Chapter 8 : The night before the storm

The drive back to Sergei's mansion felt like a blur. His mind was full of the conversation with Mikhail, the weight of his father's words gnawing at him, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Jiwon.

Sergei strode through the hallways of his mansion, his footsteps echoing against the marble floors. The grandeur of the place was lost on him—wealth and luxury meant nothing when his mind was clouded with thoughts of revenge. His jaw tightened as he reached his bedroom door. Without hesitation, he pushed it open.

Jiwon lay sprawled across the bed, his frail form swallowed by the oversized, elegant sheets. He was dressed in a loose, white chemise, its fabric clinging to his body in a way that exposed the purple bruises marring his inner thighs. The sight was both satisfying and infuriating.

Sergei's gaze hardened as he stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he took in the pathetic creature sleeping soundly in his bed. Jiwon looked peaceful, vulnerable—so disgustingly oblivious to the hell that awaited him.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. His gaze remained fixed on Jiwon, his expression devoid of warmth.

"Pathetic," Sergei muttered under his breath, his voice low and cold. "You look so helpless...So weak."

The urge to reach out and grab him was strong. To shatter whatever fleeting comfort Jiwon was clinging to in his unconscious state. But Sergei held himself back, his fingers twitching before he clenched them into a fist.

This wasn't about pleasure. It was about making him pay. Making him suffer the way he had suffered all those years ago. The way his soul had been crushed under the weight of betrayal and abandonment.

For a moment, he allowed himself to simply stare at Jiwon's face—soft, relaxed, and untouched by pain for once. But that would change soon enough. Sergei would make sure of it.

He rose from the bed, his eyes never leaving Jiwon's peaceful expression. When he returned, there would be no mercy. Only the punishment Jiwon so rightfully deserved.

Sergei turned and left the room, his footsteps fading into the silence of the mansion.

Sergei left the room, his gaze hardening as he made his way to his study. The air in the mansion was cold, sterile—just the way he preferred it. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside, the familiar scent of leather and polished wood greeting him.

He reached for a pack of Davidoff Royal Release cigarettes—a luxury most would envy but meant nothing to him beyond the brief, bitter solace it provided. Sliding one between his fingers, he lit it, the flame flickering before a soft inhale drew the poison deep into his lungs.

Sergei leaned back in his leather chair, the glow of his cigarette a burning ember against the dim light of the study.

The phone rang, the shrill sound slicing through the quiet. Sergei picked it up, his expression unreadable.

"Yes," he answered, his voice low and cutting.

"Sergei," Mikhail's voice rumbled through the line, thick with disdainful amusement. "I trust your little puppy is still breathing."

"what do you want."

"Touchy, touchy. You should be grateful, boy. If I didn't let you have your little plaything, he'd be rotting in the ground by now."

Sergei's grip on the cigarette tightened, his fingers trembling with barely suppressed rage. Mikhail always knew how to dig his claws in, even from afar.

"Seems the Varennikov family has been sniffing around again. Their men were spotted near our territory, asking the wrong questions to the wrong people."

"They're pathetic," Sergei scoffed. "Send someone to take care of them. Quickly and quietly."

Mikhail chuckled darkly. "Ah, there's the cold-hearted efficiency I raised you for. You're right, of course. They're nothing but pests. Still, you should raise your guard like I said , Sergei. Sooner or later, you'll regret the decisions you've made."

Sergei's gaze hardened, his jaw clenching. "I don't make mistakes."

"No?" Mikhail's mocking tone seeped through the line, taunting and cruel. "We'll see about that."

Sergei let out a slow, frustrated exhale before reaching for his phone once more. The call with his father left a bitter taste in his mouth, but there was no point dwelling on it.

He dialed a number, his expression hardening as he waited for the line to connect.

"Boss?" a gruff voice answered, loyal and obedient.

"The Varennikov rats are getting too bold. I want them dealt with," Sergei ordered, his voice sharp and icy. "Every single one of them."

"Understood. We'll take care of it."

"Don't make me repeat myself," Sergei added, his tone carrying the weight of a man who tolerated nothing less than perfection.

"Yes, sir. Consider it done."

He hung up, tossing the phone onto the desk with a careless flick of his wrist. Handling the Varennikov spies was a trivial matter, hardly worth his attention. But it was something his father wanted done, and for now, he would comply.