11. Sasha
SASHA
T he drive to the Malyshko estate is entirely silent.
Snowmelt slushes at the edges of the road as the car glides forward, tires hissing softly over wet asphalt. Piles of dirty ice glitter beneath the weak, anemic sun, their surfaces fractured and grey.
A low fog clings stubbornly to the ground, rolling lazily between the trees and swallowing the forest in uneven breaths. The trunks rise out of it like specters with dark, bare branches reaching upward like broken fingers frozen mid-prayer.
The world outside the window feels stripped down to its bones.
Inside the car, everything is controlled.
The leather seats hold the warmth of the heater.
The interior hums with the muted purr of the engine, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the radio.
Roman sits in the passenger seat, facing forward, posture relaxed.
Our driver’s hands are steady on the wheel.
No one speaks.
My mind wanders despite myself.
I think of Alina.
Of the way her shoulders trembled last night and how she pressed her palm flat to the glass as if she expected it to shatter under the storm’s rage. How small she felt in my arms when she finally fell asleep and when the panic drained out of her, leaving only exhaustion and grief behind.
Whatever it is about her that keeps dragging me back, I cannot even begin to fathom. These feelings, this pull… it is an anomaly. A weakness. A misstep I am somehow making again and again without learning.
It replays with vicious clarity, looping again and again no matter how hard I try to focus on what waits for me at the end of this road.
I have no doubt that when I get there, Nikolai will already be seated at the head of his table, his dark eyes calculating even as he pretends with the formalities.
Volkov will posture as he always does, and Kuznetsov will observe in silence, filing away every word for later leverage.
They will speak of strategy and containment and necessary sacrifices.
Somewhere between those discussions, Alina’s name will surface, indirectly or not, as a problem.
My jaw tightens.
I force myself to draw in a slow breath, steadying myself.
Whatever decisions Nikolai intends to formalize today, I already know one thing with absolute certainty. I will not let him take her from me.
When we finally arrive, the difference is immediate and unmistakable.
This place is not like mine in the slightest.
My estate was designed to suggest power. To imply it through discretion, restraint, through the quiet confidence of a man who does not need to announce himself to be feared. Nikolai’s estate does not bother with implication at all. It embodies power in its most literal form.
High stone walls rise from the earth like ramparts, their surfaces scarred with age and intention.
Guard towers loom at measured intervals, silhouettes bristling against the dim sky, each one positioned with guns pressed to their fronts.
The iron gate at the perimeter is a brutal thing, reinforced and engineered to withstand a siege.
It is not decorative.
It is not symbolic.
It is a statement.
The Malyshko estate is a place you do not approach unless you have already been invited. And even then, you approach carefully.
We are waved through without delay, the gate grinding open with a sound like something ancient waking reluctantly from sleep.
The car rolls forward onto a long, curved drive.
Winter-bare trees line the path, their branches clawing at the sky, stripped and skeletal.
Patches of snow cling stubbornly to the ground, neither fully melting nor fully freezing, caught in the same limbo that seems to define everything lately.
The closer we get to the main structure, the more oppressive it feels. Nikolai’s home does not welcome visitors. Stone and steel rise in sharp angles, placed for defense before comfort. Even the architecture feels rigid.
The car comes to a smooth stop near the entrance.
Two of Nikolai’s men stand waiting by the door, their shoulders squared, posture tight.
Their guns are concealed just badly enough to be intentional—a reminder, not a mistake.
They don’t greet us with smiles, though their eyes do flick over Roman when he steps out of the car and linger on him for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
I step out of the car slowly, straightening my coat, meeting their gazes without acknowledgment. This is not my territory, so stirring up trouble is the last thing I’m interested in.
As the doors to Nikolai Malyshko’s fortress open to admit us inside, one thought settles heavily in my chest. Whatever is decided here today will affect not only me and my syndicate, but most likely my entire territory as well.
Inside, the air is warm, oppressively so after coming in from the cold outside, and layered with the faint scent of cigars. It clings to the back of my throat. Even the atmosphere here has been curated to unsettle.
Every step echoes softly, absorbed by thick rugs that do nothing to soften the tension crawling up my spine.
A young enforcer waits just inside the entrance. He looks barely old enough to shave, his uniform immaculate, his posture rigid to the point of it looking painful. He does not introduce himself, though he does not need to. I don’t care.
He inclines his head once and turns, already assuming I will follow.
I do.
Roman and I move through a long corridor lined with framed photographs and weapons encased behind glass. Not trophies, exactly, but records. Battles survived, enemies erased, most of them from Nikolai’s father’s reign.
Every few meters, another guard stands watch, eyes forward, hands clasped behind their backs. Their presence is more ceremonial than necessity. Nikolai does not rely on excess security because he is afraid. He does it because he enjoys the reminder of what he commands.
The soldier stops in front of a set of heavy double doors. We call it a conference room when outsiders are listening, when politicians ask questions and their lawyers dig for answers. But it is not that. It is a war table.
The doors open silently.
I leave Roman in the hallway when I enter.
The room is vast but intimate in its intent.
Dark wood panels line the walls, interrupted only by large maps hung on the walls.
Most of them mirror my own. Districts, ports, supply routes are all marked precisely down to the smallest square footage.
A single set of lights hangs overhead, its light low, casting long shadows that seem to shift the longer you stare.
The table dominates the center of the room.
Its surface bears the marks of years of knives being driven into its surface during arguments, of fists slammed down to punctuate threats, of glasses shattered when negotiations have gone poorly.
Decisions have been made here that have reshaped Moscow’s underworld for nearly a century. Cities have nearly burned because of conversations held at this table and men have vanished because their names were spoken aloud behind these closed doors.
Four chairs sit around it, positioned at the cardinal points. Equal in size. Equal in status.
Or so the illusion suggests.
Nikolai Malyshko occupies one of them. The silent king of our particular hell.
He does not rise when I step inside.
He sits with the lazy confidence of a man who knows the room bends to him and not the other way around.
His dark blond hair is neatly styled to the side, his collared shirt tailored tightly to his body, the first few sets of buttons popped.
His posture is relaxed in a way that would look careless on anyone else, but I know better than to believe that.
His hands rest loosely on the armrests, fingers unadorned, no rings to announce wealth or lineage. His power does not need that kind of ornamentation.
Volkov and Kuznetsov are already seated, one on either side of the table. Their expressions are unreadable, their attention flicking briefly toward me before returning to Nikolai as if drawn in by gravity.
The door closes behind me with a soft, final sound. And just like that, the Pact is in session.
Aleksandr Volkov is the first to address me.
He lounges back in his chair as if this is a casual brunch.
One ankle rests over his knee, his polished shoe catching the light overhead.
His posture is deliberately careless, the kind of ease that is practiced rather than natural.
Volkov is many things—vain, calculating, venomous—but lazy has never been one of them.
He wears his smirk like another weapon.
Sharp cheekbones carve his face into an expression that is predatory.
He’s always been handsome in a way that photographs well and disarms fools.
His suit is perfectly tailored, charcoal with a subtle sheen, the fabric molded to him like it was stitched directly onto his body.
Expensive cologne follows him everywhere, just strong enough to be noticed, never enough to offend.
Volkov likes people to remember him before they remember why they should fear him.
“Nice to see you finally joining us, Sokolov,” he drawls, voice smooth and theatrical. His eyes flick briefly to the empty chair that should have been mine moments ago, then back to my face. “We were worried you got lost on your way over here.”
A deliberate pause follows, bait dangling in the air.
I don’t take it.
Instead, I take my coat off and fold it over the back of the chair calmly.
Eyes follow me when I finally pull it back and sit, folding my hands on top of the table.
The wood is cool beneath my palms, grounding me back down to a level I’m usually at.
Volkov’s smirk twitches, just slightly, when I refuse to rise to the challenge.
He thrives on reaction. Denying him one is the fastest way to irritate him.