Chapter 3: Cold Resolve

ISAIAH: THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING.

I walked into the dead of night like a man already half-broken, the city air cold enough to make my lungs ache and the silence so complete it pressed against my ribs. My father’s words looped in my head, the way he smiled when he said he’d bought my company, the promise to make me suffer until there was nothing left of the life I’d built for Tamara.

I thought of her face when she woke, the soft rise of her chest under my palm, the way she trusted me, and the fear that crawled up my spine was no longer only for me; it was for her. How would she eat, where would she live, who would protect her if my father made good on his threat? Each thought smashed into the next until the choice narrowed to two blunt paths: fight or run, ruin or survive.

I kept walking because standing still felt like confessing defeat. My feet carried me through streets that smelled of wet tar and late-night traffic to the edge of the park we used to walk, the trees like tired sentries and the air holding a hollow calm. I hadn’t planned to go deep; I only wanted darkness to swallow the noise so I could think, to find a way to keep her safe without letting my father strip me of everything that made me human.

Then a gunshot cracked the stillness like a broken bone. My heart stopped as if something had reached into my chest and squeezed. For a second I heard only blood roaring in my ears; the world collapsed into a single beat and a single decision. My instinct screamed to run back to Tamara, but another part of me, the part that always sought trouble—pulled me toward the sound.

I turned, every muscle ready to flee, and froze when a new sound threaded under the echo of the shot: voices, low and rough, words in hard Russian syllables.

Curiosity and that same reckless need to know took me. I edged closer, moving like a thief, heart hammering so loud I feared they’d hear it. I crouched behind a thick trunk and watched a scene that belonged to a darker life: a large man on his knees, chest stubborn and defiant even with two guns aimed at him; the shooters relaxed and cruel, The kneeling man spat words in Russian, defiant and without fear.

“Tell your useless boss that I do not fucking scare easily,” he snarled. “he can have my turf only over my dead body.”

The two men laughed. “That makes things so easy, Pakhan,” one said.

The word stole my breath. My hands shook. Fear clawed at my throat when the nickname Pakhan landed in my mind, boss and leader, I didn’t need to be told this was connected to the Russian mafia.. My mouth went dry; I searched for my phone but cussed when I remembered how I left it in the fleet of anger..

One of the men leaned in, cigarette smoke drifting. “We just have to kill you to take it then,” he said, his tone casual.

The kneeling man cursed them, “Burn in hell”, and they did not let him finish. A shot blasted his forehead; his body folded as he slumped. The sound threw me backward; I landed hard, tasting iron and bile as the men laughed, spat on the corpse, and melted into the trees.

I did not wait for reason. I ran to him because some part of me couldn’t leave a man to rot. Blood soaked the grass and my hands as I bent over him, pressing fingers to the wound I already knew would not hold a pulse. The reality hit like a shove: if they could do that and walk away, then there was an impending war coming.

I left before dawn could soften the skyline, running until fatigue obliterated my legs. I came back to the house reeking of sweat and gunpowder, shirt clinging, breath shallow.

My mind churned through faces and words, through my father’s laugh and the dead man’s last breath, telling myself it was coincidence.

I thought I left everything behind, every gory details of the murder I witnessed until I was attacked at work by two men in suits, dark glasses shielding their eyes even in the dead of the night.

“Isaiah Cannighan. You have to come with us.” they said.

“What? Why? I don’t know you?” I replied in anger. Who the fuck did they think they were.

One lifted his suit jacket, displaying his gun to me. “Move. Or I shoot.” One simple command that shook me. Fear returned, my eyes taking them in fully.. I didn't need anyone to tell me that my foolishness had come to bite me in the ass.

They led me to an alley just opposite my work place where I was shoved to my knees. A figure, darker and taller stepped out, cigarette in hand, crushing it in front of me.

“Hello.” He smirked, his tone clipped but friendly.

I gulped. “H-Hello” I stuttered.

“I’ll go straight to the point. You killed our Pakhan. You will have to pay.”

My eyes widened, heart racing in my chest.

“What? That’s absurd, I didn’t do—“

A heavy punch landed on my lips, another folding my ribs. I groaned, crying and curling myself on the floor.

“I didn’t come to seek your opinion son. I came to tell you that you will come with us, work for us to pay your debt.. and if you refuse, well. I have all your information..” he proved his point  by showing me my home address, work address, that of Tamara’s and every single member of her family.

It was when I knew real fear..

“Please..” I breathed out, the pain in my heart and ribs preventing words from forming. “Just give me until tomorrow morning. Let me see my wife in her wedding dress.. I’ll go anywhere  with you afterwards..”

They exchanged looks with each other. The taller man nodding. “Tomorrow morning it is. My men will be watching, so do not think about running away.”

They hit me one more time before leaving me alone. There, my eyes welled, my tears falling sideways , the pain in my mouth and ribs a child’s joke compared to the pain in my heart..

Something slow and molten hardened inside me. I swore then that I would not vanish while she suffered; I would keep her safe until that hour of the wedding, even if I had to bare my throat afterward. After that, I would return changed, tempered by every humiliation, powerful enough to take back what was mine and make anyone who’d stolen from me pay.

The vow settled in my bones like cold armor; beneath the fear, something else had formed. a promise of revenge that tasted like iron and burned like a slow, sweet fire.