13. Ruslan
13
RUSLAN
TWO DAYS LATER
A knock pulls me from the reports spread across my desk.
The numbers confirm what I already know: production on my films is back in full swing, which means weapons are flowing into our warehouses right on schedule.
I roll my shoulders, feeling the tug of healing wounds beneath my tailored shirt. "Enter."
Daria slips in, her face carefully arranged in that neutral expression she's perfected over decades of service. "Gregor Belov is here to see you."
My jaw tightens automatically. Unexpected visits mean unexpected demands. And I'm in no mood for either.
"Send him in."
I rise slowly, not wanting the old fox to see me wince. The doctor says I'm healing remarkably well, but remarkable isn't perfect.
The door swings open, and there he stands, the godfather of the bratvas. And he looks distinctly unsettled.
His pristine pale suit can't hide how his eyes dart around the room, or the way his fingers drum against his cane. This is not the Gregor I know, the one who holds court with the confidence of a man who's spent thirty years building an empire of alliances.
"Ruslan Vitalyevich." He steps forward, hand extended.
I take it, noting how his grip lacks its usual crushing intensity. "This is a surprise, Gregor Iosifovich. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
He doesn't sit, even when I gesture toward the chair. Another tell.
"I received a very interesting call from Potyomkin."
I don't respond, just pour two glasses of vodka and offer him one. My silence pushes him to continue.
"He mentioned an arrangement you've made. His men for your guns."
I take a slow sip, savoring the burn and the moment as I lower myself gingerly into my seat.
Gregor came to me. Not the other way around.
"That was a private business dealing."
Gregor's eyes narrow slightly. "When a pakhan makes moves that shift the balance of power within the Vori , it becomes everyone's business."
"And is that what we've done?" I lean back against my desk, letting him stand like a supplicant. "Shifted the balance of power?"
"You know damned well what you've done." His composure cracks. "You've sought out Potyomkin while the rest of us are trying to hold the Zapadniye Vori together against Semyon."
"Funny." I smile, keeping my voice light. "How many of Semyon's bullets did you take in the last few weeks?"
Gregor finishes his vodka in one swift motion. "I know about the deal, Ruslan. What I want to know is why."
"My deal with Vyacheslav Petrovich violates nothing within the Vori ," I remind him, letting my voice carry the weight of my position. "You and I both know that."
Gregor doesn't dispute this. Instead, he finally lowers himself into the chair across from me, his knuckles tightening around his cane as he does so.
"He tells me that Semyon's men are becoming restless in Vegas." His voice drops lower. "And he presumes to make demands of me to help him shore up his own position. Backed by Dragunov guns."
I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. "How interesting."
"You find this amusing?"
"I do." I cut him off, enjoying the rare sight of Gregor Belov scrambling for control. "For the first time in thirty years, you're operating at a loss because you hold no cards."
His face tightens, those piercing blue eyes narrowing to slits. "I built the Vori . I made the rules that keep us from slaughtering each other."
"Then why did you do nothing to stop the murder of my brother and nephew when everyone in the Vori knew Semyon wanted control of the Dragunov bratva?"
Gregor's face hardens, and his blue eyes turn to ice.
"There was no way to know Semyon would make such a move." He straightens his crimson shirt beneath his pale suit. "To suggest I had prior knowledge?—"
"Bullshit." The word cuts through his excuses like a blade. "Lev knew. My brother came to me the night before he was killed."
Gregor's fingers stop their nervous drumming on his cane. He's listening now.
"He told me that the jungle is tearing itself down and rebuilding into something different. Those were his exact words." I stand, ignoring the pull of stitches. "He asked me to increase weapons shipments. If Lev knew something was coming, you must have known as well."
"Your brother was always paranoid," Gregor dismisses with a wave. "He saw shadows where there were none."
"Then explain to me how everything is shaping up so conveniently for Semyon. How Mikonov men have been inserted so seamlessly onto Potyomkin's turf without a word of protest from the Vori. How you were so adamant that I marry Tamara when all that did was delay the inevitable moment for when Semyon might take over. How the rest of the Vori thought I was dead while I was still in the hospital."
My face twists from the smile into something darker.
"It's almost as if you're working with him."
Gregor's nostrils flare, the only sign that I've hit a nerve.
"Careful, Ruslan Vitalyevich." His voice drops to a whisper. "You're making dangerous accusations."
"What did Semyon promise you, Gregor Iosifovich?" My voice cuts through the tension. "What was worth betraying decades of your own hard work?"
Gregor's eyes flash with indignation. "I don't entertain hypothetical questions, especially those that presume guilt."
"I have no desire to make an enemy out of you." I pour myself another finger of vodka, letting the crystal catch the light. "In fact, I'd prefer your friendship."
He laughs—the sound harsh and disbelieving. "You accuse me of treason against the Vori , and then claim you want to be my friend? At least your father and brother were direct in their hostility for me."
"My only desire is to keep my family safe. My nieces, my wife." I take a slow sip, feeling the burn. "And my unborn child."
I watch the information land. Another card on the table.
"And you think threatening me accomplishes this?"
"No." I set my glass down with a soft click. "But tell me, are you aware of who Semyon is making inroads with beyond our circles? Besides his friends in the Triads?"
Gregor stares back, his silence calculated.
"Silence is its own confession, Gregor Iosifovich." I stand, no longer caring if he sees me wince. "The man Semyon now works with—a Kristofer Christensen—has made my wife's life a living hell. He murdered her family. He would have raped her if Potyomkin hadn't intervened."
Gregor's eyes widen slightly at this, but he doesn't interrupt.
"I will not stop until this man is destroyed." My voice drops, each word deliberate and weighted with promise. "And when it's done, I'd prefer you remain a friend, because the alternative..."
I lean closer, my voice barely above a whisper.
"The alternative is that you'll face the full brunt of my revenge for every second my wife has spent in fear, for every scar on my body, for every tear my nieces have shed for their dead father and brother."
Gregor's eyes flick down to his empty glass. The silence stretches between us like a rubber band pulled taut.
"Semyon approached me." His voice comes out strained, like each word costs him. "Six weeks before your brother's death."
My hands clench into fists. "And?"
"He described a vision where the Triads and the Vori could exist in harmony." Gregor's gaze lifts to meet mine, no longer the calculating predator I've known for decades. "No more territory disputes, no more bloody skirmishes over products and territory. Just clean business along clean lines."
"And in exchange?" The words scrape my throat raw.
"He wanted his pound of flesh." Gregor's shoulders slump slightly. "Control of the Dragunov weapon pipeline. But I suspect he simply wanted to avenge Denis' failures at the hands of your father."
Rage explodes through me like white-hot shrapnel. I slam my fist onto the desk, sending papers scattering.
"You sanctioned the murder of my brother and nephew!" I roar. "For fucking business ?"
"No, Ruslan, I chose to save the Vori from a long and bloody war," Gregor says, suddenly looking every one of his seventy years. "Lev would never relinquish control of the shipments. And Mikhail? That boy worshipped his father. He would have followed the same path."
My vision blurs red at the edges. I'm across the room before I realize I've moved, grabbing Gregor by his immaculate crimson shirt.
"So drastic action had to be taken?" I growl, my voice barely recognizable even to my own ears. "Murder as a show of good faith to Semyon?"
To his credit, Gregor doesn't flinch. "To ensure a smooth transition. To prevent more bloodshed."
"More bloodshed?" I spit the words back at him. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The blood of my family is on your hands."
"Not just my hands, Ruslan Vitalyevich." His voice drops to a whisper, like he's sharing a confession. "Someone had to give Semyon the exact timing of Lev's movements. Someone had to inform them where Mikhail would be that day, the precise location of his shooting, and the exact moment that could be used to end that boy's life."
My fingers loosen slightly from his shirt. A cold, sick feeling spreads through my gut.
"Someone with intimate knowledge of Lev's household," Gregor continues. "Someone with unfettered access. Someone that no-one would dare question."
The pieces suddenly fall into place with a sickening clarity as memories of the past few weeks come rushing back all at once.
That first phone call to Tamara after Lev died. Her voice was controlled and measured. There was no shock, no tears, no emotion other than pure acknowledgement.
I'd attributed it to her usual coldness.
But now...
When I'd told her about Mikhail, there was a flicker of hesitation, only to be followed with that same measured response.
How many times have I seen Mikhail excitedly talk to his mother about his shoots? How many times did she do nothing but nod in acknowledgement?
To think that this entire time, she was using her own son's enthusiasm to plot his death!
"It was her." The words taste like ash on my tongue. "It was Tamara all along."
My knees give out, and I sink into my chair. The room tilts sickeningly around me.
"She defied me when I ordered her to bring the girls to the mansion." My voice sounds hollow, distant. "She wanted them close."
Gregor remains silent, watching me process the full horror of what Tamara has done.
"And Aurora… she knew Aurora's real name because of Kristofer." The realization cuts like a blade. "And in exchange, she must've given Kristofer access to our security feeds through Mikayla's phone."
The depth of her betrayal is unfathomable. Her own son. Her own daughters. All sacrificial lambs.
"And if the girls had died on that day after Kristofer had taken Aurora..." My fingers dig into the armrests until they ache. "Then Semyon would've had everything."
The calculation of it all makes my stomach heave. I've known Tamara to be cold and calculating. I expected her to be.
But this…
This is something that I could not believe in a million years.
"She gave birth to them." The words scrape my throat raw. "She carried all four of them inside her for nine months, felt them kick, and watched them take their first steps. And she was willing to have all of them butchered like they mean nothing."
"I'm sorry you had to find out like this," Gregor whispers, his eyes filled with something that almost resembles genuine regret.
I laugh, the sound harsh and broken in the sudden silence. "Sorry? You're fucking sorry ?" I rise from my chair, ignoring the pull of my wounds. "This doesn't let you off the hook, Gregor Iosifovich. You knew about this awful plan and did nothing about it."
My hand finds the empty vodka glass and hurl it against the nearest wall, shattering it.
Neither of us flinches at the sound.
"That makes you even worse than Tamara." Her name burns like acid on my tongue. "You were supposed to be the architect of peace and stability between the families."
Gregor sits straighter, some of his old confidence returning. "My aim has always been stability, Ruslan. The interests of the Vori must come first. Without order?—"
"Fuck the Vori ," I spit, cutting him off. My voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "When this is all settled, I will tear the Vori apart with my bare hands. Semyon will die. Kristofer will die. Tamara will die."
I step closer, close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead.
"But not you, Gregor Iosifovich. You don't get that mercy," I snarl. "You'll live. I'm going to make you watch as everything you've worked so hard for gets ripped into pieces and scattered on the winds."
"Ruslan, please." He holds up his hands, beseeching. "Think reasonably."
"I'm done being reasonable."
I turn away from him, staring out the window at the estate grounds where my nieces are playing, oblivious to the horror of their mother's betrayal.
"The jungle is about to tear itself down and rebuild into something different." I turn back to Gregor, the words of my dead brother now my own. "I'm the one chopping the trees down, and you're just one of the thousands who'll get buried in the process."