Chapter 01
Maksim
The meeting should have started four minutes ago.
I pull off the mask and toss it onto the table.
It slides a few inches across the polished oak before stopping.
The black tactical plastic, skull-shaped and worth as much as a compact car, stares back at me as if it could see who I really am.
Outside the context of an operation, it looks like a toy or some accessory teenagers wear, but it serves its purpose.
It covers everything from forehead to chin, leaving only my eyes visible through two narrow slits.
I have three of these stored in different safes around the property.
Vladimir, my advisor, has tried more than once to convince me to get rid of it—or at least find something more elegant—but I like it.
My ridiculously expensive mask does exactly what I need it to: terrorize the weak, frighten enemies, and command respect from allies.
Muzhchina v maske.
The man in the mask.
That’s who they find when they want to speak with the Pakhan of the St. Petersburg Bratva.
I run my hand over my face, feeling the scar that starts at my left temple and runs almost to my chin.
The skin there is coarser, the line of the cut thick and irregular—courtesy of my own trembling hands, a random needle, and fishing line to stitch myself up.
Going to a hospital would have raised questions, and the last thing I wanted was to explain what happened. Boris didn’t care, of course.
Vladimir is the first to enter the room, drawing my attention and chasing away the dark memories as quickly as I pull my hand from the scarred skin.
His forty-two years sometimes look like thirty, thanks to his boundless energy, and sometimes more like sixty, thanks to his aristocratic walk, ramrod-straight posture, and tailored three-piece suit.
His wedding ring catches the light from the window as he reaches for a chair and pulls it back to sit down.
Even ten years after his wife’s death, he’s never taken it off.
“Good morning, Pakhan.”
“Vladimir.”
He slides the leather briefcase under the table without a sound and, as always, doesn’t mention my discarded mask. Vladimir has a rare talent for walking into a room and simply pretending nothing was happening before he arrived.
Igor comes in right after, incapable of moving quietly with his six-and-a-half feet of height and the build of a Viking lost in Russia.
He runs a hand through his thick beard and scans the entire room, sweeping every corner, marking every exit, confirming where I am.
That’s why he’s my enforcer, the volkodav[6].
Together with Vladimir, he commands the entire Bratva in my absence.
“Malysh.”[7]
He passes behind me and smacks the back of my neck so hard my head jerks forward.
I snort, irritated. This is why I sometimes question whether leaving him as second in command is a good idea.
At the same time, this is why I trust him to lead.
Igor is the only one who can do this and keep breathing. That says a lot about our relationship.
“Sit,” I order without turning my head.
He obeys, resting his elbows on the table, which earns him a disapproving look from Vladimir. The elbows stay there anyway.
Yuri enters last, moving quickly with his head down and the hood of his sweatshirt pulled almost to his eyebrows.
The black backpack hangs from one shoulder, laptop tucked under his arm.
He passes us with just a nod, heads to the corner of the table closest to an outlet, opens the computer, and starts typing immediately.
“Yelena?” Vladimir looks at the empty chair between Igor and Yuri.
“Late,” Yuri responds curtly.
“As always,” Igor and I say together.
Five minutes later, the door opens again, and Yelena enters as if everyone weren’t sitting there just waiting for her.
She slips off her dark jacket without a sound and moves silently to her seat.
My cousin, the only blood family I have left, is twenty-six and lives up to her codename, Prizrak. Ghost.
Yelena Petrova can cross three borders without leaving a single digital trace and still come back with her hands full of information, photographs, bank statements, documents… all kinds of things. She’s the only woman in the Circle, the small group made up of my closest friends.
“Delay in Berlin,” she says as she settles into the chair between Yuri and Igor. “The plane had trouble landing because of the fog.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I comment.
“But you were going to.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were.”
She retorts, and Igor laughs again, even louder this time. Vladimir, ignoring our childish bickering, hands out papers to everyone.
“Davai[8]. Begin.”
Three lost shipments in sixty days. The first, at the port of Kronstadt—an entire container of contraband from Belarus that vanished somewhere between customs and the truck.
The second, near the Vyborg road—two dead drivers and no witnesses.
The third, yesterday, in the heart of St. Petersburg, during an operation planned by the four people sitting in front of me.
“Internal leak,” Igor states.
“Yes. But not from the Circle,” Vladimir responds.
“How do you know?”
The counselor looks at him with the patience of someone who's answered that same question eight hundred times over the past few years.
“Because if it were, Yuri would've already delivered the name.”
“Non-random pattern,” the kid says, hood still pulled up, eyes fixed on the screen. “The three lost shipments share a detail in the logistics sequence that the other seven shipments this quarter don't. I can show you.”
He turns the laptop toward us. Three rows of data in the spreadsheet, three cells highlighted in red. Yuri is direct—doesn't beat around the bush. Shows what needs showing, then goes quiet again.
“Who had access?”
“Eleven people. But only three were within the time window when the data disappeared from the server. I'm cross-referencing that with physical presence at the locations. In twenty-four hours, I'll have a name. Or three.”
“Data first, right?” I repeat his standard phrase.
“Always.” He gives a small nod.
That's how he works. Yuri brings what he knows, not what he thinks. Guesswork and assumptions are for those who don't command.
Yelena speaks next. Her trip to Berlin was to follow up on a rumor that reached us through an Albanian.
Moscow's been probing St. Petersburg. Not a military move—more like a watchful eye, analyzing the market.
They bought half a casino chain in Tallinn that shares a money-laundering border with our territory.
Not an attack yet, but it's a fucking fence they're trying to build around us.
“Viktor?” Vladimir asks.
“Viktor,” Yelena confirms.
The room falls silent for about three seconds. Viktor Orlov has been the Pakhan of Moscow for twenty-three years and the man who killed Yelena's father when she was seventeen. His name hangs in the air, carrying all the weight it represents. It's personal for her. So it's personal for all of us.
“Demidov?” I ask, arms crossed.
“Pavel's still quiet,” Igor responds. “But his silence is different now.
Demidov is one of the loudest Moscow brigadiers[9].
Every week there's gossip about him in bars in Tallinn, talking territory, talking Viktor, talking about how he deserves more recognition.
Three months now without a single complaint. That's strange as hell.”
“Quiet means work,” Yuri murmurs.
“Yes,” Igor continues. “I put two men on his trail thirty days ago. I don't think he has the clout to run all this alone, but he could be the one trying to open the door for Moscow in our backyard.”
“Keep watching,” I order. “But don't touch him. I want to know who's helping, and I don't want him feeling cornered.”
“Da[10].”
Vladimir turns the page before speaking again.
“The Tallinn casino move isn't defensive.
Viktor's approaching slowly. Piece by piece.
His next move will probably be contact. An alliance, a territory split, something that seems civilized—but isn't. When Orlov makes a proposal like that, it's because he's already decided what he'll do if you refuse.”
“Refusal is certain.”
“Refusal is certain. But that refusal needs to come disguised as something else. A delay, an evaluation, an analysis. Either way, it's good to buy time.”
“Time for what?”
Vladimir looks at me with those blue-gray eyes fixed on mine for too long. When he speaks again, it's more measured than usual.
“For you to have a more solid position here before he comes at us with everything.”
“Explain.” My jaw is clenched before I even finish spitting out the order.
He doesn't respond immediately. Turns another page, though I know he's not reading a single line.
“There's a rumor circulating…”
Igor exhales through his nose, Yelena turns away like she wants to be anywhere else, and Yuri keeps working, eyes on the screen.
“What rumor?” My voice comes out colder than I intended.
“That the Man in the Mask has no family,” Igor finishes, his voice lower and more serious.
“No face, no wife, no child, and no one he cares about.
This is becoming a problem. The men lower in the ranks need someone they can identify with.
A Pakhan who has nothing to lose is a Pakhan who doesn't respect what others have to lose. That's the rumor.”
Silence takes over the room. None of them look at me, and I don't look at them either. I just focus on the black skull mask on the table in front of me.
“Where is this rumor coming from?”
“From all corners at once,” Yelena responds. “Which usually means it’s coming from one place and being spread around.”
“Moscow?”
“Possibly.”
I nod once.
“I’ll think about it.”