The assignment arrived wrapped in politeness. This almost never happens.
Nikolo summoned Ivan just after dawn, when the estate was quiet and the corridors still smelled faintly of night—polished wood, cold stone, the last echo of sleep. Ivan stood where he was told, hands behind his back, posture flawless. He did not ask why the summons came without warning. Honestly he couldn't even ask, freewill isn't something you get in this line of business.
"Simple," Nikolo said, pouring himself coffee. No sugar. No cream. "A courier problem near the western freight yards. No valid information. A shipment rerouted. We lost contact with our men on duty. I want clarity."
Ivan nodded once. "Names?"
Nikolo's eyes flicked up, sharp as a blade. "If I had the names, why would you be here?."
"Understood," Ivan responded.
"Now I will give you this for free, you know loyalty is the last thing this familia has, they're all gunning for my neck, do you know how I managed to stay in power?" Nikolo asked with expectant eyes.
"Ruthlessness," Ivan said.
"Attaboy" Nikolo said as he waved his hand signalling dismissal.
Ivan had long waited for a moment like this, where he could freely vent his pent up frustration about unnecessary family politics. He never understood why the family held blades to each other's throat when they could be an unfathomable force to be reckoned with.
The western yards were a scar along the river—containers stacked like tombstones, cranes frozen mid-reach, fog clinging low and stubborn. Ivan arrived alone, as instructed. No entourage. No Demitri. Simplicity, again. He parked two blocks out and walked the rest, counting exits, mapping shadows. The city spoke if you listened closely: a train horn in the distance, the wet slap of water against concrete pylons, the hum of generators breathing somewhere behind steel walls.
He spotted the courier truck first. Wrong plates. Too clean. Parked where no one would leave something they wanted to keep.
Ivan didn't approach.
He circled.
The ambush was competent. That was the first tell. Men positioned with overlapping sightlines, weapons concealed but ready, patience stretched thin. A rival family would have sent brutes if they wanted blood. This smelled like theater.
A setup.
Ivan slipped between containers, letting the fog swallow him. He listened to the men talk—not loudly, not stupidly, but enough.
"I honestly don't think we should be doing this," a gunman said to his colleague while keeping watch. "Doing what?" he asked with disgust "you pussy ass bitch" he continued "do you think that this bratva has any idea what's happening underneath them. Nikolo is just a puppet and will soon be overthrown." "But capo Nikolo is a merciless figure" the gunman shot back. "Merciless my ass, he became a pussy after bringing in that bitch to play house with him" the colleague replied as he walked away looking around the surrounding area and mapping the area, somehow missing Ivan who was hiding in plain sight.
Names floated up in fragments. A rival's nickname. A promise of proof. Someone wanted Ivan on record—dead, sloppy, or compromised. Any would do.
He waited until the trap grew bored.
Then he moved.
Not fast. Not loud. He stepped into sight deliberately, hands visible, expression neutral. One of the men lifted his weapon an inch too early. Another smiled. They were pleased. Eyes grinning as they looked at the one person they wanted to kill the most.
"You're late," the smiling one said.
Ivan inclined his head. "Traffic."
They laughed. The sound echoed wrong.
He braced himself, target acquired and ready to release the shot.
But the first shot never came. Ivan had already stepped sideways, using the angle to put steel between himself and the shooters. He didn't draw his weapon. He didn't need to. He needed information.
"Who hired you?" he asked, voice calm.
Silence. Then the smiling man shrugged. "You don't get to ask questions."
Ivan sighed, almost bored. He reached into his jacket slowly and produced a phone, screen already lit. He tossed it onto the wet concrete. It skidded to a stop at their feet.
The screen showed a live feed. Another location. A room with peeling paint and a single chair bolted to the floor. A man sat bound there, breathing hard, eyes wild.
The smiling man's smile died.
"That's your brother," Ivan said softly. "He's been talking."
A lie. Ivan had no idea who the man was. But the flinch told him enough.
The men shifted, weapons wavering. Doubt was a contagion.
"Here's how this goes," Ivan continued. "You lower your guns. You answer my question. I make one call. Your brother walks out of that room."
"And if we don't?" someone snapped.
Ivan tilted his head. "Then I hang up."
The man with the brother swallowed. "It was the Caruso family," he said. "They wanted you messy. Wanted proof you can't be trusted with power."
Ivan nodded, as if confirming a suspicion he'd already filed away. "Good."
He gestured with two fingers.
Shots rang out—not from Ivan's hand, but from the shadows. Suppressed. Precise. The men dropped in staggered silence, surprise frozen on their faces. Ivan hadn't come alone after all. He'd simply arrived unseen.
When it was over, one man remained alive. The one with the brother.
Ivan crouched in front of him. "You did well," he said. "Not well enough."
The man trembled. "Please—"
Ivan stood. Mercy was loud. Cruelty was efficient.
He made the call anyway.
The phone rang once. Twice. The line was received.
"Release him," Ivan said. "Send him home. Tell him nothing."
He ended the call before the man could thank him.
The survivor stared up at him, hope flickering. "You said—"
"I did," Ivan replied. "About your brother."
He paused, letting the hope bloom.
"However, I didn't say anything about you."
The man's scream was cut short as Ivan pulled out a knife and slit his mouth from inside, blood spilled on the floor right next to him. "You know the human body is like a cash bag" he said tracing through the man's body with a knife, "I need you to be nice and quiet, I'm about to enjoy myself." Ivan undressed the man then used the knife to carve out a word he wrote smert'ot predatel'stva. The man continued to whale as Ivan scribbled away on his body with a sickening grin from ear to ear. When his cries no longer amused Ivan he cut off his tongue and stabbed one eye then as though he was looking at a broken toy he was bored off he quickly slit his throat and watched him die from bleeding. "I wonder why life is so cruel, dying by a bitch's hand, not the best kind of exit" Ivan said as he brought out a cigarette and lit it up.
By the time Ivan left the yards, the fog had thinned. The river looked black and patient. He cleaned his hands with a cloth, careful, methodical. No rush. No stain left behind.
Back at the estate, Nikolo waited in the study, the curtains drawn against the morning. He did not ask if the job was done.
"Caruso," Ivan said. "They wanted me sloppy."
Nikolo smiled faintly. "And?"
"They underestimated boredom," Ivan replied.
Nikolo studied him for a long moment. "You spared the brother."
"Yes."
"You killed the rest."
"Yes."
Nikolo nodded. "I hope you understand that the only way to show mercy to yourself is to be ruthless." he said as he walked towards Ivan hiding the clear rage that was seen in his eyes.
"I cho—" A slap interrupted the sentence that Ivan was about to make. Nikolo adjusted his hand and flexed his wrist like he was soothing muscle pain, then he said " You spared someone you shouldn't have, picture me this; I held you captive and killed your only kin in the most brutal way possible" he paused studying Ivan's behavior, "Wouldn't you come after me?"
Ivan met his gaze. "I chose control." A cold stance was kept and the intensity of the stare-off was sharp enough to cut glass. "The brother i released belongs to me now, every organ in his body, every fiber that makes him, him belongs to me, i already broke him and instill the terror that is me and the inevitable demise of crossing me." he paused rubbing his Jaw and extending his fingers to his cheek, "I learnt this from the best man in the game sir"
Nikolo's smile sharpened. "Good.Good" then with a wave he dismissed Ivan.
Later, alone, Ivan stood at the mirror again. He loosened his tie. Unbound his chest. Let the breath come easier. The reflection shifted—not softer, but truer. The test had not been about survival. It had been about appetite.
Not for blood.
For decision.
He washed his hands again, though they were already clean. The memory of the man's hope clung stubbornly, like oil.
Ivan dried his hands and turned off the light.
Some lessons were not meant to be seen.