Extras Ch 12: Kazimir - A Throne of Glass

Extras Ch 12: Kazimir - A Throne of Glass

The restaurant dissolved in a spray of glass and blood.

Kazimir was four years old again. His mother's laugh cut short. His father's hand shoved him under the table. The crack of gunfire drowned out the screams. The heavy boots grinded broken crystal into the floorboards.

Kazimir woke with a gasp, his hand already reaching for the pistol on the nightstand.

His bedroom materialized around him—grey walls, pale light seeping through the curtains, the distant roar of the sea. No shattered glass or blood. Just the sheets twisted around his legs, his heart still hammering against his ribs.

He let out a slow breath and released the pistol. He swiped a hand down his face; sweat was already trickling down his temples.

After a moment of collecting himself, Kazimir pushed himself to his feet and pulled on clean clothes. Then he headed to his study.

Leo was already there. The man sat in the chair across from the desk, a tablet balanced on his knee, his dark eyes scanning data with dispassionate focus. At three in the morning, he looked exactly as he did at noon: immaculate, unruffled, utterly unreadable.

"You're early," Leo said without looking up.

"Couldn't sleep." Kazimir walked to the window. "What are you doing in my office at this hour?"

"Working. The Conti situation is deteriorating faster than anticipated." Leo's fingers swiped across his screen. "Two more shipments diverted in the past week. Our Genoa contact has gone silent. And I've confirmed that the Ferrantes are moving men into the southern ports."

"Dante's hand?"

Leo nodded, finally looking up. "Almost certainly. But proving it is another matter. Also, he's been meeting with the soldiers again. Private dinners. Whiskey and cigars. Gallo was there last night, along with half the senior men."

"Gallo." Kazimir's jaw tightened. "He served my grandfather for thirty years."

"He served Viktor, and Viktor is dead now." Leo set the tablet aside. "Loyalty doesn't transfer automatically, Kazimir. You have to earn it. And right now, Dante is earning it while you're locked in this office doing paperwork."

Kazimir turned from the window. "Then what would you have me do? Host dinner parties? Pass out cigars and ask about their children?"

"Yes. That's exactly what I'd have you do."

"You're a cold bastard, Leo."

"Valentina brought me here to be your strategist. Cold is the job description." Leo's voice remained clinical, but his eyes tracked Kazimir's movements. "And right now, I'm telling you that Dante understands something you don't. Power isn't just about force—it's about perception. He makes the men feel seen. Valued.”

"I didn't ask for this throne," Kazimir scowled in frustration.

Leo ignored his outburst and continued: "So here’s your chance. The Palermos hit the marina warehouse two hours ago. Four of our men are pinned down."

Kazimir was already moving toward the door. "Why didn't you lead with that?"

"Because you needed to hear the rest first."

Kazimir grabbed his jacket from the hook. "We'll discuss my leadership failures later. Right now, I need to get my men out of that warehouse."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Kazimir moved through the darkness with Ruslan at his shoulder and Keller covering the rear. The warehouse loomed ahead—corrugated steel, shattered windows, the faint orange glow of emergency lights bleeding through the cracks. The Palermos had taken the ground floor. Ten men, maybe twelve. Their silhouette moved across the windows in lazy patrol patterns.

They're not people, he told himself. They're a threat that needs to be neutralized. Nothing more. It was what Viktor had taught him.

He signaled Ruslan with two raised fingers: two on the left. Then a flat palm toward Keller: cover the rear entrance. The men melted into the shadows.

Kazimir approached the side door alone. The lock was cheap—a swift twist of his knife and it gave way with a soft click. He slipped inside.

The first Palermo rounded the corner, rifle raised. Kazimir didn't think. His hand shot out, caught the barrel, yanked the man forward into his knife. The blade slid between ribs, finding the heart.

One.

He moved deeper. The catwalk above him creaked with footsteps. He pressed himself against a crate and waited. The second soldier descended the ladder, boots clanging on the rungs. Kazimir stepped out of the shadows as the man's feet hit the ground. He covered his mouth with a hand then locked an arm around the enemy's throat, squeezing until his struggles stopped.

Two.

The gunfire started a moment later—Ruslan's suppressed pistol coughing from the north entrance. Shouts echoed. Boots pounded. The Palermos finally realized they weren't alone.

Kazimir stopped hiding. He walked into the main aisle, pistol raised, and shot the first man who appeared in his sights. The second caught a bullet in the shoulder and went down screaming; Kazimir finished him with a second shot to the head. The third tried to rush him with a knife, and Kazimir sidestepped, grabbed the man's wrist, twisted until the bones snapped. The man howled. Kazimir put a bullet in his skull and kept advancing.

The Palermo commander was in the back office, barricaded behind an overturned desk. Three soldiers flanked him, their rifles trembling.

Kazimir shot the commander first. Then the three soldiers. The bodies hit the floor like sacks of grain.

Ruslan appeared in the doorway, his face splattered with blood. "The building's clear. Four Palermos surrendered—Keller’s securing them. Our men are alive. One's critical, but the medics are on their way."

Kazimir holstered his pistol. "Good. Get them out."

Rossi nodded and left.

Kazimir stood alone in the blood-slicked office, staring at the bodies. Eleven lives were erased because Dante had decided to leak the location of a shipment and the Palermos had decided to take the bait.

He wanted me to come here tonight. Why? What does this provoke?

He didn't know. That was the nature of Dante's warfare: every move was either a feint or a potential trap, and Kazimir was always a step behind, trying to resolve what he had orchestrated.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When Kazimir arrived back in the house, Leo met him in the foyer.

"The Palermo warehouse is secure," Kazimir said, brushing past him. "Tell Gallo to send a cleanup crew. And find out who leaked the location. Someone talked."

"I'm already working on it, but there's something else." Leo fell into step beside him. A pause. Then: "There's something else. While you were gone, Dante brought someone to the mansion. A girl."

Kazimir kept walking. "Who?"

"A wife. Your wife. Her father traded her to cover gambling debts. She's mute. Dante already told the household she was your bride. She's been placed in your bedroom."

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“What?” Kazimir stopped in his tracks, his gaze piercing into Leo’s. His hands curled into fists at his sides. "He put her in my bedroom?"

"Yes."

"He bought me a wife."

"A mute, traumatized wife who was sold by her father to pay his debts, yes. He’ll likely take advantage of the situation if you don’t handle this correctly, Kazimir."

"I’ll handle it." Kazimir's voice was low, dangerous. "Where is she now?"

"The bedroom." Leo paused. "She's terrified. I saw her when they brought her in. She looks like a stray cat expecting to be kicked."

"So she's another pair of eyes for Dante."

"Probably."

Kazimir turned and walked toward the stairs, his footsteps heavy on the stone. His mind was a storm of fury, exhaustion, and dread.

He should have seen it coming. Dante had been escalating for months—the whisper campaigns, the financial pressure, the hijacked shipments. A woman in his bedroom was just the next logical step. A constant reminder that Kazimir controlled nothing—not his men, not his territory, not even the space where he slept.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Kazimir unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The bedroom was dark except for a single lamp. The bed was pristine, the sheets still taut—the work of maids who had prepared the room after he left. For a moment, Kazimir thought the girl wasn't here.

Then he saw the alcove. The curtain shivered, almost imperceptibly.

He crossed the room in large strides and yanked the curtain aside.

There she was. Huddled in the corner, a pillow clutched to her chest like a shield. Dark hair. Bare feet. A faded yellow dress that hung loosely on her thin frame. Her face was pale, hollow-cheeked, her hazel eyes wide with terror.

Something in Kazimir's chest seized. A visceral, physical reaction he couldn't control—the same feeling he had when he found a wounded bird in Nadia's garden as a child. The urge to pick it up. To carry it somewhere safe. To protect.

No. Stop. She’s Dante’s weapon. You don’t know what she wants.

He hardened himself, building the ice back up until his face was a mask of cold contempt.

"You're the joke they bought." He said coldly, a deliberate wound meant to restore the distance he’d let slip.

The girl flinched. Her whole body recoiled, her shoulders curling inward. She dropped her gaze to the floor and said nothing.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Right. A mute. Of course you are."

His eyes swept over her again—the trembling hands, the bare toes, the way she tried so desperately to disappear into the wall. She didn't look like a spy.

No. That's what makes her dangerous. As soon as you feel sorry for her, you fall into Dante’s trap. He'll use your pity against you. He's done it before.

He felt frustration rise—at Dante, at himself, at this cowering girl who was now his problem. What was he supposed to do with her? Throw her out? Keep her? No matter how he thought about it, there was no right answer.

"Get out of there," he growled, rubbing his temple. He jerked his chin toward the bed. "You'll sleep there. I have no interest in you."

She scrambled to obey, slipping past him with quick, silent movements. Then she perched on the edge of the mattress and clasped her hands on her lap. The posture was so small, so careful that it made his chest ache.

Kazimir frowned and watched her for a moment longer. But she just sat there, trembling, trying to be invisible.

He turned and left. He closed the door gently behind him and stood in the corridor, his back against the wall.

Dante was tightening the noose. The soldiers were wavering. The Palermos were circling. He didn't have the capacity to manage a mute girl who might be spying on him. He didn't have the time nor energy.

And yet, he couldn't shake the image of those terrified eyes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Palermo retaliation came three nights later—a car bomb in the eastern garage that killed five soldiers. Kazimir spent the next morning on the phone with port officials and insurance adjusters.

"The men are talking again," Leo said that afternoon, standing in the doorway of the study.

"I know." Kazimir rubbed his eyes. He was running on a few hours of sleep. "What do you want, Leo?"

Leo sat down. "There's a shipment coming through Genoa next week. Textiles, supposedly. I have reason to believe the Palermos will try to intercept it."

"Send Ruslan and get the full detail."

"I'd recommend you lead it personally."

Kazimir looked up. Leo's expression was unreadable, but something in the set of his mouth suggested he was waiting for a reaction.

Kazimir’s jaw tightened. "You just told me I need to be more visible to the men. Now you want me to leave the mansion entirely?"

"For a day. Two at most. The symbolic value outweighs the risk. Morale, Kazimir."

"The symbolic value. Morale." Kazimir laughed, short and humorless. "Is that what the men want?"

"Precisely."

Kazimir was silent for a moment. Then: "Fine. Arrange it."

Leo nodded and stood. He paused at the door—a deliberate hesitation that made Kazimir's shoulders tense.

"One more thing. Some of the soldiers have been bothering your wife."

Kazimir's head snapped up. "What?"

"A few of them have tried to corner. Marco in particular seems interested."

Marco. Kazimir's jaw tightened until his teeth ached. Marco was one of Dante's loudest admirers and had the reputation of being cruel. The thought of him anywhere near a defenseless girl made Kazimir's vision go red at the edges.

"I thought you should know," Leo continued, "though I'd advise against getting involved."

Kazimir glared at him. "You're telling me to let them harass her."

"I'm telling you to be strategic. The girl is a liability. Dante planted her to either provoke you or spy on you. He will decide his next actions based on how you react." Leo paused. "Don't complicate it with sentiment."

Sentiment. They all think I'm too emotional.

Kazimir narrowed his eyes. "I understand the situation, Leo. I don't need you to keep bringing her up. She's not my concern."

“Good.” Leo inclined his head, a fractional acknowledgment, then he turned and left.

Kazimir stood alone, staring at the closed door, his jaw tight.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The nightmare came again that night.

He woke gasping, his shirt plastered to his skin. He reached for the glass on his nightstand, drained the last lukewarm mouthful, and set it down. But his throat was still dry.

The clock read four-thirteen.

He stared at the ceiling and tried to slow his breathing. His throat was still dry.

He got up from the bed and pulled on trousers and a shirt, not bothering with the buttons. Then made his way downstairs.

The kitchen was empty. Grey light seeped through the high windows, pale and watery, the first tentative suggestion of dawn.

Kazimir moved to the sink, filled a glass from the tap, and drank it in one long pull. The water was cold, grounding him. He stood there for a moment, eyes closed, letting the distant murmur of the sea settle his racing heart.

Then he felt it. A prickling at the back of his neck.

His eyes opened. He scanned the darkness slowly, letting his vision adjust. There—by the butcher's block. A sliver of faded yellow fabric catching the grey light.

The girl. Kazimir frowned. Why is she here?

The question surfaced with irritation, but it faded faster than he expected. He knew why. He recalled her appearance from the first night: the bones in her wrist, the hollows in her cheeks, the way her dress had hung off her frame.

Too thin. He thought, his eyes still fixed on the shadowed-shape. She's too thin.

Kazimir walked to the stone larder and scanned the shelves: bread, cheese, preserved fruits, and a jar of cornetti. He took a cornetti and approached the girl.

She flinched, her bare feet scraping against the stone floor as she drew herself smaller.

Kazimir stopped. The pastry in his palm suddenly felt wrong. But he had already walked this far. Every second he stood there, looming over her, she shrank further into herself.

This is idiotic. You are an idiot, Kazimir.

He set the cornetto down in the center of the butcher's block. And stared at it before he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

The kitchen door swung shut behind him. Kazimir stopped in the corridor, one hand braced against the cold stone wall, and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Why did you do that?

He could frame it a dozen different ways—a debt to basic decency, a minor rebellion against Dante's cruelty—but none of them fit. None of them explained the tight knot in his chest when saw her tremble in fear.

Kazimir pushed off the wall and walked to his study. For a long moment, he stood at the window, watching the grey light thicken over the tumbling water.

His reflection stared back at him: a tired man, unshaven, dark circles carved beneath his eyes, his shirt still unbuttoned. He looked like a complete mess—a man losing ground, grasping at things he couldn't afford to feel.

Enough. The word cut through the noise in his skull, cold and final. He straightened his spine and watched his eyes harden in the glass. She's not your concern. You cannot afford to care what happens to her. Dante will use every scrap of decency you show against you.

Kazimir buttoned his shirt with steady fingers. His mask settled back into place until the tired man in the glass was gone, replaced by someone colder.

This was the only time, he told himself. You will not soften again.