VAUGHN

I parked my bike outside the factory's broken steel gates, the metal groaning against the night wind like some dying beast. The place looked less like a factory and more like the set of a horror film left to rot. There wasn't a single living soul for miles—just silence and the heavy, pressing dark. I removed my helmet, tying it loosely to the bike's handlebars. The rain had finally stopped, but my clothes clung to me, drenched. I didn't feel cold, though. No—what coursed through me was far worse.

Fury and hunger.

And tonight, I would feed it.

I secured the Russian revolver at the small of my back and strolled through the twisted gates. The factory sprawled across the outskirts of Brighton like a skeleton abandoned by its creators. It had once manufactured steel, but went bankrupt within a few short years. Some whispered it was sabotage by the locals—an act of rebellion. Whatever the truth, it didn't matter now.

Niko, Killian, and Jeremy had stumbled across this graveyard during one of our early scouting trips. Since then, it had become one of our unofficial sanctuaries—a place to store things we didn't want seen. Or people we didn't want found.

The main entrance was chained shut, a clever ruse for any wandering eyes. I circled the building, following the fence line until I found the gray, half-rotted basement door hidden behind overgrown weeds. I yanked it open, the hinges screeching a broken song, and descended into the bowels of the factory.

Only a single, dim orange bulb sputtered overhead, casting an anemic circle of light. The air was thick with the stink of mildew, sewage, and slow rot. Water dripped steadily from cracks in the walls, the sound echoing like a heartbeat in the cavernous dark.

And there, in the center of the room, slumped and shackled to a chair, was my prize.

Alexei Anderson. Mid-forties. Half my size, twice as treacherous. A parasite who sold secrets to whoever stuffed his pockets heavier—Bratva, Italians, hell, probably the feds too if they offered enough. He was a cockroach, scurrying from shadow to shadow, impossible to crush.

Until tonight.

Blood and spit dripped from his swollen mouth, his bruises painting a portrait of Lev's handiwork.

I picked up a can of stale water left by his feet and doused him without ceremony.

Alexei jolted awake, sputtering, coughing, eyes wild. He tugged uselessly at his restraints. Pathetic.

I watched him silently, arms crossed, boots planted, the wolf staring down the lamb.

And then—

Recognition.

His face blanched as he croaked, "V-Vaughn Morozov?"

Good.

Fear was a language I spoke fluently.

"Excellent," I said with a tilt of my head, voice silk over razors. "Saves us introductions. Let's get to business."

Alexei, ever the cockroach, smirked through his split lip. Defiant. Stupid.

"Nothing you do will break me," he rasped, blood coating his teeth. "I only bend for money. Pay the right price, Morozov, and I'll give you anything you want."

A hollow laugh rumbled in my chest. His mouth spewed bravado, but his eyes—they screamed. Raw, primal terror leaked from his pores.

I stepped forward, boots crunching on gravel. He flinched.

"Do you know why you're here?" I asked, my voice dangerously soft—the kind of soft that made grown men beg for mercy.

Silence.

Fine.

I walked to the far corner and plucked the iron bat resting against the wall. Its weight felt good, familiar. I twirled it once, twice, like a promise made in steel.

Alexei's eyes followed the bat with growing dread as I closed the distance, standing a foot from him.

"Heard you don't bend easy, Anderson," I murmured, angling the bat toward his knee. "Let's test that theory."

Panic fractured his face.

"You wouldn't—you need me! You need me alive!" he stuttered, voice cracking.

CRACK.

The bat connected with his kneecap, the sound sharp and brutal. Alexei howled, a high-pitched, animalistic screech. The chair rattled with his convulsions, blood and spit flying.

"Y-You fucking maniac!" he shrieked, writhing.

"You have exactly one minute," I said, pacing around him like a ghost with the bat resting against my shoulder, "to tell me what I need to know."

"I—I..." he whimpered, choking on pain.

I yanked the chair backward with a jerk that rattled his bones, lifting the bat toward his other leg.

"Wait! Wait! I'll talk!" he screamed, tears mixing with blood.

"Names," I said coldly. "Now."

His breath hitched. He spat blood at the floor, trembling.

"You think you're gonna find your traitor sniffing around the Serpents, Morozov?" he sneered between gasps. "You're wastin' your time."

My knuckles whitened around the bat, the urge to cave in his skull a tangible thing. I forced it down. Patience.

"You're hunting the wrong wolves," he gasped. "Wolves don't steal from kings... they tear them apart."

I dropped the bat with a clatter and grabbed his face, forcing his bloodshot eyes to meet mine.

"I didn't ask for riddles," I hissed. "I asked for names."

He sobbed now, broken down to marrow.

"I don't know names. I swear it!" he cried. "Someone—someone on Brighton Island's getting real comfortable. New favors, new debts... Old family names..."

My fist crashed into his chin, forcing a cough of blood from his mouth.

"Please..." he whimpered.

"I'll work for you. I-I'll help you find your enemies. Just... Just don't hand me over to P-Pakhan. Please, I beg you!"

"It's a little too late for that, Alexei. Your fate is sealed. And if, by some miracle, the Pakhan decides to spare you, I won't. Better pray you're right—otherwise, you'll wish he had killed you when he had the chance."

---

When I returned to the mansion, Lev was nowhere to be found. Strange. I tried calling his cell, but it was unreachable.

I climbed the stairs to my floor. The house was eerily silent—not a good sign.

I reached for my door—and found it ajar.

Instinct took over. My hand slid behind my back, fingers wrapping around the revolver. I kicked the door open with my boot, weapon raised, ready to shoot down any intruder.

But instead, I found someone sitting in my chair, rifling through my documents.

Broad shoulders. Gray T-shirt. Damp hair.

He turned at the sound of the door.

"Jeremy," I said, lowering the gun slightly.

"Vaughn," he replied coolly.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked, unmoving.

"Trying to help," he answered, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I walked toward the desk, my irritation flaring at the sight of my neatly arranged papers now scattered everywhere.

"I don't recall asking for help," I said, barely containing my frustration after the day I'd had.

"Bratva business is my business, Vaughn," he said, rising from the chair.

We stood nearly eye to eye. Our fathers had their differences over the years, but they had always made a formidable team—respected, feared.

Jeremy and I? We were still figuring out how to work around each other. Both lone wolves. Both too stubborn to fully cooperate, yet expected to be involved in everything.

"Bratva business ended when I secured our servers," I said. "This? This is mine."

"I'm not here to steal your thunder. But as a council member, I have the right to know what you're planning."

"When I need your help, I'll reach out, Jer," I said, brushing past him.

"You're more stubborn than Annika, you know," he muttered under his breath, frustration bleeding into his voice. "Do you have a King up your sleeve pitting you against me too?"

It wasn't his tone that froze me—it was his words.

"What did you just say? What King?" I asked, the wheels in my mind already turning.

"Creighton King. Annika's new thing. We had a feud with their family last year. Should've ended it when I had the chance."

"...Wolves don't steal from Kings. Kings," I murmured.

It couldn't be a coincidence.

I turned fully to face him.

"Tell me everything you know. Now."

And he did. Reluctantly.

After I shoved him out of the mansion—still refusing to tell him my plans—I sat down and started digging.

Alexei had said someone was pulling strings here on Brighton Island. New favors. New debts. Old family names.

The Kings had the money, the minds, and the reach to take a shot at the Bratva—and they had history too. A brutal one. Their conflict with the Volkovs had ended with a bullet lodged in one of their own, Creighton King.

Names flooded my search—Jonathan King, Aiden King, Eli King, Landon King, Glyndon King, Brandon King. All familiar, all tangled in past feuds.

But one name hit harder than the rest. It was new, it was unfamiliar.

Vivian King.

Trust fund baby. The Kings' prized possession. Their golden girl. Former model. Fresh out of a scandal and now—right here, in Brighton.

The girl from the woods.

I guess that encounter wouldn't be our last after all.

-x-x-x-x-

This is the end of Chapter 7. What do you think about the plot? Who could be behind this? Who is Vaughn hunting? And how does this entangle him to Vivian? Share your theories, I would love to read them! Anyway, thank you so much for 200 votes! I am truly grateful. Follow me on my Instagram (: paperhearts.x and authornephthys) for more updates!

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Nephthys