**[INSIDE THE TORTURED ROOM]**
The basement smelled of copper and cold stone.
Water dripped somewhere in the dark, echoing off bare concrete walls. Chains rattled.
Gregor was tied to the chair, wrists raw, blood trailing down his forearms where he'd fought the restraints. His breathing was ragged, uneven. He'd stopped begging ten minutes ago.
Zayden stood in front of him, sleeves rolled up, a bloodied knife turning slowly between his fingers. No anger on his face. Just quiet focus, like a man cleaning a blade.He was send by Silas. Marcus told him. Zayden walked more close to him.
"Last chance, Gregor," Zayden said. His voice was low, almost conversational. "Why did he sent you here?"
Gregor spat blood at his feet. "Go to hell, Volkov."
Zayden sighed. Disappointment, not rage.
The knife moved.
It wasn't fast. It wasn't messy for the sake of it. A precise cut along the throat, deep enough to silence him, angled to make it quick. Gregor's eyes widened, a wet gurgle tore from his throat, and then nothing.
Zayden wiped the blade on Gregor's shirt and stepped back.
"Wrap him. Send him to Silas. Make sure the stitching holds."
One of the guards nodded. "Understood, sir. It will be delivered."
Zayden's mouth curved, but there was no humor in it.
"Then deliver it beautifully."
---
The body was delivered at dawn.
No box. No ceremony. Just a blood-soaked burlap sack dumped on the marble steps of Silas's estate, stitched shut with black thread.
Silas didn't need to open it.
He knew the smell. Iron and rot. The smell of a man who'd failed.
He cut the thread anyway.
Gregor's face stared back at him, eyes glassy, throat torn open exactly as Zayden had left it. Gregor didn't even get a word out before Zayden Volkov's hands found him.
"Brutal," Kade( Silas head bodyguard )muttered from behind, shifting on his feet. "Its messy and personal."
Silas closed Gregor's eyes with two fingers.
"Zayden doesn't do messy," Silas said quietly. "He sends messages.and this was one.
_Stay out of my palace. Stay away from what's mine._
For three years Silas had kept Caspian caged, compliant, afraid. One week with Volkov and the boy had learned to bite. Learned to look at Silas like he was the stranger.
Silas's hand curled into a fist, cracking the dried blood on Gregor's cheek.
"He thinks he can keep him," Silas said. "He thinks because Caspian ran to him, he owns him."
Kade frowned. "Boss, going in there again is suicide. Volkov's compound is a fortress. His men don't sleep. And Caspian—"
"Caspian is mine." Silas stood, letting the sack fall shut. " That bitch doesn't get to decide just because Volkov looks at him like he's something precious."
"But he's not walking out of there on his own," Kade said carefully. "And Volkov won't hand him over."
Silas walked to the window, staring out at the city lights. Zayden's district glowed in the distance, quiet and predatory.
"It's like trying to take prey from a lion's territory," Silas said. "You don't walk in and ask nicely. You don't charge in and hope for the best. The lion will tear you apart before you get close."
Kade went still. "So what do we do?"
Silas smiled, but there was nothing warm in it.
"You don't fight the lion on his ground," he said. "You starve him. You lure the prey out. And when the lion's distracted, you take what's yours."
He turned back to Gregor's body.
"Plan it," Silas said. "I want eyes on Volkov's palace. I want to know who comes and goes, when the walls are thin, when Caspian is alone."
"And if Volkov finds out?"
"Then he finds out," Silas said softly. "But by the time he does, Caspian will already be back where he belongs."
Outside, the city was quiet. Inside, Silas could already hear the snarl of a lion waking up.
---