Seth sat motionless at the head of the long table, the sleek darkness of the conference room casting reflections as cold as the man himself.
At first glance, this appeared to be an assembly of executives in tailored suites discussing business, but the truth was far from that.
Beneath the surface of polished civility, every man seated around the table was a head figure of an organized global crime ring. Each one clung desperatley to power, each one loathed the other to the core. Yet one singal emotion unified them: Fear.
Fear of the man at the head of the table.
They thought that they would be able to control him, he was so young when he took over, and they, they thought that they would put him on the saddle and tug the reins, except he cut the saddle loose, leaving them stranded as he rode , dragging them through the mud.
They thought they were playing an easy game with him, only to become his puppets, and the worst part was that no one saw it coming, even his father didn't see the Reaper's scythe, coming his way to snatch his soul, when he trained him the way he did to become his executioner.
Everyone thought that Viktor Strakhov was the wildest card to ever sit on the Russian mob throne and terrorize the enitre underground.
He was a madman, known to drink his coffee over morning torture sessions and to have fed his wife her former lover's blood on their wedding night.
Drita, the whispered story of a rare orchide snatched from her peaceful life, crashed under the heel of mad obsession and silent horror.
It was no secret that Seth himself was a product of rape, a product of a grief too terryfing to recount aloud.
Yet no one expected Seth to grow into something worse.
A predator born of a predator, a killer in a skin carved by the deity of beauty and vengeance, sculpted like a god with a face that could steal breath, and eyes that froze it.
He carried his Albanian mother's Crystalline blue gaze, except his were devoid of any warmth.
Everything else he took from his father: the jaw carved from stone, the menace in his gait, the sociopathic genes and the cold blooded silence of a man who didn't need to speak to command obedience.
He resembled him too much that looking in the mirror made him nauseous.
They called him the Hellhound, his mere mention made the most powerful men shake in their boots.
He lived in a world of monsters and he, he was the thing that mad monsters look under their beds, a man made of nightmares, because he was shaped in Icelus's realm.
The men in the room prattled on about territories, narcotics trade, arms shipments, and underground cage matches. Their voices filled the space, but none of it touched Seth. He sat still, cloaked in silence, so absolute it distorted the air.
Some of them occasionally threw side glances at him to gauge his reaction.
This meeting was supposed to give some of them a boost, to propose a marriage alliance to him, but after the recent events, they were walking on spikes. No one could predict Seth's course of action, No one dared to poke the beast.
They thought this meeting was a race for who will succeded in shackling him to their daughter. Even the beasts of the wild doted on their offsprings, yet they barted their own as cattle, if that's what it took to gain footing in the underground.
They were fools, because he was full aware of their lowly schemes, and this meeting was a simple bait then catch.
Petrov, his right hand and oldest confidant, stepped quietly into the room sending it into eerie silence.
He leaned down to whisper something in his ear, so hushed even the walls couldn't hear.
The Hellhound stirred, his stilness fracturing into motion.
And just like that he gracefully walked out of the meeting room, leaving everyone in dreadful silence.
He made his way to his office, the words echoing in his mind "We've. got. a. location." The space resembled him, cold, clean and on edges, a space devoid of color or warmth. Everything arranged neatly in it's place, except for one unsightly thing.
One that lacked an ounce of sense or impeccable timing.
There she sat on top of his desk in sheer lingerie, a seductive smile on her face, casually presenting her services, as if her father the head of the Cosa Nostra wasn't in the next room.
The girl so oblivious or delusional, thought her cunt and fake beauty would turn him into a devoted husband.
She Couldn't be more wrong.
The sight of her disgusted him, especially at a time when the only thing that could satiate his thirst, was the sounds of muffled screams and the sight of his wolf relieving earth from the scum it carried.
He spared her no glance, retrieved what he came for and walked out without a word, as if she were an inconvenient stain on the marble floor.
Behind him, Gulia's smile crumbled in disbelief.
She stomped her stiletto into the floor in frustration, but she knew better than to follow.
No one chased the Hellhound when he was on the scent of blood.
On the private jet, silence reigned.
Seth sat in his usual seat, not in serene sleep but in blank numbness.
Around him were men trained to kill, a seasoned doctor, two nurses on standby for emergencies, and one trembling hostess who barely breathed.
Petrov sat across, quiet and calculating as always.
His phone rang and without opening his eyes he picked it up, already knowing who the caller was.
Seth didn't speak.
He was a man of very few words.
The voice came from the other line, kind and old, soaked in sorrows and aged from the horror of lives.
Armand was a simple farmer, widowed very young and had gained nothing from his life except for his farm and an only child, a delicate flower whom he would trade his life for but failed to protect.
He only wanted to preserve what was left of her on this earth, be it a boy past the gates of salvation.
"Don't let your rage blind you. The dead still awaits you to lay them to rest."
Before he could finish, Seth already hung up.
Now the image was so vivid. Those eyes looked more beautiful on her. It all came rushing back, her smile, her warmth, her protectiveness and love, but also her betrayal.
And above all, her body that now lay in a morgue back home.
The memory of her battered body thrown at the gates of his estate, like some dog casually ran by a car and left on the street, waiting to be sent to the next dumpster.
Lifeless, cold and drained, face mutilated beyond recognition and throat slit so deeply the blood didn't even stain the snow.
Her eyes closed as if she was resting but only the gods knew what horror those eyes witnessed before their last rest.
Grief and rage overcame him. He would find them and when he did, no prayer would save them, the mercy of the lord wouldn't reach them, and hell would bar its gates before taking them.
Because they didn't deserve even fire.
They deserved him.