PAVEL'S POV
When I enter the warehouse, Kostya is already there, leaning against the wall and fumbling with his phone.
In the opposite corner, with his face to the floor, lies a man in his early thirties. His legs are bound with silver duct tape around his ankles and knees. His hands are tied behind his back. A dirty rag protrudes from his mouth.
Even after all these years, a faint scent of burned wood still lingers in the air. This is one of the warehouses that the Italians tried to burn down before we signed the truce. The basement in the pakhan's mansion has been out of commission since then—his wife doesn't appreciate the smell of blood in her house—so we decided to leave this warehouse as is and conduct our interrogations here.
I glance at the soldier standing a few paces from "our guest" and tip my head toward the exit.
"Leave. I'll call you when I'm done."
The man nods and heads outside.
