Chapter 26 Konstantin
KONSTANTIN
Viktor and I ride in silence, the city’s lights flickering across the windows as the car weaves through backstreets.
I rub my forehead, a dull ache radiating behind my eyes, the weight of exhaustion settling in my bones.
Viktor sits beside me, his posture as rigid and controlled as ever, eyes fixed ahead.
“You feel better?” he asks, his voice clipped but not unkind. “We need your head straight for tonight.”
I glance up from my phone, forcing a half smile. “Never felt better.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “We do this right, we only have one shot.” He turns, meeting my eyes, and I can see the calculation there, the hunger for what comes next. “It’s your chance to take your revenge. Everything that was taken from you—tonight, you get to take it back.”
The city hums around us, full of secrets and ghosts, but I let all of that fade as I focus on the plan ahead.
The car rolls to a stop in front of a squat, nondescript building.
It looks abandoned from the outside, but I know better.
There’s a new black sedan parked at the curb, two silent guards in cheap suits watching from the shadows.
The windows are dark, but faint yellow light spills from cracks behind the boarded glass.
Viktor steps out first, pausing to straighten his jacket. I follow, letting the cold air slap the rest of the fatigue from my body. He leads me up the concrete steps, pausing by the heavy side door. He presses a code into the lock, and the door groans open.
Inside, the air is thick with smoke and the low murmur of dangerous men.
The council chamber looks just as I remember—a long table scarred by years of secrets, high-backed chairs filled by men who think they own the city.
The same place I first met Viktor. It feels like a lifetime ago, though it’s only been two months.
Viktor’s hand falls heavy on my shoulder. “This is it, Konstantin. Tonight we take back the city.”
He pushes open the doors, and every conversation stops. Heads turn, some in surprise, others in calculation, a few in fear. I walk in behind Viktor, my spine straight, my eyes locked on the men who think they’ve already won.
Viktor stands tall at the head of the table, his presence commanding enough to make even the boldest men hesitate. He doesn’t wait for permission. His voice cuts through the silence, cool and dangerous.
“Brought a plus-one tonight,” Viktor announces, his gaze sweeping the room. I watch their faces shift from confusion to alarm.
Grozny is the first to stand, followed quickly by Orlov and Baranov, outrage simmering in their eyes. “Viktor, that is not how things work around here,” Grozny growls. “You know the rules. No outsiders. Not without the council’s approval.”
Viktor doesn’t flinch. He draws his gun in a single smooth motion, laying it flat on the table in front of him, finger resting alongside the barrel. The gesture is casual, but the threat is unmistakable.
“Shut the fuck up,” Viktor says, voice steady and cold. The room goes even quieter, every man at the table suddenly aware of how fragile the peace is. Viktor lets his eyes linger on each face, daring them to argue, making it clear that this isn’t a request.
One of the older men near the far end of the table narrows his eyes, voice heavy with accusation. “You know the rules, Viktor. You don’t bring a gun in here. Nobody does.”
Viktor barely glances his way, his mouth curling into a cold smile. “Maybe the rules need to change,” he replies, his voice calm but loaded. “I don’t see much honor left in this room, only men hiding behind old customs while our enemies pick us off one by one.”
He taps the gun against the scarred wood, the sound sharp and final. “If any of you think you can take it from me, you’re welcome to try.”
A hush falls over the chamber. No one moves. Every eye flickers from the gun to Viktor, then to me, calculating just how quickly the night—and their futures—can turn.
Grozny makes a move, hand sliding toward the inside of his jacket. Viktor fires first. The gun cracks once and Grozny is flung back, a dark bloom spreading across his chest before he hits the floor. Shouts erupt. Councilors reach for weapons they were smart enough to leave at home.
The chamber doors burst open. Viktor’s men flood in, weapons leveled, masks hiding their faces. Chairs scrape as the council scrambles. Hands fly up.
One man—Baranov—jabs a trembling finger at Viktor. “I vouched for you. You were nobody, just dirt, and I brought you into this circle. No one here knew your name a year ago.”
Viktor walks to him, slow and certain. “That’s because I paid you for it,” he says, voice flat. He grips Baranov’s jaw, prying it open, and slides the hot barrel between the man’s teeth. “Maybe this will remind you who owns whom.”
Baranov whimpers, eyes bulging. No one moves to help him. Orlov presses to the wall, white as chalk. Every other seat is frozen in terror.
Viktor pulls the barrel free, wiping it on Baranov’s silk jacket. “We’re finished with backroom betrayals. From tonight on, you answer to Konstantin. Break faith again and you end up like Grozny—or worse.”
Silence follows, broken only by Grozny’s final rattling breath on the floorboards.
Viktor steps aside and gestures to me.
I keep my voice even, hands resting on the back of an empty chair. “Is it true, Viktor? What Baranov said.”
Viktor looks at me, eyes still bright from the rush of blood and power. “What, exactly?”
“That before last year no one here even knew your name. That you bought your seat.” I speak calmly, curious more than accusatory. “When I first walked into this chamber, I knew nothing about you. Now, even though I rarely attend, I make sure I understand who every player is.”
“What does it matter tonight?”
I let the question hang, not giving anything away. “I prefer to understand the histories of the people beside me. You are beside me a great deal.”
The room goes tenser by degrees. Viktor’s fingers drum once on the table. “Introductions cost money,” he answers. “You pay, doors open. After tonight those doors stay open because of what I just did, not what I paid.”
I nod slowly, showing no reaction beyond mild interest. “Fair enough.”
Viktor narrows his eyes, watching for something he can’t quite read. “Is this really the time for personal audits?”
I give him a slight smile and move my gaze to the council. “Just setting the record straight. We have a long night ahead.”
“Yes we do,” he says, finally turning to the rest of the council.
Viktor lifts his hand. Two of his men draw without hesitation and fire.
The first muzzle flash paints the room white.
I dive behind a toppled chair, splinters exploding around me.
Bullets chew the wood, missing by inches.
I roll, whip a fallen pistol from the carpet, and return fire.
My round clips the nearest shooter’s thigh.
He drops, howling. The second one charges.
I meet him halfway, ramming the butt of my gun into his throat. He gags, staggers. I twist his wrist, the weapon clattering free, then drive my elbow across his jaw. Bone cracks. He collapses at my feet.
I turn on the first man, still crawling for his gun. I stamp his wrist, feel the bones shift, then bury my fist in his temple. He goes limp. Blood spatters the polished floor.
The chamber is silent except for my breathing. Viktor stands by the table, amusement flickering in his eyes. He lifts a finger, and his remaining guards freeze.
I straighten, chest heaving, pulse thundering. I wipe blood from my cheek and face him. “What will I find underneath your shirt, Viktor?” My voice is low, gritty. “How long have you worked for them? The Veles?”
He tilts his head, smile thin. “So when did you piece it all together?”
“I didn’t,” I say, gun steady in my hand. “My wife did. She’s smarter than me.”
A spark of surprise crosses his face. Then he laughs, shallow and cold. “Interesting. A pity she’s not here to see what happens next.”
Glass erupts in every direction, the windows giving way as if the building itself can’t hold the pressure of what’s about to happen.
I throw an arm over my face, feel shards whip past my skin, hear the high cry of metal frames bending.
Cold night air floods the chamber, and with it comes the roar of boots and voices.
Men in dark gear pour through the openings like a living tide.
Their silhouettes blot out the city lights, rifles raised, movements crisp and practiced.
My first thought is to check the angles, to mark every target.
I see ten, no, fifteen shapes spilling onto the balcony rail.
Some drop straight into the room, others slide down ropes that hiss against fractured glass.
They land hard, the thud of combat boots echoing over the marble floor.
A heartbeat later, more figures punch through the opposite windows, the sound of their descent a drumbeat in my ears.
The council jerks up from the long table, chairs scraping as they scramble for cover that doesn’t exist. Paperwork scatters like frightened birds.
In the flash of a broken wall sconce I lock eyes with Rifat.
He hits the floor in a crouch, rolls, pops up near Grozny’s slumped body, and gives me a single nod.
That brief tilt of his chin tells me everything.
We are on the same side tonight. He palms a pistol from the ground, chamber checks in a single motion, and fires past my shoulder.
A scream follows, cut short as one of Viktor’s guards drops against the paneled wall, head lolling at a wrong angle.