Ivan. The basement beneath the Petrov estate was always colder than the rest of the estate. Concrete walls, dim industrial lights, blood-spattered floor with the faint metallic scent that never quite washed away. I sat motionless in my wheelchair at the center of one of the cells, my black suit crisp and immaculate, the black blanket draped neatly over my useless-looking legs. Marco stood behind the maid, silent as death in his own black attire, gloves already dark with her blood. Her name was Katya. Really young and once pretty. Now, her face was swollen, one eye shut, lips split and bleeding, hair matted to her skull with blood, sweat and tears. She hung from the chains Marco had secured to the ceiling pipe, her toes barely scraping the floor. I didn’t raise my voice. I never needed to. “Who sent you?” I asked low, almost conversational. Katya whimpered, blood and saliva dripping from her chin. “P-please… I don’t know what you’re—” Marco drove the knife deeper int
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