The dealer's warehouse was still choking on the stink of blood and cocaine when it went to hell.
Viktor and Dmitri had barely stepped out—Anton's whimpers fading behind them—when tires screeched outside, five Chechen enforcers spilling from a battered van.
Bullets shredded the BMW's hood, glass exploding like a cheap firework. No rooftop perch, no sniper nest—just a killbox, and Viktor was in it.
"Fuck!" Dmitri dove behind the car, clutching his grazed shoulder, Glock spitting wild shots.
Viktor didn't flinch. His Makarov was out, hands steady as death. The first Chechen charged, AK raised—Viktor's bullet punched through his throat, blood spraying the rusted shelves. Second came from the left, swinging a machete—Viktor sidestepped, cracked the guy's skull with the pistol grip, then fired point-blank into his chest. Two down.
The third and fourth rushed together, guns blazing.
Viktor dove beneath the forklift as bullets cratered the concrete around him. He came up swinging—two rounds from the hip.
The third shooter's head snapped back, his skull bursting like a dropped pumpkin. The fourth grabbed his face, as if to catch the bullet lodged in his sinus cavity, then crumpled, brains painting the wall like a Pollock.
The fifth bastard hesitated, eyes wide—Dmitri's lucky shot caught him in the gut, dropping him writhing.
Viktor walked over, calm as a priest, and finished him with a slug to the forehead. Five bodies, steaming in the damp air.
Dmitri staggered up, blood seeping through his sleeve, face twisted. "You useless fuck—this is on you!"
Viktor wiped his hands on a dead man's jacket, grinning sharp. "Yeah? Tell me, princess, who's bleeding and who's standing? Maybe if you aimed higher than their boots, we'd be drinking by now."
Dmitri's jaw clenched, knuckles white on his gun. "Watch your mouth, prison rat, or I'll—"
"What? Cry to Papa again?" Viktor stepped closer, voice low, venomous. "Go on, run home. Tell him how you pissed yourself while I cleaned up. I'll send flowers for your shoulder—pink ones, match your whining."
Dmitri snarled, shoving past him to the shredded BMW. "You're dead, Petrov." The engine coughed to life, and he peeled out, tires spitting gravel, leaving Viktor in the dust.
Viktor lit a cigarette, exhaling slow, then turned back to the warehouse.
Anton was still there, sprawled against the forklift, leg a mangled mess, face pale as a corpse. His crew—those Chechen bastards—weren't coming to scoop him. They were cooling on the floor.
Anton saw Viktor approach, iron still in hand, and started babbling. "Please—please, man, don't! I'll pay, I'll pay anything! Cash, girls, whatever you want—just let me walk!"
Viktor crouched, eye-level, smoke curling from his lips. "You're not walking anywhere, Anton. But talk fast. Maybe you breathe another day."
Anton's hands shook, tears mixing with sweat. "I—I don't give a fuck about Dmitri or Lev! You hate that prick too—I see it! Listen, I've got something… something big. A lady, used to run with the Bratva—she was tight with me. No one knew she was feeding intel to some government spook, Polish maybe. Dmitri sniffed her out, told Lev, and they had her iced. Before she went dark, she gave me a USB drive—said to keep it safe. I stashed it, figured it was trouble… until you rolled in."
Viktor's pulse kicked, eyes narrowing. Rook's voice echoed in his skull—"Bank transfers. Voice recordings. Lev." This was it.
"Where's the drive?"
Anton fumbled under the forklift, pulling a dented tin box. Inside, a scratched-up USB, black as sin. He handed it over, voice cracking. "That's it, man! All yours! You've got no beef with me now, right? We're square?"
Viktor pocketed the drive, stood, and stared down at Anton. "Problem is, Lev's got a nose for fishy shit. You breathing after this? Smells like a loose end." The Makarov barked once—Anton's forehead caved, blood pooling under the Gucci tracksuit. No witnesses, no risks.
Lev's study hit like a slap—red carpets, bear head glaring with diamond eyes, vodka stains on oak.
Viktor stood rigid, acid stench swapped for gunpowder and sweat. Lev lounged behind the desk, gold TT pistol gleaming in his hands, visibly pissed.
Dmitri sulked by the fireplace, shoulder bandaged, whiskey glass trembling. Nastya leaned in, whispering to Lev, her eyes flicking to Viktor—quick, sharp, unreadable.
Lev slammed the pistol down, voice a low growl. "Anton was meeting Chechens. Skimming my cash, sabotaging my deals—those bastards you smoked were his new friends. You fucked up, Viktor, but you cleaned it too. Dmitri says you're sloppy—says you let him bleed."
Viktor didn't blink. "Dmitri's alive. Chechens aren't. Math checks out."
Dmitri snorted, sloshing his drink. "He's a liability, Papa. Nearly got me killed."
Lev's glare shifted to his son, then back to Viktor. "Anton's crew wanted my head. Chechens don't forgive—they strike back. So we hit first. Hard. I want their warehouses burning, their men choking on their own teeth, by sunrise. You and Dmitri—make it an all-out war. Surprise them, gut them."
Viktor nodded, the USB burning a hole in his pocket. Lev's war would bury the drive's secrets—for now.
Nastya straightened, her smirk a razor's edge, and Viktor felt the board shift under him—shadows moving, pieces falling, and blood on the way.
The hallway outside Lev's study was a dim tunnel—flickering bulbs, peeling wallpaper, the faint reek of mildew.
Viktor made it three steps before Nastya's hand clamped his arm, yanking him into a shadowed alcove. Her switchblade glinted an inch from his throat, her breath hot with vodka and menace.
"Five Chechens," she hissed, eyes boring into his. "Five dead, and you stroll out like it's a fucking picnic. How'd you do it, Petrov? Paint me the picture—every bullet, every scream."
Viktor didn't flinch, voice scraping raw. "Fast hands, faster shots. One ate his own machete, two got brain surgery, the last begged before I blessed him. Dmitri played cheerleader—got a scratch for his trouble."
Nastya's blade traced his jaw, slowly, teasing. "Cute. A regular ballerina with a Makarov. And Anton? What happened there? He squeals anything juicy before you send him to the choir?"
Viktor met her stare, cold as ice. "Nothing worth hearing. Just piss and promises—same old song. Then he stopped singing."
She smirked, pressing the blade harder—enough to nick skin, a bead of blood welling. "Liar. You've got that look—like a dog with a bone. If you're hiding meat, Viktor, I'll carve it out of you. Might even giggle while I do."
He grabbed her wrist, twisting just shy of snapping it, and leaned in close. "Keep giggling, Nastya. Maybe I'll carve you a smile—give Dmitri something to cry about for once." He shoved her off, wiping the blood with his sleeve.
She laughed, low and dark, vanishing down the hall like smoke.
THE SAFEHOUSE BASEMENT WAS A WARREN OF CONCRETE AND RUST, AIR THICK WITH GUN OIL AND TESTOSTERONE.
Viktor and Dmitri stood over a table littered with firepower—AKs, Glocks, frag grenades, a sawed-off shotgun that looked like it'd seen Chechnya itself.
Four Bratva grunts hunched around, loading mags and checking sights—big, scarred bastards with more ink than brains.
Viktor slammed a clip into his Makarov, testing the weight, while Dmitri fumbled with an Uzi, cursing under his breath.
"Fuckin' Chechens won't know what hit 'em," Dmitri muttered, racking the slide, his bandaged shoulder stiff. "You better not choke this time, Petrov."
Viktor snorted, spinning a grenade in his palm. "Choke? I'll be wiping their guts off my boots while you're still reloading, princess."
The door banged open, and Nastya strode in—black leather, switchblade twirling like a baton, voice cutting through the room like a whip. "Gear up, boys. I'm coming with you. Someone's gotta make sure you don't shoot your own dicks off."
Dmitri's head snapped up, face red. "The hell you are—this ain't your playground, Nastya."
She smirked, snatching the sawed-off from the table and racking it one-handed. "Oh, it's mine now. Papa wants a war—I'll paint it red. You two can tag along or cry about it." She tossed the gun back, locking eyes with Viktor. "Right, soldier?"
Viktor chambered a round, grinning faintly. "Long as you don't trip over your ego, I'm good."
The grunts chuckled, but Dmitri's glare could've melted steel. Nastya kicked a crate of ammo closer, bossing the room like a queen in a slaughterhouse, and the air buzzed with the promise of blood