7. Victor
VICTOR
The crystal whiskey decanter catches the afternoon light streaming through Lucian's office window, splitting it into fragments across the mahogany desk. I shift in the leather chair, adjust my suit jacket, and suppress the wince threatening to crack my carefully maintained relaxed expression.
It's been four days since the hit at Bogdan's house, but more importantly, it's four days since she vanished through that window with my prize.
Lucian doesn't look up as he pours our drinks. The new don's hands are steady, and he's settling nicely into things.
The decanter clicks softly on the bar cart as he sets it down. He turns and stares at me, holding two glasses.
"Victor," he says, handing me my drink, his eyes scanning my face for something I won't let him find. "You look tired."
I accept the whiskey and watch him settle into the chair behind the desk, our father's chair, though Lucian wears the authority differently. No paranoia clouding his judgment. No communist-era suspicion poisoning every decision.
Just cold, calculated power.
"Long week," I say, bringing the glass to my lips. The whiskey burns, but it's never in a bad way.
Lucian leans back, nodding.
"So," he says, taking a sip, "tell me about it."
The question hangs between us, deceptively casual. But I know my brother. He's always looking for what's beneath the words spoken.
And by it, he means my little trip out to Constan?a.
"He's dead." I keep my voice flat, like I'm reporting facts. "Single shot to the head."
"Any complications?"
The image flashes in my mind. Her body pressed beneath mine, blonde hair and those cold blue eyes daring me to do something about it. The lamp shattering. Papers scattering. Her knee driving into my wound.
I smile. "None," I say, taking another sip. "It was an easy hit."
The lie slides out smooth as the whiskey burns down my throat. I've perfected this over years, the art of truth-adjacent fiction. Give them enough detail to satisfy curiosity, omit everything that matters.
Because if Lucian discovers the blonde Russian exists, he'll do what any competent don would do. He'll put a kill order on her head. He'll mobilize our entire network, activate every asset we have, and she'll be dead within seventy-two hours.
And I refuse to let anyone else touch her.
Not Lucian's soldiers. Not Adrian's rage-fueled vendetta. Not Matei's cold efficiency.
She's mine.
Mine to hunt. Mine to catch. Mine to punish for the smile that haunts my thoughts when I close my eyes.
Lucian's gaze doesn't waver. "What about the hard drive? I saw the intel tip from our contact saying Bogdan kept records."
"The tip was a bust." I swirl the whiskey, watching it slide around my glass. "Either the drive never existed, or Bogdan destroyed it long before I arrived. I searched the office thoroughly."
Another lie, technically, but the rationalization forms quickly. I lost the drive, yes. She took it, vanished into the night with whatever evidence the Volkovs wanted buried. But I don't need it anymore.
Not after what I'm going to do next. Which admittedly is going to be a bit tricky as I won’t be able to use our main family network, because I don’t want my brother’s knowing.
Lucian nods slowly, processing, and I watch the gears turn behind his eyes.
"A shame," he finally says. "But Bogdan's death sends the necessary message, and I know how important it was for you to personally handle it. When you decide to tell Adrian about it, I'm sure he'll thank you."
"It had to be done," I say, taking a big sip.
Lucian stands, rounds the desk, and for a moment I see genuine warmth crack through his facade. He claps my shoulder, and the contact sends pain through my ribs.
“Yes. This was important. For Adrian. For Elena. For all of us."
I rise to meet him and clap his shoulder as well. The brotherhood we've forged through blood and violence, all while under our father's suffocating shadow, holds us together.
"So, now that that’s done, when are you shifting focus back to your political career?" Lucian asks, releasing my shoulder. "Your office called. They want to know when you're returning to make your move."
The smile I give him is genuine this time. Politics, the beautiful game of deception. I do miss it. How could I not? It enables me to be the respectable face of the Ionescu empire.
"Soon," I say. "Just need to tie up some loose ends first."
"Remember, Victor." Lucian's voice drops. "Everything we do moving forward, especially now with father gone, has to be family first. No personal vendettas. No solo operations. Nothing that put us at risk without discussion.”
“Like I always say, everything I do is for the family," I reply, meeting his eyes without flinching. "And it always will be."
The truth in that statement is absolute. Every manipulation, every kill, every political alliance I've brokered, all of it serves the Ionescu name.
How I rationalize individual actions and attach them to that greater purpose, however, is up to me.
Lucian's phone buzzes on the desk, and I watch his expression shift as he glances at the screen.
"I need to go." He looks at me, apologetic. "You know how it is."
I down the rest of my whiskey and set the glass on his desk. “I get it. Do what you need to do."
We shake hands, and Lucian steps out of the office, already answering the call, speaking rapidly as the door shuts behind him.
I stand alone in my brother's office, in our father's old office, surrounded by the memories of everything this room has seen, of the power we killed for.
And yet, all I can do is think about her.
I tell myself it's because of the lie I just told Lucian, but that's not entirely true. I stare at the Persian rug on the floor and replay those moments in Bogdan's office frame by frame.
How she used her body as a weapon more devastating than any blade.
How her presence, her sheer proximity to me, became a tactical advantage I hadn't anticipated.
I'm not angry. I should be. Any rational man would be furious at being outmaneuvered, at losing the prize, at watching her escape through a window, but fury isn't what simmers beneath my ribs alongside the pain.
It's intrigue.
Pure, consuming fascination with the fact that I've finally found someone who doesn't bore me. Someone who matches my intelligence, my training, my absolute refusal to lose. Someone who saw through my charm and my calculated seduction and turned both weapons back on me without hesitation.
An equal.
The realization settles over me so surely, it's completely undeniable.
I've spent years surrounded by politicians who cower, criminals who grovel, women who submit. I've cultivated boredom as a lifestyle, finding entertainment only in the manipulation itself, the chess game of power.
But she looked at me like I was the prey. Like she was the predator, and I'd wandered foolishly into her territory.
My smile spreads slowly as I adjust my jacket and head for the door.
I exit Lucian's office, nod to the security stationed in the hallway, and make my way through the Ionescu family's Bucharest headquarters. The building is a converted nineteenth-century palace, all marble columns and gold leaf, hiding the blood empire we've built behind its elegance.
My driver waits by the black Rolls-Royce parked in the private courtyard. I slide into the back seat, and off we go.
It's a short drive back to my place in Prim?verii, the neighborhood where Romania's elite bury their wealth behind high walls and security cameras. You won't find any communist-era concrete apartment buildings like the ones we grew up in around here.
We pass my gate, and the driver stops and lets me out. I dismiss him, enter through the biometrical locked front door, and take in the momentary silence of my house.
Eight seconds later, I'm greeted by a maid. I give her a smile and start walking. The first floor is all open space, polished floors, and designer furniture. The walls are decorated with artwork worth millions, as they should be. Or rather, as someone in my position is expected to have.
It's a funny thing to learn about being rich versus being wealthy. There's a difference, and each has its own unspoken rules, which I hate. But a life in politics has certain specifications that must be met, even if you're the one funding your run for office.
Either way, I've checked every damn box, but that's not important to me right now.
I head straight for my office, loosening my tie as I walk.
The room smells like leather and carries a faint scent of last night's whiskey as I sink into the chair behind my desk.
My encrypted phone sits right where I left it this morning.
I reach for it and tap the screen, no notifications.
I'm waiting for something very important, and if I don't do something until it comes, I'll lose my shit. So I dive into some work.
First, I finally return my political team’s calls, and tell them I just need a few more weeks before we go full steam ahead and to leave Lucian alone.
I then call Matei to go over his LA expansion operation and check on the supplies.
Thankfully, the Bulgarians haven't resurfaced yet and the Russians have been MIA since clearing house. But we all know it’s only a matter of time before they return.
I'm pushing for Adrian and Elena to head out there once they're up for it, but we'll see how everyone feels about that in the coming weeks.
Lastly, I do some busy work, checking on some of our operations here in Romania when finally my phone lights up and vibrates on my desk.
It's just a single email notification, but one I've been obsessively waiting for a few days. Everything takes longer when I need to use connections and resources off the books and away from Lucian’s prying eyes.
I unlock the phone with my thumbprint, open the encrypted email application, and stare at the subject line.
Location Confirmed
I open the email, and a slow smile tugs at my lips.
I've got that son of a bitch.
TARGET: Dimitri Volkov (Father of Maxim Volkov, Deceased)
STATUS: Don of the Volkov Bratva
EVENT: Exclusive gala hosted at Casino Sanremo
LOCATION: Sanremo, Italy
DATE: Three days from now
ATTENDEES: European elite, Italian politicians, Russian expatriates, international criminal leadership
SECURITY LEVEL: Extreme. Estimated 20+ armed security, Italian police presence, possible private contractors.
ENTRY: Ticket at location. Alias Stefan Radovi?, wealthy investor from Montenegro interested in expanding into Russia.
I read the email twice, absorbing every detail.
This is the snake's head.
Not Cornel, not even Bogdan. Him. Dimitri Volkov.
And while my father was the one who paid, Dimitri accepted. His son accepted. He partook in taking Elena. The Volkovs are also behind the Siberian Ice that flooded Los Angeles, the trafficking, and most importantly, they are after us. That Russian blonde even mentioned a list.
I will not sit by and let some Bratva fuck start a war that threatens to destroy everything we've built, nor will I let him put my family in jeopardy.
If I kill him, this will end.
It's like my grandfather used to say, "?arpele se omoar? de la cap." The snake is killed from the head.
I lean back in my chair, tapping my fingers on my desk as I consider the tactical reality because I'm not fully crazy, at least I don't think so.
Assassinating a Russian don surrounded by a ton of armed guards at a casino filled with witnesses is objectively insane. It violates every principle of careful planning I've ever followed.
But if I succeed, if I put a bullet in Dimitri Volkov's head, this ends before it starts.
One shot, and my family is safe.
With his only son, Maxim, already dead, one more kill and the Volkovs lose their leadership, their direction, their capacity to threaten us.
The strategic value is undeniable.
And there's something else. Something I’d never admit. Not even to Lucian or Matei or Adrian, that burns through my thoughts with a fierce intensity.
Wherever Dimitri Volkov goes, his elite cleaner won't be far behind.
The woman who escaped me. Who haunts my thoughts now like a ghost.
She'll be there.
In Sanremo. At that casino. Close enough to touch, close enough to catch, close enough to finish what we started in Bogdan's dark office.
I can accomplish two objectives with one operation, eliminate the threat to my family and claim the prize I lost.
The smile that spreads across my face is slow, dangerous, and utterly genuine.
Fuck, maybe I am a little crazy.
I scroll through the attachments in the email, taking in details about the casino's layout, the guest list, and the security protocols. My mind is already working through approaches, considering weapons, calculating angles of fire and escape routes.
This is the part I love, the cold calculus of violence, the precision of elimination.
I forward the intel to my encrypted cloud storage, then delete the email from my phone.
I open a different encrypted application and begin typing instructions. I need reservations at a hotel near the casino. I need weapons waiting for me in Sanremo. I need any intel on every camera, every guard, and their rotations.
I need to be present, but blend in, be invisible until the moment I pull the trigger.
I hit send on the messages and pocket my phone, already mentally preparing to pack. Suits that blend with the European elite. Formal wear for the gala. The specific tools required for close-quarters assassination.
Three days until Sanremo.
And potentially, three days until I find my beautiful Russian nightmare and settle the score between us.
This is my most important job yet.
And I'll be damned if I'm going to fail.