Chapter 36

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Alexei’s call arrived deep in the dead of night, long after the rest of the world had surrendered to sleep.

The small town offered no nightlife to speak of; once the clock struck ten, the streets grew as silent as a graveyard, and by the time the phone finally vibrated, not even an owl dared puncture the oppressive stillness. Seeing the familiar name illuminate the caller ID, Yuri set aside his book and cast a wary glance toward the room across the hall, where Cherriot lay asleep, thoroughly spent after his long, exhausting hours in the water.

They had returned to the cottage just as dusk began to bleed its violet hues into the landscape, walking through the fading light in a heavy, mutual silence. They had paced side by side, deliberately maintaining a narrow foot of space between them—a distance unquestionably wider than when they had first set out, yet narrow enough that the evening breeze still struggled to slip through the gap. Silence and isolation had always been Yuri’s closest companions, yet tonight, the quiet felt distinctly brittle, leaving him painfully conscious of the man beside him. Though he kept his eyes rigidly fixed ahead, every rhythmic slap of Cherriot’s wet slippers against the pavement drew his gaze sideways, forcing him to stiffen his neck each time to regain his composure.

A quiet Cherriot felt entirely unnatural. Somewhere along the way, Yuri had grown accustomed to the man’s frivolous, bright chatter and the tactile way he never left Yuri untouched for more than a brief moment; it seemed almost impossible that this peaceful, unbothered walk was precisely what he had been desperately craving merely a few days ago. If he remained still for too long, he half-expected Cherriot to suddenly seize his arm and launch into another absurd, rambling story.

Yet, whatever turmoil occupied Yuri’s thoughts, the early evening scenery remained undeniably beautiful. Families were gathering home for dinner, children raced down the dirt roads with bright laughter, and the lake reflected a crimson sunset red enough to seem aflame, creating a cozy, idyllic landscape Yuri had only ever witnessed in classical paintings. Is Cherriot enjoying this too? Yuri wondered what thoughts were churning behind that silent facade, frustrated that they could occupy the exact same physical space while the heart of the person beside him remained entirely beyond his reach.

He did not ask, however. If the harsh truths Yuri had spoken earlier had finally caused Cherriot to lose interest, maintaining this sterile distance would ultimately be best for both of them.

Following their long walk back, they exchanged nothing but sparse, functional small talk. Cherriot softly suggested that Yuri take the first shower, an offer that brought Yuri enough relief that he accepted it without his usual hesitation. He did not linger beneath the water as he had the previous afternoon; remembering how anxiously Cherriot had stood guard outside the door, Yuri finished washing even faster than his military routine demanded.

When he stepped out, he found Cherriot busy in the kitchen, meticulously preparing dinner. The raw ingredients for steak lay arranged across the counter—the thick, crimson sirloin already seasoned with salt and coarse pepper—and Cherriot had just begun chopping vegetables when Yuri stepped forward to intervene. When Yuri quietly pointed out that he could not allow his employer to cook for him three times in a row, Cherriot merely shrugged and surrendered the counter. Watching the man issue a barrage of fussy, anxious warnings out of genuine concern finally eased some of the awkwardness that had shadowed Yuri all evening.

Yuri finished the meal while Cherriot showered, and by the time they had eaten what Yuri considered a remarkably decent dinner, the clock had already cleared nine. Though it was early for bed, Cherriot immediately began preparing for sleep, looking nothing like the restless, pacing creature who had wandered the cottage the previous night complaining of profound boredom. Having spent only three days in his company, Yuri could not say with absolute certainty what constituted a normal baseline for him, yet he knew instinctively that the man was behaving differently.

Yuri reacted with lethal sharpness to overt hostility, but he was almost painfully dull when it came to deciphering the softer nuances of human emotion. Cherriot’s expression remained difficult to read, and Yuri found it strange that he had begun studying the man’s shifting moods at all, having forgotten how utterly exhausting it was to interpret someone through the lens of every trivial gesture and micro-expression.

After Cherriot announced his retirement and disappeared behind his door, Yuri completed a thorough sweep of the perimeter before sending Alexei a brief message instructing him to call. Although he had finished his own preparations for the night, he felt far too restless to lie down. After a moment of deliberation, he set a kettle of water to boil and began searching the wooden cupboards; opening the lid of a heavy ceramic cookie jar, he discovered a vast assortment of imported teas inside. He gingerly touched the neatly organized tea bags Cherriot had accumulated, all packaged in vibrant shades of saffron and scarlet, recognizing them instantly as the exact sort of sugary, whimsical flavors Cherriot favored.

Sunny Orange Ginger, Salted Caramel, Chamomile, Lemon Ginger, Vanilla Chai, Peach, Mango Passion Fruit, Wild Raspberry Hibiscus…

Yuri read the playful names slowly, his fingers lingering before he ultimately selected the Sunny Orange Ginger. It was not that he possessed any particular curiosity regarding the flavor; rather, the brilliant hue of the packet simply resembled Cherriot’s hair more than any other. No artist’s paint could have truly captured the radiant, kinetic glow of that reddish gold, but lately, every shade of amber and auburn reminded Yuri inevitably of him.

Once brewed, the tea proved far more palatable than he had anticipated, offering a subtle sweetness balanced by enough tartness to make it easy to sip continuously. Picking up the slim Tolstoy volume he had left unfinished the previous afternoon, he sat on the edge of the sofa and waited for Alexei’s signal. The text was brief enough to finish within an hour even at a leisurely pace; though Yuri knew the great Russian master had penned vast, sprawling epics, this particular short story was the only one he had ever thoroughly processed.

No longer possessing an iota of faith in God, Yuri intentionally skimmed through the theological passages that held little meaning for him, stopping, as he always did, at the heavy grace of the conclusion. The angel who had dared disobey the Almighty was punished and cast down to earth, and only after living among the impoverished family who took him in did he finally comprehend the ultimate truth: human beings did not survive through selfish concern for their own flesh, but through love.

Mikhail—the angel who coincidentally shared a name with Alexei’s late father—uttered those final words before ascending back to the heavens. Yuri stared blankly at the ink of the name Mikhail, then slowly closed the book. When Alexei had lost his parents to a brutal slaughter at the tender age of twelve, Yuri had prayed fervently for their souls before falling asleep, desperately believing back then that the man and woman had gone straight to God’s side.

Back then, I truly believed there was an inherent meaning in trying to live righteously, even if the trying was all a broken person could manage.

The exact moment he closed the bitter-tasting past away with the cover of the book, his phone began to vibrate violently in his palm. Speak of the devil.

At the call that materialized the very instant his thoughts drifted to Alexei, Yuri smiled faintly and stood up. After double-checking the heavy door of the room where Cherriot had fallen into a deep, exhausted slumber, he silenced his footsteps and slipped out into the night air. He carefully rotated the brass handle so the mechanical click would not disturb the sleeper, answered the line, and was immediately greeted by Alexei’s sharp, complaining drawl.

—“What the hell took you so long to answer?”

“I was merely preparing myself for you to pout like a petulant child again,” Yuri murmured, stepping into the shadows.

—“Ha. Fuck off.” Clearly irritated by the choice of words, Alexei tacked on another muttered curse before Yuri cut through his irritation with a quiet, genuine laugh.

“Were you hurt?”

—“This is child’s play compared to dealing with Volkov’s old enforcers,” Alexei replied, his voice crackling over the static. “If I were sloppy enough to get pinned down by small-fry local thugs like these, I would have handed in my resignation as a fixer years ago.”

The unshakeable confidence might have struck an outsider as arrogant, but considering the sheer bloodshed Alexei had survived, it was a measured statement of fact. The Hell’s Watchmen maintained numerous active factions across North America and boasted a formidable criminal footprint, but compared to the old-blood Russian syndicates or the ruthless Sicilian families, they lacked both historical depth and systemic cruelty. That did not mean they lacked monsters within their ranks, but to a man like Alexei, they appeared almost civilian next to the ghost of Igor Volkov.

—“But we’re going to have to move with extreme caution here, Yuri.” The mocking, casual edge evaporated from Alexei’s voice, replaced instantly by a grave, low resonance. Alexei frequently preached that in their line of work, it was far better to laugh than to invite the dark by acting serious; it was exceptionally rare to hear him sound this solemn.

Yuri’s grip tightened significantly around the casing of his phone. He pressed his dry lips into a thin line, remaining silent as the wind swept through the courtyard, before finally speaking. “Tell me.”

—“It’s exactly what we suspected yesterday,” Alexei stated, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the midnight air. “They aren’t hunting Goodnight over some petty romantic squabble or a bruised ego. Yuri, this is a contract execution.”

At the word murder, Yuri’s mind flashed instantly to the dead-eyed man in the elevator. It was now a mathematical certainty that aiming the firearm directly at Cherriot’s chest had been no panicked error. Because the operative who had breached Cherriot’s hotel suite had carried a stun weapon, Yuri had initially categorized kidnapping and corporate intimidation as the primary motives. Unconditionally, that mercy was an illusion.

“How did you verify that?”

—“The Watchmen have been actively soliciting outside mercenaries to supplement their own internal triggermen,” Alexei explained, his breath hitching slightly. “I leveraged an old contact to get an introduction and walked right into their briefing. They handed me the assignment themselves. They ordered me to execute Goodnight.”

The mild summer night air seemed to instantly curdle into a freezing chill.

Yuri clenched the device in his numbed fingers, raising his chin to meticulously survey the dark perimeter once more. Every hyper-trained sense sharpened to a razor’s edge as he swept the surrounding tree line for any phantom presence he might have overlooked, the implications of Alexei’s words making him feel as though an ambush could detonate at any second.

Calm down.

Yuri repeated the mantra inwardly, forcing back the cold surge of adrenaline threatening to cloud his judgment. The more lethal the theater, the frostier one’s intellect needed to be; that was the fundamental law of survival.

“Do you have anything more specific?”

—“You’re asking me that?” Alexei countered sharply, before pressing forward. “You must have forgotten who handles your intel. Of course I dug up the source. Listen closely. Roughly two weeks ago, a highly specific rumor began circulating through the upper echelons of the Vancouver branch that the leadership’s favorite mistress was sleeping with a high-profile athlete. The initial command from the top was to simply terrorize the bastard and extort his assets. They planned to abduct him, bleed him dry financially, and dump him back on the street. But four days ago, the directive shifted into a scorched-earth, organization-wide hunt. There is a massive bounty pinned to his head, and every asset in the field has explicit permission to kill him on sight.”

“What could they possibly hope to achieve by escalating to that scale?” Yuri asked, his brow furrowing. “That is an incredibly loud political play for a single branch leader to authorize independently.”

—“My thoughts exactly,” Alexei agreed, his voice dropping an octave. “So I dug into the wire transfers, and surprise, surprise—there is a shadow client pulling the strings from above. Someone with deep enough pockets to funnel untraceable capital into a street gang while keeping their own name completely off the ledger.”

The operational template was so sickeningly familiar it caused a physical wave of revulsion to rise in Yuri’s throat. Igor Volkov had bought off an entire army of corrupt officials with blood money to eliminate the narcotics agents squeezing his supply lines, eventually ordering the execution of a federal prosecutor. He had always heavily incentivized the most sociopathic members of his “family” to target law enforcement; the larger the bounty, the faster the wolves volunteered, and the more actors participated, the thicker the collective madness became.

Once a contract hunt was sanctioned, it ceased only when a corpse was delivered. Whether that corpse belonged to Cherriot or to one of the dozens of greedy moths currently rushing toward the flames, blood was going to drench this town.

Yuri had anticipated the assignment would be difficult, but he had not wanted it to be this tragic—not out of concern for what he himself might have to endure in the crossfire, but because of the horrific reality Cherriot would be forced to confront. The thought inflicted a sharp, visceral pang of grief in his chest.

Cherriot had done absolutely nothing to merit this death sentence. Was he not ultimately just a guileless, gentle fool who had opened his heart with terrifying ease even to a piece of human wreckage like Yuri? Judging by his visceral loathing of the criminal underworld, he had likely spent his entire life insulated from this brand of filth. Yuri could not fathom how deeply it would shatter him to spend his days fleeing from professional killers for reasons his naive mind could not even comprehend.

“Could Cherriot offer to negotiate, the way they originally structured it?” Yuri asked, the question slipping out because he desperately craved a resolution that bypassed the necessity of violence, but Alexei merely clicked his tongue in bitter dismissal.

—“Yuri, we both know exactly what these animals are. There is a ten times greater chance they will pretend to accept a settlement only to slide a blade between his ribs the moment his back is turned.”

Yes. Of course. The question itself had been an act of weak, foolish sentimentality.

—“It would be convenient for everyone if a check could settle this, but judging by the heat on the ground, it’s completely off the table,” Alexei continued. “A celebrity of Goodnight’s caliber possesses massive, liquid fortunes. They are hunting him this savagely because there is something far larger than a simple extortion payout at stake here.”

“Who is the client?”

—“That’s as much as I could extract from the scum at the bottom of the ladder,” Alexei muttered, a rare note of frustration bleeding through. “To pierce the identity of the executive client, I’m going to have to embed myself directly with the senior leadership.”

“And there will be a severe price for that access.”

Yuri knew the protocol intimately. Anyone infiltrating a syndicate and seeking validation from the inner circle had to perform an initiation rite—an irreversible transgression that the family could later hold over them as permanent leverage. The only mechanism for the Watchmen to fully trust Alexei, who had been contracted merely as an independent asset, was for him to execute his designated contract with absolute finality. Yet Cherriot, the very target Alexei was paid to eliminate, was currently sleeping peacefully under Yuri’s protection.

Which meant there had to have been an alternative offering of blood.

As though Yuri had mapped the horror perfectly, Alexei let out a long, ragged breath and fell completely silent. Yuri could hear the distinct, trembling instability in his partner’s breathing across the thousands of miles of wire, the silence stretching between them for several agonizing minutes. But the longer the quiet endured, the heavier the dark premonition grew within Yuri’s chest, weighing down his organs like lead.

—“Samuel, was it? The kid Goodnight was seeing,” Alexei finally croaked, his voice cracking.

The moment that name left Alexei’s lips, the phantom of death materialized in the quiet courtyard. It was the distinct, hollow echo that always followed a casualty—a cold reverberation flowing through the receiver that sounded like the voice of the dead themselves.

—“I helped dispose of his body.”

Alexei ground his teeth together, violently swallowing a pained, ragged breath. Although Yuri had never once seen the young man’s face, Samuel was someone who had shared genuine intimacy with Cherriot, their lives intertwined until very recently. At the stark confirmation that a young life had been snuffed out so callously, Yuri felt the air leave his lungs, a profound, grief-stricken sorrow tightening around his throat.

He closed his eyes against the moonlight, offering a silent, useless eulogy for the unknown departed. He did not believe Samuel had been a particularly saintly individual, but the boy had certainly not seemed wicked enough to deserve an unmarked grave. If he had gone to the lengths of sending Cherriot a desperate, final text warning him of the hunting party and urging him to seek professional protection, then some lingering shred of conscience must have remained alive in him.

After exhaling a long, ragged sigh at the bitter news, Yuri thought of Cherriot and felt an even sharper agony pierce his chest. Given the man’s fragile, empathetic nature, learning this truth would completely destroy him. Cherriot was the rare sort of person who openly wept at ordinary goodbyes, claiming every human parting was a tragedy, and he had already mournfully anticipated the day he would eventually have to separate from Yuri—a man he had hired through a cold financial transaction. If he discovered that the partner he had loved had been brutally torn from the earth…

—“He wasn’t in good shape when I found him. Fuck, Yuri,” Alexei whispered, his composure fracturing completely into the receiver. “They dumped him on a concrete factory floor like a piece of rotting cargo, and I had to be the one to clear the remains away.”