CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Mikhail Volkov

I had been in prison for twenty-three days, and I was beginning to lose my fucking patience.

Not because of the food, the filthy cells, or the collection of pathetic men who thought prison made them dangerous. I'd spent time in worse places with people far more unpleasant. My problem was that I still hadn't found what I'd come here for.

Someone in my organisation was selling information to our enemies. Routes, shipments, meeting locations, names of men who shouldn't have been known outside our inner circle. Whoever the bastard was had access to sensitive information, and I wasn't interested in discovering how much damage he'd cause before I found him.

Alexander was handling everything outside. He was my closest friend, my most trusted man, and the only person who knew why I'd deliberately allowed myself to be imprisoned. He'd been running the organisation in my absence, keeping business moving while I searched for the rat from the inside.

Unfortunately, the investigation was going nowhere.

Every man I'd questioned had given me the same useless answers. Every lead had turned into another fucking dead end, and the prison officials were proving about as helpful as a cockroach with a law degree. I was beginning to consider whether I'd wasted my time coming here.

That afternoon, I entered the cafeteria with two of my men, already irritated by the noise. Prisoners were shouting across tables, guards were arguing near the entrance, and the smell of whatever passed for lunch was enough to ruin anyone's appetite.

Then I noticed the commotion.

Three men had cornered a prisoner near one of the tables. The largest bastard had him by the shirt while the other two held him in place. Their victim was smaller, with dark hair and a face that looked familiar even from a distance.

I didn't particularly care.

Prisoners fought. Men got beaten. Occasionally, someone disappeared into the infirmary with fewer teeth than he'd arrived with. None of it concerned me unless it interfered with my business.

I was more interested in getting my food.

Still, I recognised the largest man. Briggs. A particularly unpleasant piece of shit who'd mistaken his size for authority. He'd approached me during my first week, offering to make my stay comfortable in exchange for protection. I'd told him that if he approached me again, I'd remove something important from his body.

He'd wisely kept his distance since then.

As I walked toward the serving counter, I heard someone whisper, “Please. Help me.”

I turned my head.

The little bastard was looking directly at me.

For a moment, I almost laughed. Was he fucking serious? He'd seen me walk into the cafeteria and decided that asking me for help was a good idea? Did he have any understanding of who I was?

I wasn't a guard. I wasn't some charitable gentleman who went around rescuing helpless prisoners. I didn't give a shit about their problems, their injuries, or whether they lived long enough to finish their meals.

I was Mikhail Volkov.

Men paid fortunes to avoid appearing on my list of enemies. Others spent their final moments begging me for mercy, only to discover that I found begging particularly irritating.

And this idiot thought I'd save him?

I continued walking.

Behind me, the men started laughing. I heard Briggs say something, followed by the sound of a slap. Then came another struggle, the scrape of furniture, and the little prisoner's muffled cry.

I ignored it.

At least, I intended to.

My attention was on the food when I heard someone shouting. I turned, annoyed by the disturbance, and finally looked properly at what was happening.

The three bastards had dragged him down.

One was holding his arms while another forced him forward, laughing as he pulled at his remaining clothes. His shirt was already torn, his trousers had been dragged down, and his face was swollen and bloodied. He was fighting desperately, but he was clearly exhausted.

Then Briggs grabbed him by the waist.

Something inside me went very, very still.

I watched the bastard force the prisoner's head toward the floor while his companions laughed. The little man was barely able to keep himself upright. His hands struggled against the grip holding him down, and his voice had become nothing more than frightened, broken pleas.

What a bunch of fucking animals.

I'd seen men tortured. I'd watched people beg for their lives while my men worked on them, and I'd personally put bullets through the heads of men who'd betrayed me. Violence wasn't something that shocked me.

But there was something about the sight of these three pathetic bastards enjoying themselves that made my stomach turn.

Not pity.

I didn't feel pity.

I felt an overwhelming desire to hurt somebody.

Before I could reconsider, I crossed the distance between us.

My boot connected with the nearest man's head, sending him crashing sideways onto the floor. I followed him down and planted my foot against his skull, pressing until I heard the satisfying crack beneath my shoe.

His scream cut through the cafeteria.

“Get your fucking hands off him.”

The two remaining men released their victim immediately.

I looked down at the bastard beneath my boot. Blood was beginning to spread across the floor, and he was making a pathetic attempt to crawl away.

I lifted my foot and turned toward the others. Briggs had gone pale, while his companion stood frozen, apparently struggling to decide whether running would be worth the consequences.

“What's the problem?” I asked. “Were you enjoying yourselves?”

“N-no, sir. We were just—”

My men had already moved behind them, preventing either bastard from making a run for the door. Around us, the cafeteria had become completely silent. Nobody was eating. Nobody was speaking. Even the guards seemed to have developed a sudden interest in the far end of the room.

I turned back to the prisoner.

He was still on the floor, struggling to cover himself with what remained of his shirt. His face was a mess, his lower lip split, and his wrists were marked from where the men had restrained him.

Then I saw his eyes.

Dark, frightened eyes that I recognised.

I crouched slightly, studying his face more carefully. The shape of his nose, the dark hair, the unmistakably Filipino features. Something shifted in my memory, bringing back a night seven years earlier when I'd been injured and bleeding, far from anyone I could trust.

A stranger had found me.

He'd helped me when he had absolutely no reason to, and he'd disappeared before I could discover his name. I'd searched for him afterward, spending considerable resources trying to locate someone I knew almost nothing about.

I hadn't found him.

Until now.

Well, fuck me.

“What's your name?” I asked.

He looked at me as though he wasn't certain whether I was speaking to him.

“Rafael,” he whispered.

I waited.

“Rafael Navarro.”

The name meant nothing to me, but his face did. Seven years ago, I'd remembered his eyes. I'd remembered the way he'd looked at me without recognising the danger standing in front of him.

Now he was lying on a filthy cafeteria floor, trembling beneath a torn shirt, and three idiots had nearly made the mistake of touching something that had once saved my life.

I wasn't a sentimental man. I didn't believe in kindness, gratitude, or the ridiculous idea that good deeds deserved rewards.

But I remembered that night.

And I remembered that I'd never had the opportunity to repay him.

The little bastard was alive, and somehow he'd managed to end up in my prison.