mikael led the way through the sliding glass doors of the terminal, and outside, gleaming under the pale Moscow streetlights, waited a black Rolls-Royce.
Its polished surface reflected the cold winter air.
Fucking wealthy.
I raised an eyebrow; curiosity masked behind an innocent tone. "Where are we heading?"
Mikael didn't answer immediately. He simply opened the rear door with careful precision, motioning for me to step inside.
"Main House Miss Irana"
Denver placed my bags on the plush leather seat with quiet efficiency, the faint scent of expensive leather filling the car.
I slid in, closing the door behind me. Snow clung to the edges of the pavement, half-melted and darkened by passing cars. Streetlights cast a pale-yellow glow.
The drive drifted on, smoothly and silent, time slipping past unnoticed as I dozed lightly throughout the Journey
I just woke up when the massive gate of the estate came into view.
It was enormous, and judging by its size, the main house beyond it must be at least three times as grand.
A few armed guards stood watch, alert.
The mansion was under extremely high security.
I shifted in my seat, settling against the backrest as the vehicle came to a halt in front of the mansion's massive main doors.
The mansion house is surrounded by lush greenery. The architecture is grand, the exterior is made mostly of glass and concrete, giving it a sleek, contemporary look.
Large floor-to-ceiling windows dominate reflecting the surrounding greenery and allowing for abundant natural light inside.
The structure has multiple terraces that create an interplay of shadows and depth.
In the foreground, there is a neatly manicured lawn, paved walkways, and landscaped gardens that enhance the overall sense of order and sophistication.
Denver stepped out of the car, I followed.
Mikael came around quietly and guided me inside the house
The moment I step inside the lounge. I halted instinctively.
The place was wrecked.
Broken glass crunched underfoot. A television lay smashed against the wall; its screen fractured beyond repair. Lamps were overturned and shards of glass glittered across the floor
It looked like a storm had torn through it.
Behind me, I felt Mikael step closer, setting some of my things down to the side with quiet indifference, as if this kind of scenario was nothing new to him.
My gaze shifted forward.
Two men stood in the middle of the ruined lounge.
One gripped an iron golf club, while the other knelt before him, blood streaming down his face and dripping onto the shattered floor.
The man holding the club was Artem Dasirov—the second brother. I read his profile back in Hongkong.
Artem was the most temper of the Dasirov brothers and cared no interest in the family business. His temper is easily triggered
Blood covered him, smeared from his knuckles up to his cheek, dark and drying against his skin.
I was completely speechless at the gruesome scene before me.
Artem grudge the man eye and a wooden chopsticks stacked in the mans neck
He turned his gaze toward us, with a sudden, violent motion, he hurled the golf club aside. It struck the floor with a sharp crack, skidding across broken glass.
"You must be Irana" he said, his voice low and edged.
His eyes locked on me—
Artem stepped forward.
Behind him, the man on his knees let out a weak, choking sound, struggling even to lift his head.
I was caught off guard when he greeted me with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. It was the kind of gesture reserved for family—
Reason why I ended up with blood smearing across my face.
"Welcome to Moscow, Irana."
Huh, now it makes sense why Zenin had laid out so much money,
The Dasirovs weren't merely influential.
They were utterly psycho.
For heaven's sake.