6

The car pulled up to the mansion like a predator returning to its den—silent, armored, and watching. Citrine pressed his nose to the tinted window, wings folded tight against his spine, eyes wide with something between horror and delight.

Malakhov's estate wasn't a house. It was a threat.

Black stone walls rose from the ground like they'd been carved from the bones of mountains. Iron fences twisted with barbs and wards that weren't magical—but the kind men respected more. There were no flowers here. No birdsong. Just the distant thrum of helicopters and the crunch of gravel beneath tires carrying sins.

Citrine floated out, instantly recoiling from the energy.

Not magic. No. Worse.

Memory.

This land remembered screams.

"This place has feng shui straight out of a serial killer's wet dream," he muttered, hovering just above the ground. "Did you gut the architect yourself or was it a team effort?"

Malakhov didn't answer. He never did when his silence said more. He moved through the gates, black coat trailing like a shadow given purpose.

Inside, the halls breathed cold.

Men in tailored suits lined the corridors. Not statues, no. Wolves. Armed, cold-eyed, and trained to follow death if it wore a tie. They bowed as Malakhov passed, like servants to a god they feared more than loved.

Citrine fluttered behind, whispering to himself.

"Okay, not gonna lie… if Dante's Inferno had an interior design, this would be chapter one."

They entered the heart of it—a room that wasn't just opulent, it was dangerous. A long table made of old wood and older sins stretched down the center. Maps, photographs, and weapons lay like relics on display. The chandelier didn't sparkle. It dripped—with crystal-like fangs.

Malakhov removed his gloves. Sat at the head of the table. The silence that followed was ritual.

Citrine, ever the chaos butterfly, landed on the table and crossed his legs. "Sooooo, when do we get to the part where you threaten someone with a cigar cutter?"

Malakhov didn't look at him. "They're late."

Citrine blinked. "Who's 'they'?"

That's when the double doors opened.

A group entered. Men in darker suits. Not his men. Outsiders. Tattoos crawling up their necks like vines strangling loyalty. One of them—gold tooth, dead eyes—spoke first.

"We came for the shipment. But we heard you've been… distracted."

His gaze flicked toward Citrine.

Citrine smirked. "Oh, is this where I get blamed for corruption and collapse? Please. You should be so lucky."

Malakhov didn't move.

But the air changed.

He stood, slow. One motion. Fluid. Lethal. Like a piano note before the drop.

"No one speaks," he said, voice low, "about my territory like that."

The man with the gold tooth laughed, careless. "Or what? You'll send your Tinkerbell to me?"

Citrine tilted his head. "Wrong move, darling."

Malakhov's knife was out before the insult finished breathing. He didn't throw it. He walked, crossed the room in silence, grabbed the man by the jaw—and drove the blade through his throat.

No one moved.

Not a scream. Just a wet sound. A gurgle. Then silence again.

He pulled the blade free with surgical indifference.

"Anyone else forget who owns this city?" he asked.

No one answered.

Citrine hovered higher, watching the blood stain the rug. He didn't smile. For once, he didn't joke.

"You're more terrifying than a haunted forest with abandonment issues," he whispered, eyes wide.

Malakhov wiped the blade on a napkin. Sat back down.

"This is the house that blood built," he said. "And I don't plan on renovating."

The man's body hit the floor with the soft, final thud of a puppet with its strings cut. No one blinked. The others stood very still—cautious animals sensing a change in pressure. But Citrine? He floated lower, gaze locked on Malakhov like he was watching a star implode.

And then, he did the unthinkable.

He clapped.

Three slow, deliberate claps.

"Well," Citrine drawled, wings flaring out with faint shimmer, "that was horrifyingly impressive. I mean—zero hesitation, full execution, ten out of ten for style."

The men in suits stared at him like he was a hallucination. Malakhov said nothing.

Someone whispered, "Why do you let it talk like that?"

It wasn't even loud. Just a mutter under breath.

But Malakhov heard it. And that's when he answered.

Not to the room. Not to them.

To Citrine.

"I allow him to speak," Malakhov said, voice like thunder muffled under the velvet, "because I've learned one thing in war, in the empire, in blood..."

He stood, and the room seemed to brace itself.

"Silence obeys. But chaos? Chaos reveals."

His eyes cut through the silence and landed on Citrine—unblinking. "I don't keep him around because he amuses me. I keep him because no one lies in front of something that can't be predicted.

Citrine blinked. "Are you calling me your… what? Mafia truth serum?"

"No," Malakhov replied. "You're my canary in the coal mine. If the air turns toxic, you'll scream first."

A pause. Then that cold smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—barely there, but real.

"And sometimes," he added, almost as an afterthought, "I like your intuition."

The room did not breathe.

Citrine froze mid-hover, for once struck speechless—only for a heartbeat. 

Then he grinned. "Careful, Tsar. If you keep saying things like that, I'll start thinking you find me bearable."

Malakhov poured himself a glass of something blacker than wine, darker than ink.

"I don't."

"Liar."

Another sip.

"Maybe."