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Could barely breathe.

The pressure against my chest made every inhale a struggle, and panic threatened to overwhelm me. I forced it down, knowing that losing control now meant losing everything.

The men stepped back, forming a semicircle around me. Six of them. All armed. I could see the bulges of weapons beneath their jackets, the cold glint of metal in shoulder holsters. They watched me with dead eyes, patient as statues, waiting for whatever came next.

And then he walked in.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The men straightened almost imperceptibly, a subtle shift in their posture that told me everything I needed to know about who had just entered.

I knew who he was before he spoke. I’d seen his picture in the files Rurik compiled over months of painstaking investigation. I’d heard the stories about what he had done to people who crossed Petrovitch. The rumors that circulated in whispers through the underworld. Bodies found in pieces. Families that disappeared without a trace. Men who begged for death long before it finally came.

Ivanovich.

He was smaller than I had expected. Maybe five-ten, lean build, dark hair slicked back from a narrow face that looked almost scholarly. But it was his eyes that made my blood run cold. Empty. Completely devoid of anything resembling humanity. Like looking into the eyes of a shark, or something even more ancient and predatory. Windows into nothing but void.

“Salvatore Valentinetti,” he said, his accent thick, rolling the syllables of my name around in his mouth like he was tasting them. “Finally, we meet.”

He walked closer, circling me slowly like a predator circling wounded prey. Each footstep was deliberate, calculated. I tracked his movements, keeping my eyes on him even though every instinct screamed at me to look away, to make myself smaller, to disappear. But I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

“You caused much trouble,” he continued, his voice conversational, almost friendly. “Sticking nose in business doesn’t concern you. Asking questions better left alone. Making alliances.” He laughed, a dry sound without humor. “Arrogant.”

He stopped in front of me, tilting his head to the side like he was studying something fascinating under a microscope. Something he was about to dissect.

“Petrovitch—he sends message,” Ivanovich said, leaning in closer now. I could smell cigarettes and expensive cologne. “Big mistake to challenge the Society. Broke the rules.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Now you pay.”

He smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. His lips pulled back from perfectly white teeth, but his eyes remained completely flat. Dead.

“We finish, you beg to talk. Tell everything.” He straightened up and nodded to one of his men.

The first blow came from behind. Something hard—maybe a pipe, maybe a bat—slammed into my shoulder blade. The pain was immediate and overwhelming. I heard myself cry out. The sound echoed in the vast space. Another blow. This one to my ribs. Right where they were already broken.

I screamed.

I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop it. The pain was too much, too intense, too all-consuming. They worked systematically. Professionally. Like they had done this a thousand times before. Blow after blow, each one carefully placed to cause maximum pain without killing me. Not yet. They weren’t trying to kill me yet.

They were trying to break me.

My shoulder. My ribs. My legs. My back.

I lost track of time. Lost track of how many times they hit me. All I knew was the pain. The endless, relentless, unbearable pain. I tasted blood. It filled my mouth and ran down my chin. My nose was broken. Maybe my jaw. Everything hurt so much I couldn’t tell where one injury ended and another began.

“Stop,” I tried to say, but it came out as a gurgle. Blood in my throat. In my lungs. They didn’t stop.

Ivanovich watched the whole time. Didn’t participate. Just watched with those empty eyes, occasionally giving instructions in Russian.

Finally, they stopped.

I hung in the chair, held up only by the restraints. My head lolled forward. I couldn’t lift it. Couldn’t do anything except breathe—shallow, painful breaths that made my broken ribs scream.

Ivanovich walked closer. Grabbed my hair and yanked my head back, forcing me to look at him. “This beginning,” he said softly. “Much planned for you.”

He released my hair, and my head dropped forward again.

“But first,” he continued, “your wife.”

His words cut through the haze of pain. My wife. Madigan.

“Such beautiful woman,” Ivanovich said, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. “Red hair. Eyes. Nice body.”