CHAPTER 3: THE BREAKING POINT

Five o'clock in the morning was Dimitri's time.

He woke without an alarm, his body trained over decades to rise at the same hour every single day. His bathroom was already prepared by one of his staff members. The water was the perfect temperature, the marble gleaming under the soft lighting. He spent forty minutes in the shower, letting the water cascade over his muscled body. He washed his hands three times. In his line of work, you could never be too clean.

By five forty-five, he was dressed in a custom-tailored navy suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary. The fabric was imported from Italy. The cut was perfect. Everything about Dimitri had to be perfect.

Alexei appeared as Dimitri was adjusting his cufflinks in the mirror, holding out a ringing phone.

"It's the arrangements team," Alexei said.

Dimitri took the phone and pressed it to his ear as he made his way toward the dining room. His breakfast was already laid out, prepared by a chef who had trained in Paris and New York.

"I don't care about the logistics," Dimitri said into the phone, his voice sharp and commanding. "Make sure the Commissioner of the CIA is there. I don't care if you have to drag him there personally. Nine o'clock. No delays."

He hung up without waiting for confirmation.

Within minutes, he was finished eating. He didn't taste the food. He never did. Eating was a necessity, not a pleasure. He stood up from the table and walked toward the exit where several of his men were already waiting, standing at attention like soldiers.

Before he left, he turned to Alexei.

"Monitor the girl in the basement," he commanded. "Every second. If she moves, if she tries anything, I want to know immediately."

"Yes, sir," Alexei replied.

Dimitri was driven in a black Mercedes to one of his secret locations, a nondescript building on the outskirts of the city that looked like an abandoned warehouse. Inside, it was furnished with a single table and chairs. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The Commissioner of the CIA was already seated when Dimitri arrived. The man immediately stood and bowed, a gesture of respect that Dimitri demanded from everyone in his circle.

"The situation with the drug exports," Dimitri said without preamble. He didn't believe in small talk. "Give me the report."

The Commissioner pulled out a folder and began laying out the details. Everything was moving smoothly. The shipments were getting through without issue. The ports were cooperating. The authorities were looking the other way. It was all going exactly as planned.

Dimitri nodded his head slowly, absorbing the information. Then he signaled to one of his men.

The man brought forward several bundles of cash, stacks of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in paper bands. Dimitri pushed it across the table toward the Commissioner.

"That's for a job well done," he said simply.

The Commissioner's eyes widened as he began gathering the money, his movements quick and greedy. He was practically salivating over it. Dimitri watched with disgust. He hated greedy people. They were predictable and weak. But he needed people like this. He needed men who could be bought. Men who would compromise their principles for money. They kept his operation smooth.

"There's something else," the Commissioner said, his voice dropping. "A new detective was transferred to our division. He's been asking questions about you. He wants to investigate."

Dimitri's expression didn't change, but something cold flickered in his eyes. "Then he shouldn't investigate useless things. He should focus on what I tell him to focus on."

The Commissioner sensed the shift in Dimitri's mood immediately. He bowed low, his body language screaming apology.

Dimitri stood up and walked toward the Commissioner. He placed one hand on the man's shoulder, squeezing gently but with unmistakable pressure.

"Make sure the drugs get where they need to go," Dimitri said, his voice soft but lethal. "There should be no obstruction. None. The detective, the cops, anyone else who gets in the way of my shipments will disappear. You understand?"

"Yes, yes, of course," the Commissioner stammered.

"Good," Dimitri said. He released the man's shoulder. "Get out of my sight."

As the Commissioner gathered the money and left, Dimitri turned to one of his men.

"Keep an eye on him," he ordered. "I don't trust that bastard. If he starts talking, if he starts working with anyone else, I want to know. And then I want him dead."

"Yes, sir," his man confirmed.

Dimitri left the warehouse and was driven to another meeting, this one involving the stamping of an illegal weapons deal. The kind of deal that could change the balance of power in three countries. The kind of deal that was worth hundreds of millions of dollars. He spent two hours on this, reviewing contracts, making decisions, coordinating with intermediaries. By the time he was done, the deal was locked in. Another empire moving piece was in place.

Three hours later, Dimitri was back in his penthouse. The maids did their routine as he passed them, collecting his coat, offering him water, adjusting the blinds. He barely acknowledged them.

He was heading to the basement.

That damn girl was worsening his day. He could feel the anger rising in his chest, the kind of anger that led to violence. She'd been down there for over twenty-four hours without eating. Without breaking. Without showing any sign of weakness.

It was infuriating.

The steel door opened for him, and he descended into the basement. The girl was still in the same position as yesterday, curled up in the corner like a wounded animal. The food that had been left for her sat untouched in a corner. She hadn't eaten. She hadn't moved. She hadn't done anything.

He cursed angrily under his breath.

He stood still and watched her for several seconds, his jaw clenched, his fists tight at his sides. Then he bent down and began untying the rope that bound her hands. The rope had left deep red marks on her wrists where the fibers had dug into her skin.

She winced in pain as he pulled the rope away.

She moved away from him immediately, pressing herself harder against the concrete wall.

"So you're not going to talk, right?" Dimitri said, his voice dripping with contempt.

She didn't respond.

He yanked her hair forcefully, pulling her face toward his. His hand was rough, his grip tight. She would have bruises. He wanted her to have bruises.

"Let go of my hair, you jerk," she said suddenly, her voice sharp and defiant.

Dimitri actually laughed. It was a maniacal sound, the laugh of someone who found humor in darkness.

"So the bitch can talk," he said, his words dripping with mockery.

He pushed her head back, letting her fall against the wall. Then he stood up and walked away from her.

"Who are you to that bastard?" he demanded, his voice cold as ice.

She still said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on him, burning with something he couldn't quite identify.

His patience snapped like a dry twig.

He pulled his gun from his waistband and pointed it directly at her head. His finger rested on the trigger. He'd killed so many people that it felt natural to him now. One more wouldn't make a difference.

But the girl didn't flinch. She looked up at him with those fearless eyes, and without hesitation, she raised her middle finger at him.

"Go to hell," she spat.

The rage that exploded inside Dimitri was blinding. He fired the gun without thinking, but not at her. The bullet tore through the plastic bed beside her, exploding the thin mattress into fragments of foam and plastic.

She flinched then, her body jerking back in shock.

Dimitri snorted and walked toward her. He used the gun to raise her chin, forcing her to look up at him. The cold metal of the barrel pressed against her skin.

"This bullet can go straight into your fucking head at any time," he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Any fucking time I want. So you better start answering all my questions, or I'll put a hole in your skull and dump your body in the river. Do you understand me?"

Something flickered in her eyes then. For the first time since he'd taken her, Dimitri saw real fear. It was brief, just a flash of vulnerability, but it was there.

And god help him, he liked it.