I hear the disgruntled grunt of a man taken by surprise in a vulnerable moment. He jerks to his feet and turns to me with narrowed eyes. Familiar, but not what I’m expecting.

“Don Ricardo.” I grimace. “I should have known this was your mansion. You always did have repulsive taste.”

The Italian is wearing a white vest, black boxers, and three thick gold chains. Back when I was a boy, I used to think of him as old. Now, he looks like a fucking relic.

“You’re trespassing,” he hisses in his thick accent.

“You helped my brother kidnap three innocent women from my home, and you’re worried about a little breaking and entering? I think you need to get your priorities in order, old man.”

He sniffles haughtily. “Your brother has brought me women for years now. I don’t ask him where they come from or who they belong to. I examine them, and if they pass my tests, I take them.”

I raise my gun and aim for his forehead. I see a shadow of doubt flicker over his face. “I have nothing to do with your war with your brother!” he whimpers.

“Wrong. You chose a side, Don Ricardo. And now—it’s fucking judgment day.”

He realizes the mistake he’s made at the same time that I pull the trigger. When the bullet strikes him right between the eyes, he flops back on the white sofa. It’s mere seconds before the whole thing is stained in rivers of blood.

I turn around, ready to barge into the next room—but then I freeze.

There’s a young woman chained by her ankle to Ricardo’s bed. She’s completely naked, with long blonde hair obscuring her breasts and eyes whirling wildly in their sockets.

“P-please… don’t k-kill me…”

I grab a robe folded over a nearby chair and walk it over to her. “I’m not here to kill you,” I tell her, offering her the robe. Her legs and arms are covered in bruises.

She makes no attempt to take the garment from my hand. It’s almost as if she thinks I’m going to pull it away from her the moment she reaches for it.

Milana used to be like that in the beginning, too. Before she started to trust me.

The mere thought of her makes me want to retch.

“What is your name?” I ask quietly.

She flinches. “Roxy.”

“Your real name.”

“No one’s used my real name in years.”

“Then I’d say it’s about time.”

She shivers and holds herself tight. “Mary,” she says softly. “My name is Mary.”

“Mary,” I repeat. “That’s a pretty name. When you leave here today, leave every trace of Roxy behind. You won’t be needing her anymore. Stay put for now and my men will release you once we’ve taken the house.”

She shuffles a little closer on the bed and parts the curtain of her hair to give me a closer look. “Are you… D-Don Uvarov?”

“Do I know you?” I ask, even though I’m certain I’ve never seen her face before.