The Mafia

"Is that all?" The question hung in the air, sharp and concise.

Psyke's gaze, devoid of emotion, shifted to Sebastian, who nonchalantly puffed on his vanilla vape. Sebastian held a man, unconscious, by the throat; his face a brutal canvas of wounds, blood steadily pooling on the cold, unforgiving ground.

"Hmm…" Psyke's response was a mere breath before he rose from his perch atop one of the corpses strewn across the narrow, shadowed alley. The air itself felt thick with the weight of death.

With a deliberate, heavy tread, he ground his heel into the lifeless hand of a fallen enemy.

"Ublyudok, ya znayu, chto ty yeshche zhiv. Kto poslal tebya syuda?"

("Bastard, I know you're still alive. Who sent you here?") Psyke's voice, a low growl of ice, resonated as he ignited his tobacco. The flickering flame cast dancing shadows on his grim features.

Silence answered him. He inhaled deeply, the smoke curling around his face before he exhaled a slow, deliberate plume and fixed his gaze upon the man before him.

"Ty ne budesh' govorit'? Ladno, ya tebya prosto sozhgu zazhivo."

("You won't talk? Fine by me, I'll just burn you to death.") The words were laced with a chilling indifference, a gesture of his hand emphasizing the threat.

A man approached, his gait hesitant.

"Vot, boss. Eto kachestvennoye toplivo, khvatilo tol'ko tvoyey yarosti, chtoby ono zagorelos."

("Here, boss. It's high-quality fuel; your rage alone was enough to ignite it.") The man spoke, his words eliciting a soft chuckle from Sebastian. Psyke merely arched a skeptical eyebrow.

"Your joke won't work on him, Yakov. Speak Russian, we're in Russia." Sebastian's laughter was a sharp contrast to the scene's grimness, mirrored by Yakov's own amused response.

Psyke accepted the offered gallon. His gaze dropped once more to the prostrate figure, his voice now devoid of all life.

"U vas net plana pogovorit'?" ("Don't you have a plan to talk?") The question hung heavy, a final offer.

The man's fist clenched; his silence a stark defiance. Sebastian let out a weary sigh, strolling past Psyke, a yawn escaping his lips before he clapped Yakov on the shoulder, a silent dismissal. Yakov immediately followed.

As they moved away, the man's screams pierced the night. Agony laced his cries, a torrent of Russian curses aimed at Psyke and the Romanov family. The sounds of burning flesh and the grim tableau of corpses before Psyke painted a vivid picture.

These were the bodies of those who'd dared to disrupt Sebastian's bar opening.

"Teper' on zlitsya. Nam luchshe rabotat' bystreye, chem obychno, drug moy."

("Now he's angry. We should work faster than usual, my friend.") Sebastian's arm settled around Yakov's shoulders, his words a casual comment against the backdrop of violence.

"Da, on nas navernyaka podzharit, yesli my ne vyyasnim, kto vinovat v tom, chto isportil torzhestvennoye otkrytiye vashego bara."

("Yeah, he'll definitely fry us if we don't find out who's to blame for ruining your bar's grand opening.") Yakov's reply was equally nonchalant.

"Nahh… the grand opening was last month, Yakov. Tonight's 'opening' was just a trap, a little bait for these rats." Sebastian grinned, the amusement in his eyes a stark contrast to the grim reality. Yakov's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Bastard, why didn't you tell me? I even felt sorry for you earlier." Yakov's voice held a hint of genuine concern.

Sebastian roared with laughter once more, then straightened, releasing Yakov. He inhaled deeply from his vape, his gaze drifting to the vehicles parked nearby.

"Now… this is a bloody night, isn't it?" He looked up at the full moon, a predatory glint in his eye.

Yakov cracked his neck, his gaze sharp as he watched masked figures emerge from the cars, armed to the teeth. Their masks concealed their expressions, but their eyes burned with a cold, intense light.

Sebastian exhaled a cloud of vapor. "Oh, boss is going to be furious. Who's the idiot who keeps challenging us?"

Yakov shrugged. "Who knows? But whoever it is, they're definitely asking for it."

—

Leonariz sat huddled in the corner of her room, clutching her legs, her head bowed, her fingers toying with a chain.

Five hours. Five hours since the unthinkable had happened. Five hours since Psyke had left her alone in this room.

Her mind remained a blank canvas as Edna, the maid, cleaned and tended to her, assigning her various household tasks.

The images of Psyke and Anastasia, their intimacy played out before her, refused to leave her mind. It wasn't the first time she'd witnessed Psyke with another, but this time… this time it was different. The raw, brutal detail was seared into her memory.

Her thoughts swirled, a chaotic storm of questions she dared not voice.

Why had Psyke exposed that intimacy to her?

Why had the act seemed painful for Anastasia, yet later… different?

What kind of fight had she witnessed?

What weapon was between Psyke's legs? How had it subdued Anastasia so swiftly, so completely?

Why had Psyke's gaze been fixed on her throughout the entire ordeal?

And what was the white fluid that had splashed across her face?

Leonariz scrubbed at her face, the questions burning. A deeper fear gnawed at her, a fear rooted in the unsettling changes in her own body.

The searing heat, the breathlessness, the strange pressure in her abdomen—she'd dismissed it earlier, but now… now she couldn't ignore it. Especially not after remembering Psyke's expression, his dominance, his gaze locked on her.

"Mípos enóchlisa mia Theá ótan eícha na káno me aftoús tous týpous tóte?"

("Could it be that I disturbed a Goddess while dealing with those guys back then?") The Greek words offered a fragile hope, a desperate attempt to explain the inexplicable.

She sighed, rising to her feet, her gaze falling upon herself. The simple white dress with its delicate lace sleeves was unfamiliar, a stark contrast to her usual attire. She was barefoot, a feeling both strange and strangely comforting, reminiscent of her time in the tribe.

The rhythmic clinking of the chain on the floor accompanied her steps as she moved towards her bed.

Sleep beckoned, a refuge from the turmoil within, but sounds from beyond her door shattered the illusion of peace.

Leonariz's acute hearing, her innate instincts, alerted her to the danger, the palpable darkness that clung to the hallway outside.

She moved swiftly, silently, towards the door, her hand finding the latch—Edna had shown her how.

The hallway was a black abyss, yet her eyes, accustomed to the shadows, adjusted, allowing her to navigate the darkness.

She followed the familiar path towards what they called the living room, her movements fluid and silent, her body a shadow within a shadow.

The light from the living room stopped her in her tracks.

Leonariz froze, her eyes widening in disbelief at the scene unfolding before her.

"It's exhausting, my heart's pounding, and my head—"

"Enough, this isn't the time for your nonsense." The unfamiliar man's voice cut through Sebastian's words.

"What did you find out?" Psyke's question was a cold, hard demand, his expression unchanging.

Leonariz flinched as Sebastian tossed something to the floor—something that instantly captured her attention.

Her heart leaped into her throat. It wasn't just a thing; it was a severed head, eyes wide open, staring directly at her. A wave of icy terror washed over her.

"These bastards were underlings. Seems they were operating independently." The unfamiliar man explained.

"Blin, ne tot yazyk, pravda? On deystvuyet mne na nervy." ("Fuck, not that language will you? It's getting on my nerves.") Psyke's voice was sharp, laced with impatience.

Sebastian chuckled softly. "It's the Escobal family."

Leonariz saw the blue fire ignite in Psyke's eyes, felt the raw intensity of his anger even from a distance.

"Now they've done it. I'm going to show them what happens when they dare to challenge the Mafia."

A chill deeper than death settled over Leonariz. Her face drained of color, her breath caught in her throat.

She clutched at her chest, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She never expected to hear those words, the final words spoken to her sister before her death.

Mafia…

The word that had eluded her for so long. The word that held the key, the answer she'd been desperately searching for.

And the word that would inevitably draw her closer to the person she knew was responsible for everything she'd suffered, for the destruction of her tribe.