The dying Kosta thug’s last breath was a wet gurgle, his body falling limp in Davorin’s grasp. Davorin released him, letting the man collapse to the wet cobblestones. The air reeked of copper and scorched coffee. Mireia’s gaze, steady and sharp, did not flinch from the dead man. Her father had not just traded her; he had set a trap, baited with her own life. A low hum of furious energy vibrated through her, cold and precise. She turned to the remaining Kosta enforcer, who lay groaning, clutching a mangled arm where Ilya had stomped on it. The man’s face was pale, slick with fear. “Take him,” Davorin commanded Ilya, his voice flat, devoid of its usual gravelly depth. “To the interrogation chamber. Make sure he remembers his mother tongue.” “No,” Mireia interjected, her voice cutting through the tense silence. Ilya paused, a questioning glance flicking to Davorin. Davorin’s head snapped towards her, his dark eyes narrowed. “Mireia, this is not your concern. He will tell us what we need to know.” “He will tell *me*,” she corrected, her chin lifting. “Jovan’s betrayal concerns me directly. I will extract the truth.” Ilya’s brow furrowed. The other enforcers exchanged uneasy glances. No one, least of all a new bride, ever demanded to be present, let alone lead, an interrogation. “You are not trained for this,” Davorin said, his tone laced with a dangerous patience. “These men are vermin. They break easily, but not always cleanly.” “I understand the nature of vermin, Davorin,” Mireia replied, her voice dangerously soft. “I have lived among them. I know how to make them sing.” She met his stare, an unwavering challenge in her eyes. “Unless you believe I am too delicate for the realities of your world?” A muscle ticked in Davorin’s jaw. He held her gaze for a long moment, then a slow, predatory smile stretched his lips. “No, moja mila. Delicate is not a word I would use for you.” He gestured to Ilya. “Take him. And prepare the chamber. The bride wishes to make her acquaintance with our methods.” — The interrogation chamber was a stark, concrete room beneath the Cernak Compound, lit by a single, harsh overhead bulb. Chains hung from the ceiling, their metal glinting. Mireia surveyed the scene, her expression unreadable. The captured driver was strapped to a steel chair, his arm now crudely bandaged. His eyes darted nervously between Mireia, Davorin, and Ilya. “You may leave, Ilya,” Mireia said, surprising him. “Davorin, you too.” Ilya looked at Davorin, who raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “She wants privacy, Ilya. Grant it.” With a final, wary glance at Mireia, Ilya exited, the heavy door thudding shut. Davorin lingered, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. “I will stay,” he stated, his voice a low rumble. “As you wish,” Mireia conceded, turning her full attention to Borislav. She walked slowly, deliberately, around the chair, her heels clicking softly on the concrete. The man tracked her movement, his breathing shallow. “You,” she began, her tone even. “Your arm looks… painful. And I see you have a fresh bruise forming on your temple. My husband’s men are not gentle.” She stopped directly in front of him, her shadow falling across his face. “But they are efficient. They get answers. Do you understand?” The prisoner swallowed hard, dry skin pulling tight over his throat. He nodded, a barely perceptible movement. “Good. Now, I do not believe in theatrics,” Mireia continued, her eyes fixed on his. “I believe in efficiency. Jovan Kosta placed a bounty on Davorin Cernak, using me as a distraction. You know this. Tell me everything. Who else is involved? What is the price? And what is the timeline?” The captive hesitated, his gaze darting to Davorin, who leaned against the wall in silence. Mireia knelt, bringing her face level with Borislav’s. The air grew colder. “Let me make this simple. You can speak, and perhaps live. Or you can defy me, and I promise you, you will regret it. My father sold me as meat. I assure you, my mercy for those who serve him is far shallower than Davorin’s.” She picked up a small, pointed lancet from a tray of instruments beside him. The steel gleamed under the harsh light. “Davorin merely breaks bones. I… prefer a different kind of pain. One that lingers.” “The… the Grkovic Enclave,” the man stammered, his voice hoarse. “They’re paying. Twenty million kopeks. For Davorin’s head. They’re supposed to use the chaos of your… your wedding to stage a takeover.” “Twenty million,” Mireia repeated, her voice flat, the lancet poised between her fingers. “And my father’s cut?” “Ten percent,” the driver choked out. “And a promise of protection from… from the Cernaks, if it worked. He said… he said the wedding was the perfect cover. A ceremonial transfer. No one would expect a raid on a bride’s procession.” Mireia rose, metal still glinting in her fingers. “And the timeline for this grand scheme?” “They were waiting for… for the Blood Rite. The… the three months. When the Cernak elders would be… present. Vulnerable.” Mireia masked her shock, keeping her stance rigid. The Blood Rite. Three months. She remembered Davorin’s words from their first meeting: “we bleed.” It was not just a wedding. It was an execution clock. “Thank you,” Mireia said, her tone steady. She dropped the blade back onto the steel tray with a dry clatter. “Davorin, he’s finished.” — Later that day, a black, lacquered hearse pulled up to the main gates of the Cernak Compound. Davorin, alerted by his perimeter guards, met it with a contingent of enforcers. From a distance, Mireia watched from a high window. She saw a driver, dressed in funereal black, place a large, ornate funeral wreath at the foot of the gates. It was made of stark white lilies and blood-red roses, with a black silk banner draped across it. Even from her vantage point, she could read the gold-stitched letters: *“To Mireia. May your ashes fertilize the soil.”* Jovan. Always the coward, always hiding behind symbolism, never facing her directly. Mireia set her shoulders against the window sill. He wasn’t just taunting her death; he was confirming his intentions to the city. He wanted her gone. He wanted Davorin gone. He wanted the Kosta family to rise from the ashes of the Cernaks. Davorin picked up the wreath, his face a mask of stone. He crushed the lilies in his hand, tearing the silk banner. Then, with a savage roar, he hurled the entire thing into the churning sea below, watching the waves rip it apart. Mireia noted his explosive defense of her name, then pushed the reaction down into cold calculation. She needed to understand the “Blood Rite.” And the three-month deadline. There was something hidden, something Davorin wasn’t telling her. — That evening, as Davorin was occupied with perimeter security following the wreath incident, Mireia made her move. She had observed his routines, his patterns. His private study, a cavernous room filled with dark wood and leather-bound books, was generally off-limits. Its heavy oak door was always locked, but Mireia had a knack for locks. A hairpin, twisted just so, and a practiced hand. The click was almost imperceptible. Inside, the study was quiet, cloaked in shadows that the desk lamp barely pierced. A massive mahogany desk dominated the room, its surface clear save for a heavy crystal decanter. Mireia ran her hand along the desk’s underside, searching for anything unusual. Her fingers brushed against a small, almost invisible panel. It depressed with a soft thud. A section of the ornate wall paneling behind the desk slid inward, revealing a hidden passage. A subterranean panic room. Just as the compound rumors whispered. The air within was cool, metallic. Mireia descended the narrow, steel steps, her hand gliding along the cold railing. The panic room was sparse and functional: a cot, a radio console, and a locked steel cabinet. Mireia tested the cabinet. Standard Cernak security. Nothing a set of stolen master keys couldn’t handle. With another soft click, the cabinet opened. Inside, tucked beneath emergency rations and a first-aid kit, was a ledger. Its cover was plain leather, worn smooth with age. Mireia pulled it out. Its pages were thick, yellowed parchment, filled with elegant, precise script. Names. Dates. And beside each entry, a column of numbers. Her fingers traced the entries. “Eliza Volkov, Married 17 Vlasnik, Terminated 83 days.” “Ksenia Barinova, Married 2 Visok, Slain 88 days.” “Sergei Nevin, Married 24 Ljetnik, Dead 90 days.” The names were unfamiliar, but the pattern was chillingly clear. Syndicate brides, slaughtered before the quarter turned. A countdown. Mireia flipped to the last page. The most recent entry. Her own name, written in the same elegant script: “Mireia Kosta.” Circled in vivid red ink beside it, in a hurried, unsteady hand, was a solitary numeral: 87.

The Ticking Ledger