Chapter 5 The Watcher
The Watcher
Brooklyn — In the dark of the night…
They blamed the Armenians.
Of course they did.
It was easy. Old blood. Older grudges. A rivalry that never slept, only waited. The Bratva thought their enemies were obvious—men with accents thicker than a bowl of day-old oatmeal and tempers that matched their reputations.
But this wasn’t Armenian work.
Not really.
Arman leaned against the rusted railing of the warehouse roof and watched the snow fall into the streetlight below. He flicked ash from his cigarette and exhaled slowly.
“They think we want war,” he muttered.
The man beside him—older, scarred, Armenian to the bone—snorted. “War? We didn’t want war. We wanted power. Money. Control. Did we enjoy fucking with the Russians from time to time? Of course. But we were sick of Boris’s bullshit. We wanted him to stop lying—making promises he wasn’t keeping.”
Boris had promised the Armenians a cut of some big arms deal he was brokering in exchange for allowing the Bratva to use one of their storage facilities. Then he started backpedaling and trying to renegotiate after the Armenians had upheld their end of the bargain.
“Well, he didn’t,” Arman said with a shrug. “So he got shot.”
Not dead. That had been deliberate because had they wanted him dead, it would’ve happened.
It was a message, not an execution.
Boris Volkov talked too much. Promised too much. Lied to both sides and thought charm would keep him safe. The Armenians had been content running their territory, moving product quietly, staying out of Bratva politics.
Until Boris started whispering names, trying to turn people against each other, and getting caught in all his lies.
Arman found out Boris had started feeding the Bratva stories about Armenians fucking with their women, their money, their loyalty. Started stirring shit that didn’t need stirring. Especially considering they had been in what could be called an unspoken truce of some sort.
“It looks like he wanted Maksim angry,” Arman said softly. “Pointed at us. Why?”
The older man grunted. “We didn’t touch the girl.”
“No,” Arman agreed. “That was never us.”
Because the girl wasn’t leverage to the Armenians.
She was leverage to Boris.
“So why are we watching her then?” the older man asked.
“Because we’re being paid to,” Arman replied with a grin before it quickly faded. “And because I’m sick of Boris and I want to know what he is up to with this. What is his endgame?”
The older man grunted in reply.
Arman flicked his cigarette butt off into the snow and blew the last of the smoke to the sky. “Let’s go. We have work to do.”
The two men left.
* * *
Once across the city, Arman lifted his binoculars and focused on the safe house window.
She stood inside, wrapped in a sweater far too big for her, her hand resting unconsciously on her stomach.
Pregnant.
That had been unexpected—but useful, he supposed.
He held a phone to his ear and waited for it to be answered. After several rings, he was about to terminate the call.
“Yes?” the voice on the other end of the line snapped.
Arman explained what had happened.
“She wasn’t supposed to move,” Boris snapped when Arman reported the relocation. “He wasn’t supposed to protect her.”
Boris sounded annoyed, cursing in Russian. Not surprising.
That was the first red flag.
Boris Volkov didn’t panic or get irrational. He plotted and planned.
“He’s compromised,” Boris continued calmly. “You see it, don’t you? He chose her.”
Arman watched the girl turn away from the window, guarded by the former SEAL Boris hadn’t anticipated.
“Yes,” Arman replied. “I see it.”
“And now?” Boris asked.
“Now he will burn the Armenians for crimes they didn’t commit,” Arman said. “And you will look like the only voice of reason left.”
Boris smiled. Arman could hear it through the phone.
“Exactly.”
That’s when Arman realized they had played right into Boris’s hands by shooting him. Boris looked like the victim and the Armenians were “out for blood” against the Bratva.
They should’ve killed him after all.
* * *
The pregnancy test photo had been Boris’s idea.
“Fear, not death,” Boris had instructed. “Make her understand how close and very real the danger is. She’s weak. Maksim will realize she’s the problem.”
Except Maksim hadn’t.
He’d doubled security. Pulled men from Russia. Moved her like a queen under siege.
That changed things.
“She has to go,” Boris had concluded after that. Calm. Regretful. Convincing himself, maybe? “It will hurt him, yes. But it will ultimately save him. And when she’s gone, he’ll see I was right.”
Arman hadn’t argued.
Not because he agreed—but because arguing with men like Boris only made them more dangerous.
He took another drag, watching Archer shift position inside the safe house.
Ex-military. Competent. Loyal.
A complication. But not an impossible one.
* * *
“This ends when she dies,” the Armenian beside him said flatly. He was getting tired of this assignment. It was cold. They’d been watching her for days without doing a damn thing. It didn’t pay enough.
“No,” Arman replied. “This ends when Maksim knows who did it.”
The man frowned. “You’re going to betray Boris?”
Arman lowered the binoculars, his eyes cold. “Boris is betraying everyone.”
Including Maksim.
Including the Bratva.
Including himself. If there was one thing Arman hated, it was being lied to or not trusted. If he was hired for a job, then trust him to do the job. Don’t hire someone else to do the job as well.
Men like Boris believed they were untouchable because they never got their hands dirty. They forgot something important.
Blood always finds its way back to the source. This time, Arman was prepared to guide it.
Arman crushed his cigarette beneath his boot and stepped away from the edge.
For now, he would watch. Wait. Learn routines. Learn Archer’s blind spots—just in case. Learn how Boris moved when he thought he was in control.
And when the time came?
He wouldn’t miss.
Because the truth had come out. Boris didn’t need the girl alive. He just needed her dead in a way that pointed east. Without the Armenians around, he could take over their territory, their businesses—everything.
So when Maksim Sokolov finally turned his rage on the Armenians—Boris Volkov planned to stand beside him, untouched, indispensable, and trusted.
A crucial mistake on Maksim’s part.
One Arman fully intended to correct.