MOSCOW STREETS, DUSK
Viktor slumped in the passenger seat of a rust-eaten Lada, cigarette smoke twisting like a noose in the dim light.
Dmitri's curses fouled the air, his bandaged leg—souvenir from the ambush—twitching with every muttered threat.
Across the street, under the stuttering neon of Pivo i Vodka, Yuri, moved like a wolf.
He swapped with a scrawny kid—white powder for a fistful of crumpled rubles. Quick. Gone.
The streets were a carcass since the Chechen resellers got gutted in the bar bloodbath. Bratva had clawed 40% of Lev's turf, offering deals to snakes and bullets to cowards.
"Vultures," Dmitri spat, eyes glinting with hate. "Chechens left a hole, we bleed to fill it."
Viktor exhaled, watching the kid vanish into an alley's maw. "Till they bite," he growled, voice low.
Dmitri's glare burned—suspicion, not trust—but he revved the engine, tires screeching into Moscow's hungry dusk.
MOSCOW OUTSKIRTS, AFTERNOON
Viktor's knuckles whitened on the van's wheel, AKs and ammo crates rattling like bones in the back.
Nastya rode shotgun, her call, not Lev's. "You're with me, Petrov," she'd snarled at the diner, her stare still searing his skull.
Moscow's gray sprawl bled past, a gun deal looming—first-time buyers, cash for crates. His ribs screamed from old bruises, Makarov heavy in his coat, Nastya's silence heavier.
He cracked it, voice rough. "You said Lev got greedy once—burned men. What happened?"
Nastya's eyes flicked, sharp as a shank, then slid away. "Old days," she said, flat. "He chased power, crushed good men—left ashes and screams. Don't ask again." Her jaw locked, but Viktor's gut roared—GROM, 2019? Lev's bloody fingerprints?
She shifted, voice cutting. "Focus, Petrov. Buyers don't wait."
The meet was a forsaken lot, rusted silos looming like gravestones. Oil and lies choked the air.
Five buyers—leather jackets, eyes darting like roaches—dropped a duffel, rubles stacked too neat.
Viktor's GROM instincts screamed: top bills crisp, edges off. Fakes buried under real.
Numbers were shit—5 to 2. He caught Nastya's eye, tapped his Makarov twice—trouble brewing.
"Count it," Viktor said, stalling. Buyer one smirked, hand creeping toward a Glock.
Nastya nodded, slow, then—hell broke loose.
Her blade flashed, slicing a throat wide, blood jetting like a burst pipe. Viktor's Makarov roared—two skulls exploded, brains splattering rusted metal.
The third dove, Glock spitting wild, bullets chewing dirt. Crates toppled, ammo scattering like teeth. The fourth lunged, knife gleaming—Viktor's fist shattered his jaw, his own blade ripping through the man's gut, entrails spilling hot.
The fifth bolted—Nastya's shot punched through his spine, body crumpling with a wet thud.
The lot reeked—blood, cordite, piss, and death. Viktor panted, ribs howling, fake rubles fluttering like dead leaves.
Nastya wiped her blade on a corpse's jacket, eyes hard but flickering—not her usual steel.
LOT'S EDGE, MINUTES LATER
Viktor kicked a body, guts oozing under his boot.
The duffel was trash—fakes confirmed. Nastya scrubbed her hands, grease and blood smeared like war paint.
He saw his shot. "You owe me," he said, voice steady. "I saved your neck. I'm collecting—now."
Her brow arched, smirk faint but dangerous.
"Ballsy, Petrov. What?"
"A hacker," he lied, the story flimsy. "Old score, need files off a laptop—clean, no Bratva."
Nastya's eyes peeled him raw—knew he was full of shit, maybe. "I'll see," she said, slow, smirk sharp as a razor. "Don't push, soldier." She walked off, boots crunching over blood-soaked gravel, leaving Viktor's gut knotted—trust her? He'd sooner kiss a viper.
KUZNETSOV'S CLUB, EVENING
Cigar haze strangled the room—mahogany table, vodka sweat, and barely leashed violence.
Lev sat, gold-plated TT pistol glinting like a predator's eye, two enforcers carved from stone at his back. Kuznetsov—bull-necked, knuckles scarred to hell—leaned back, three dogs bristling, holsters within reach.
Lev's pitch to split Chechen turf died fast. "Docks for you, north for me," he said, voice silk over steel. "No blood, we feast."
Kuznetsov spat, laugh raw as a butcher's cleaver. "Kneel to you? I'll burn your empire and piss on the ashes."
Lev's hand twitched—TT hungry. Enforcers drew, Kuznetsov's men matched—six guns, barrels kissing air, no edge. A trigger pull would paint the walls red, gutting both crews.
Lev stood, eyes blazing. "It's a reasonable deal, take it or I'll bury you."
Kuznetsov grinned, teeth bared. "Try, old man."
Doors slammed, hate thick as tar, war's fuse lit.
BRATVA SAFEHOUSE, NIGHT
Lev's study burned with opulence—red carpets, a stuffed bear head snarling from the wall.
Viktor stood, ribs throbbing like a war drum.
Dmitri slumped, smirking, bottle in hand.
Nastya leaned against a wall, blade twirling, eyes dissecting Viktor deeper than before.
Lev paced, TT spinning in his grip, ranting like a caged beast. "Kuznetsov's a rabid dog," he snarled. "No deal—he'll hit our routes, I smell it. We strike first—hard. You three, guns hot, ears open. Anything moves, crush it."
Dmitri grinned, feral. "Torch his stash—tonight. Let him choke on smoke."
Nastya's jaw tightened—old fears flashing.
Viktor stayed stone, skeptical. "What's the play?" he asked, voice flat.
"Blood," Lev growled, eyes wild. "Always." He waved them out, muttering, "No one burns me twice."
Viktor's gut churned—Nastya's stare lingered, heavy with secrets.
KUZNETSOV'S COMPOUND, MIDNIGHT
Kuznetsov's SUV growled over gravel, fog cloaking the estate like a shroud. The driver frowned—guards gone, silence wrong, air thick with dread.
Kuznetsov drew a Tokarev, three men yanking AKs, boots crunching toward the mansion's black maw.
Inside, the foyer stopped them cold. Four guards knelt, gagged, blood trickling from split scalps.
Zara's men loomed, barrels pressed to skulls, death one twitch away.
Zara stood, leather scuffed, eyes Arctic-cold. Kuznetsov's pulse hammered—she knew. "Lev's bitch?" he snarled, spitting flecking his lips.
"Wrong," Zara said, voice like a blade. "You met Lev—spat on his terms, nearly bled."
Kuznetsov's eyes narrowed, Tokarev steady. "No deal. Guns even—massacre waiting."
Zara's stare carved him to the bone. He signaled—AKs dipped. She nodded, barrels easing, but death hung thick. "Agree to Lev's terms," she said. "Smile, play dog—then set him up, clean."
Kuznetsov choked a laugh. "Why?"
"Blood," Zara hissed, venom dripping. "His for mine."
Boots clicked, deal sealed in hate.
Outside, she leaned to Aslan—scarred, knife gleaming like a crescent moon. "Bratva sells on our ground," she whispered, voice a razor's edge. "Drop their bodies—bleed them ear to ear."
Aslan's grin split the dark, fog swallowing them. Moscow's streets were a fuse, and the match was struck