But it hadn’t changed him.
As he limply held the knife in his hand, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His early forties had seen his hair begin to thin, the blonde waves cut shorter and into a neat side parting. His skin, freshly shaved, was now wrinkled around the edges, his pale blue eyes as cold and as lifeless as the severed head of his father.
It hadn’t changed him.
He knew it. His siblings, watching with quiet respect knew it.
Malcolm Peterson knew it. With his hands tied behind his back and his mouth taped shut, he tried in vain to beg for mercy. Oleg stood quietly, his six-foot, five inch frame of pure muscle looming over him like a tidal wave of fury. He had already roughed up Peterson, the pathetic sales exec who had decided he would treat one of their girls to some rough stuff.
When she’d returned from her night’s work with a split lip and a black eye, Oleg had kicked down the door to Peterson’s marital home, pulled him from his bed in the middle of the night and dragged him to the car, the man’s wife screaming in terror and begging for help.
Peterson was beyond help now.
The puddle of urine around his knees was a sign that he knew what the outcome was.
The large, plastic sheet that covered the floor was a hell of a giveaway.
Andrei squatted down in front of the man, shaking his head with pity. It took a weak man to pay for sex.
A weaker man to pay to hit a woman.
But Andrei knew that most men didn’t go through what he had.
What Oleg had.
What Dana had.
Men were weak. And weakness was where the profit was.
With a deep sigh, he locked his icy stare onto the quivering man before him. The man noticed the skull tattoo on Andrei’s neck, before looking away with fear.
‘Mr Peterson,’ Andrei begun, his Ukrainian accent thick with menace. ‘You made a very big mistake.’
Andrei raised his eyebrows to Oleg, who stomped forward, reached out with his mighty, war weathered hand and gripped Peterson’s hair and yanked it back. Forcing him backwards, his throat shot invitingly forward and Andrei plunged the boning knife directly into the Adam’s apple. An immediate burst of blood shot forward, the deep red creeping from the man’s throat like a ghostly shadow. Peterson fell forward, the blade lodged in his trachea and he wheezed pathetically, flopping onto his front. As the life drained from him and began to pool around his twitching body, Andrei motioned for Oleg to begin the clean-up.
Silently, his dim-witted brother went to work. As big and as powerful as he was, Andrei knew that Oleg’s greatest strength was his loyalty. He had shown it during his seven years serving the Ukrainian Special Forces. A brutal and efficient killer, Oleg had been captured and tortured, the left side of his face brutally burnt with a blow torch.
He had not said a word.
While Andrei knew that any adversary looked at Oleg’s face with fear, he himself looked at it with pride. His family were tough and they were loyal. And as he watched his brother begin to clean up the blood-soaked mess, he felt that pride stronger than ever.
On the far side of the room, Dana, dressed elegantly in a black, figure hugging dress, stared malevolently as the final gasps of life escaped Peterson’s body. Ever since that glorious night where he had beheaded their father, Dana had developed a penchant for violence despite never perpetrating it herself.
She was a voyeur.
She was his little sister and he loved her dearly.
‘Brother,’ she spoke in Ukrainian, her English too broken for a full conversation. ‘It seems Elmore Riggs’ operation was just hit.’
‘Hit?’ Andrei raised an eyebrow, a few drops of blood splattered across his face like a mask. ‘Cops?’
‘No. They believe it’s the vigilante?’
‘The Watchdog?’ Andrei chuckled. ‘Pope?’
‘Yes. Riggs is dead. Two others.’
‘I don’t give a shit about a useless black fuck being killed.’ Andrei turned to his brother. ‘Oleg, go and find out from Riggs’s lap dog what the hell happened.’
Oleg looked at Andrei, his good eye vacantly looking for an explanation that never came. Dana walked towards him, a gentle smile across her striking face. Her painted lips twisted upwards.
‘Brother, go to the address and ask the following questions.’
As Dana began to run through the necessary instructions, Andrei took one final look at the dead body and felt a surge of power rush through him. He didn’t care that Riggs was dead, but he did care that someone dared to step into his world and not kiss his ring.
If Pope wanted to be involved in his business, then Andrei was adamant it would be by his invite only.
Stepping towards his drink cabinet to fix himself a drink, Andrei lit a cigar to remove the coppery smell of blood that clung to his expensive suit. It would be burnt.
It was okay.
His murderous stranglehold over the city of London ensured that he had a selection of replacements hanging in his wardrobe.
Stood on the walkway, exposed to the elements, Sam stuffed his hands into his pockets for warmth. Icy rain danced along the wind as it crashed into them and he stared at the young man before him. Wiseman was clearly terrified, his dark eyes shifting from Aaron to Sam. Now that Wiseman was clearly no threat, Aaron’s posture had changed and the anger and desperation to find his daughter were dancing dangerously close to the surface.
‘That’s all I know.’ Wiseman shrugged, pulling his jacket tighter to his body.
‘He’s fucking lying,’ Aaron spat, gesticulating wildly.
‘I’m not. Seriously, we don’t really have much dealing with that side of things.’
‘Think, Sean. Think back a couple of evenings. Who was there?’ Sam spoke calmly, stepping forward gently to provide a blockade between the cowering young man and the furious father. ‘Jasmine Hill went missing nearly two days ago. In this city that means
