Chapter 2
MAKSIM
The sharp crack of a gunshot snaps through the air, echoing off the concrete walls surrounding us like a whip cracking.
The man at my feet jerks once, twice, then crumples in a heap. Two perfect holes bloom crimson across his chest, one just left of his sternum, the other closer to his shoulder. He gasps wetly, blood rising in his throat to choke him as he tries to speak, but it’s no use.
It takes all of six seconds for him to die.
The blood pools beneath him in a slow-moving flood, thick and syrupy, inching toward my boots.
Beside me, Hector Scaroni flinches so hard he drops the rusted metal crowbar in his hand, the sound of it clanging just as loudly.
“Shit,” he breathes, face going pale. His hands tremble as he stares down at the body like it might reach up and drag him down next.
I flip the safety back on and extend the pistol without looking.
At my right, Lev takes it, silent and efficient like always. His gloved fingers close around the grip, drawing it back with him in one smooth motion before tucking it back into the holster at his hip.
Scaroni swallows hard, a thick gulp audible even over the ringing silence. His face glistens under the overhead lights, sweat shining like oil slick across his brow. “I–I didn’t think he’d actually—”
“Don’t.” I cut him off with one flat word.
He freezes.
“This entire deal has been nothing but a goddamn liability since you brought it to me,” I say. “You should’ve handled it yourself. Cleanly. Quietly. Instead, I had to come down here, waste my time, and clean up your mess.”
He flinches again when my hand cuts through the air, gesturing to the body on the ground, the blood painting the concrete in a macabre way.
“Now look at what’s happened.”
Scaroni nods so hard his gaudy gold chain smacks against his chest with each bob of his head. “You’re absolutely right, Pakhan. I understand. This won’t happen again, I swear on–on my life.”
I nearly roll my eyes.
As if your life is worth a damn thing.
I step forward, letting the soles of my shoes scuff across the dirty floor until I’m only inches from him.
The stink of fear hits me like smoke, thick and sour, making my nose wrinkle.
His eyes are wide, red, and bloodshot, teeth painted a sickening yellow from the cigarettes he likes to shove between his lips.
I don’t have to raise my voice when I speak to him. I never do. “That’s exactly what’s at stake. The next time someone cons you, I won’t waste a bullet on them. It’ll be you bleeding out at my feet. Am I understood?”
He nods again, faster now. “Yes. Yes, Pakhan. Absolutely. I won’t… this won’t happen again.”
Lev stands just behind me, arms crossed, his gaze pinned to the body like he’s already calculating how long it’ll take to bleach the blood out of the concrete. Ironic considering I’ve never forced that man to clean up a single body since I’ve taken ownership over our Bratva.
“Do you want me to, uh… should I call in a crew?” Scaroni asks.
“You should’ve done that the moment we stepped foot inside,” I say, already turning toward the door.
“I… Yes, of course.”
“You’ve got ten minutes to make this warehouse spotless. If there’s still blood on the floor when I leave, I’ll assume you’ve gone soft. If that’s the case, I’ll find someone with a stronger spine to wear your shoes.”
I don’t wait for a reply.
I walk toward the exit, Lev falling into line beside me like a shadow.
We step into the crisp afternoon air, the heavy steel door creaking shut behind us with a satisfying clank.
A fresh dusting of snow covers the graveled parking lot, crunching under our shoes as we make our way over to the car parked closest to the door.
I catch the glint of metal in the air a second before the keys land in my palm. I toss them once, catching them again, more out of habit than anything. The heavy door creaks open under my hand as I pull on the driver’s side handle, the scents of leather and old cologne greeting me.
I slide behind the wheel and slam the door shut, letting the silence settle around me for a half-second before Lev drops into the passenger seat beside me with a sharp, bone-rattling slam of his own.
He doesn’t speak right away. He never does unless he has something worth saying. But today has tested the limits of both of our patience.
“What a fucking mess,” he finally mutters, rubbing a gloved hand down his face as I start the engine and ease the car away from the warehouse. “Fire after fire. What’s next?”
I grip the steering wheel, knuckles whitening for a beat before I force them to relax. “It’s becoming a pattern, it seems.”
My fingers tap against the leather, each strike in time with the chaos building in my head. He’s voicing what the rest of the Bratva has been too careful, or too afraid, rather, to say aloud. It’s exactly what I’ve been thinking for weeks but haven’t had the time, or luxury, to truly unpack.
This isn’t bad luck. It’s not a string of isolated incidents. This is entirely orchestrated.
Curated and designed to fuck with me.
Far too many things have been happening in close proximity to each other—fires at our warehouses, product interceptions at the port, low-level soldiers turning up dead, business partners backing out with flimsy excuses.
Just last night, a trusted contact was found skimming off the top of our books and then found dead before he could be interrogated.
Coincidences don’t pile up like that. Not in my world. Not unless someone’s behind them.
But who would be stupid enough to do something this brazen? And more importantly, why?
I’ve chased down every thread that’s come across my desk.
I’ve broken fingers, pulled teeth, and cracked open more than one skull hoping something would fall out besides more pleas for mercy.
I’ve put my best people on it. Matvey’s been combing through financial transactions like a man possessed.
Katya and Roman have been monitoring the streets and outside communications.
Andrey’s been shaking down contact after contact to find out where our stolen goods are ending up.
But every trail ends the same way. Dead. Cold.
Just like the men we find at the end of them.
It’s like chasing shadows in the dark. Each step forward only clouds the truth even more. All the while, my attention is being pulled in every direction at once. Every hour of every day, I’m putting out fires.
Literal and metaphorical.
I can’t afford to sit still and investigate. Every time I try, another emergency explodes in my face. Another ambush, another missing truck, another backdoor deal someone didn’t clear with me.
I’m used to the pressure. It’s baked into this job. It’s expected when you’re Pakhan. The weight of dozens of lives hangs on your every decision. Men live and die by your word. Deals are struck in blood. Trust is a razor blade held between your teeth before shoving it between an opponent’s ribs.
But this? This is different. This is deliberate.
Whoever’s doing this isn’t just some street-level rival trying to expand their turf and being stupid enough to think my Bratva is an easy target. This isn’t a random punk trying to make a name for himself.
This is someone with reach. With actual information that’s fucking me over time and time again with the audacity to come after my Bratva knowing full well what the consequences should be and not caring in the slightest.
This is calculated chaos, and it’s working.
Lev hasn’t said another word, but I can feel the tension pulsing off him in waves as we roll through the industrial district and onto the backroads that wind toward the compound.
His jaw tics. His fingers twitch on his thigh near the holster at his hip, like he’s wishing someone would give him an excuse to draw.
I know the feeling all too well.
We pass an old gas station where we used to meet informants a few years ago. It’s shuttered now, boarded up and spray painted over with local gang tags that have no meaning in my world other than a sign of a pest needing to be knocked down a few pegs.
I mark it with my eyes anyway. Anything familiar is worth watching twice these days.
Finally, I break the silence. “Do we have any eyes on the Romanian deal?”
Lev nods once out of the corner of my eye. “Matvey said the package made it past the border checkpoint. Last he heard, the container’s been offloaded and was supposed to arrive on Friday.”
“Supposed to,” I repeat.
He doesn’t respond.
Supposed to doesn’t mean shit anymore. Not when supply chains are being hit mid-transfer or when customs paperwork magically disappears overnight.
I sigh, flicking on the turn signal with more force than necessary.
We pull into the driveway of the compound just as the sun is beginning to touch the tops of the dead trees sprawled at the property’s edge. The guards at the front gate wave us in without question, eyes sharp.
I nod once as we pass.
Pulling up to the front of the compound, I park in the usual spot and kill the engine.
Neither of us moves right away.
Lev exhales like he’s trying to smother his thoughts before they come out.
I glance over at him, then out the window toward the compound—my fortress, my home, my kingdom.
For the first time in a long while, it doesn’t feel entirely mine.
Not when I know there are cracks running beneath the surface, shuddering the foundation.
“I want everyone back in tonight,” I say. “The entire Sovet. We’re doing a full sweep. Comms, routes, loyalty checks. I want every weak link found.”
Lev’s already pulling out his phone before I finish the sentence. “Done.”
My eyes swing back to the compound, a silent sentinel in the heart of Moscow.
Stone-built with high, reinforced windows facing the front of the property, their glass reflecting the warped shapes of the rare, nearly cloudless sky beyond.
Cameras and floodlights are stationed at every corner of the perimeter.