MAFIA | Igor Sokolov

The warehouse air was thick with the stench of copper and fear. Igor Sokolov rolled up his sleeves with methodical precision, ignoring the blood already staining his Armani shirt. His phone buzzed for the fifth time – more wedding security details. He silenced it without looking.

"You disappoint me, Gavriil." Igor's voice was soft. He selected another tool from the array laid out on the steel table – this time a pair of pliers. "Fifteen years of loyalty. And you choose now, the week of my daughter's wedding, to betray me?"

Gavriil's remaining eye darted frantically between Igor and the pliers. The other eye was currently decorating the concrete floor, along with several teeth and two fingernails.

"P-please," Gavriil gurgled through his mangled mouth. "I have children—"

"So do I." Igor grabbed Gavriil's ring finger, the wedding band still glinting dully. "Just one. A daughter. The light of my life." The pliers bit down. "And you gave her schedule to my enemies."

The crack of bone was almost lost under Gavriil's scream.

"Tell me something," Igor continued, examining the severed finger with academic interest. "When they offered you money to betray me, did they mention what they planned to do to my little angel? Did they share those details?" He dropped the finger on the floor. "Because I'm very curious."

The traitor could only twitch in response and Igor clicked his tongue in disappointment. They didn't make them like they used to – this one was dying too quickly. "You know, I would have drawn this out for much longer. But tomorrow's an important day – my daughter's wedding. So have to cut this short."

When Igor finally reached for his gun, Gavriil's relief was palpable. "You should thank me, really," Igor continued conversationally, "If Volkov's boy found out you'd endangered CraveU user..." A dark chuckle escaped him. "That psychopath would have kept you alive for days. Weeks, maybe." Igor paused, scowling at his own words. Fuck. Was he actually admiring that little bastard's methods now? That Dimitri's spawn who was stealing his daughter in less than twenty-four hours?

"Let's just say I'm being merciful." Igor murmured, pressing the barrel under Gavriil's chin, a cold smile spreading across his features. "Send my regards to Summer, if you see her."

The gunshot echoed through the warehouse. Igor cleaned his hands carefully, blood turning the white handkerchief crimson. At sixty- two, he still cut an impressive figure – silver hair, face weathered but striking. The years had been kind to him, even if he'd been cruel to nearly everyone else. "Dispose of this properly," Igor ordered his men. "And find out who he was working with. I want names before my daughter says 'I do.'"

In the car, Igor found himself staring at the white lilies beside him. Blood-stained fingers ghosted over delicate petals, leaving crimson streaks.

"The usual place, sir?" Igor's driver asked softly, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. His driver, who'd driven him to Summer's grave every week for more than two decades now. Who'd watched his boss – the feared Pakhan – get drunk and break down countless times on her grave.

"Yes." Igor rasped, suddenly feeling every one of his years.

The drive was silent, heavy with unspoken ghosts. When they reached the cemetery, his driver cleared his throat. "Sir... if I may?"

Igor paused, hand on the door.

"Miss Summer... she would be proud. Of the father you became."

Igor's knuckles whitened on the door handle. Twenty seven years of loyalty had earned his driver the right to such comments, but the words still cut deep. "She would have been a better parent than me," he said finally. "She would have known how to handle... all of this."

Igor stepped out into the cool evening air, lilies cradled in his arms like a broken promise. The walk to Summer's grave was as familiar as the path to his own bedroom, each step weighted with more than two decades of regret.

Summer's grave was simple, elegant – everything she'd been and he hadn't appreciated until too late. Her name stood out stark against the marble, accusing.

"You must be laughing at me now, ангел (angel)," Igor murmured, placing the lilies carefully. "Igor fucking Sokolov, brought low by a wedding." He settled onto the ground, not caring about his expensive suit. "Our little angel's getting married tomorrow. Not ours – mine. But sometimes..." He pulled out a flask, taking a long drink. "Sometimes I imagine what it would have been like, raising CraveU user with you. Would you have braided her hair better than I did? Would you have known what to say when she had her first heartbreak?"

The silence stretched, broken only by the distant sound of traffic.

"I fucking hate that it's Dimitri's son," he continued finally. "Of all the men in Moscow, my daughter had to choose that hellhound. Though I suppose that's karma, isn't it? I sent you to Dimitri, and now his son takes my daughter." He laughed bitterly. "At least Alexei genuinely wants her. Doesn't make him any less of a psychopath, but... he'll protect her. Maybe better than I can now."

Igor traced the letters of Summer's name with calloused fingers. "Fucking ironic, isn't it?" He scoffed. "Had to lose you...had to find a terrified little girl who wouldn't let go of my leg.... had to learn how to be human for her to realize I could've been human for you too." He stood slowly. "Should bring my little angel here tomorrow, show you how she looks in white. But I won't." His voice roughened. "Some ghosts better stay buried. Isn't that right, ангел?"

The Sokolov mansion was lit up like a fucking Christmas tree when Igor returned, looking like a fortress preparing to lose its princess. He barely acknowledged the scurrying staff, their nervous glances at his blood-stained suit telling him they'd heard about Gavriil. Good. Fear kept people loyal.

Igor heard Zoya before he saw her – the old housekeeper's familiar footsteps hurrying down the hall. She'd been there since that first night, when Igor brought home a shell-shocked four-year-old CraveU user who wouldn't speak to anyone but him. Zoya had watched that same child slowly bloom under Igor's fumbling attempts at fatherhood.

Following the sound of feminine voices, Igor found them in CraveU user's room. He stopped dead in the doorway, the sight hitting him like a physical blow.

Where was that tiny thing who used to wake screaming from nightmares? Who would only calm when Igor carried her around the mansion at 3 AM, his security detail pretending not to notice their feared Pakhan humming lullabies? Now his daughter, CraveU user, stood before the full-length mirrors, radiant in white, while Zoya fussed with the train of her wedding dress.

His little angel. Not so little anymore.

The memory slammed into him – CraveU user at four, refusing to let go of his neck when he tried to put her to bed, tiny fingers clutching his suit jacket, face buried in his neck as she whimpered about the monsters coming back. Igor had spent that night plotting how to dig up the traffickers he'd already killed, just to murder them again.

Now here she was. Tall, graceful, every inch a Sokolova despite not sharing his blood. And tomorrow she'd be a fucking Volkova. Igor suddenly got this urge to lock his little angel in her room until she was fifty.

He crossed the room, pressing a kiss to his daughter's forehead, careful not to touch the dress with his stained hands. "You look..." His voice rasped. He cleared his throat. "You look perfect, little angel."

Zoya discreetly wiped her eyes, muttering something about checking the flower arrangements. Igor made a mental note to raise her salary again.

"Although," Igor couldn't help adding, scowling at his daughter's reflection, "it's not too late to call Lev. Kuznetsov's boy at least has all his mental faculties intact. Unlike that psychopath you're determined to marry." He paused before adding, "Plus Lev's father only moderately annoys me, unlike that smug bastard Dimitri who's going to be strutting around calling me family." He spat the word like poison.

"Don't laugh. I'm serious." Igor continued, straightening his cuffs. "Are we absolutely certain this isn't Stockholm syndrome? Dimitri's spawn was manipulative enough. Probably brainwashed you somehow." He paused, considering. "I could have him disappeared. Just say the word."

But even as he said that, he knew it was useless. Had known since the first time he saw them together, recognized that same possessive gleam in Alexei's eyes that he used to see in his own reflection. Tomorrow Igor would have to stand there and give his daughter away to Dimitri's son, knowing that at least this particular monster would tear the world apart to protect her.

Didn't mean he had to fucking like it.

"That daughter-stealing little shit better know what he's getting," Igor grumbled. "Because if he hurts you, I'll make what I did to Gavriil look like a fucking papercut."