LEV'S COMPOUND, PAST 10PM
Viktor's sedan growled into Lev's compound, tires chewing gravel, the night thick with gun oil and sweat.
Past 10 PM, the air crackled—Bratva men swarmed like roaches, loading rifles, clips snapping, faces carved from stone.
Viktor stepped out, Makarov a cold weight, pulse hammering like a war drum. He caught a soldier's eye, voice low. "Lev?"
The man jerked his chin toward the house, chewing tobacco, eyes dead.
Viktor strode in, boots grinding on cracked tile, the burner phone in his pocket heavy as a guillotine blade.
The compound reeked—vodka, cordite, and the sour tang of men itching to kill.
Inside, Lev and Kuznetsov hunched over a table, maps strewn, whiskey bottles glinting like spent shells.
Lev's TT pistol spun in his hand, eyes blazing like a wolf scenting blood.
Kuznetsov's scars twitched, voice a low rasp, plotting slaughter.
Viktor's entrance snapped their heads up—Lev's gaze stabbed him, sharp as a shiv.
"Where the fuck you been, Viktor?" Lev growled, suspicion curling his lip like smoke.
Viktor shrugged, voice thin. "Home, sick as a dog. Nastya dragged me out." He locked eyes with Kuznetsov, his stare hard enough to crack bone.
Kuznetsov's smirk was a taunt, a snake playing loyal.
Lev leaned forward, whiskey breath hot. "Nastya? Where's she at?"
"Chasing Dmitri," Viktor said, flat, masking the lie. "He's gone dark."
Lev's jaw clenched, muttering, "Dmitri's not answering me either." His eyes flicked to the map, bloodlust drowning worry. "Fuck it.
Nastya's got it. We move tonight—Chechens burn." His grin was feral, a man dreaming of corpses.
Chills slithered down Viktor's spine, not from fear but the ticking clock in his gut. Lev had to die before this trap sprang, but how? The house crawled with loyal dogs—Viktor could drop three, maybe four, before they tore him to red ribbons.
He buried his skepticism, his face a blank mask, and nodded. "I'll gear up."
He slipped out, thoughts a maelstrom. Ninety minutes, tops, and this shit would ignite. Nastya's crazy plan—whatever the hell it was—better hold, or they'd both be ash.
He drifted down a dim hall, ducking into a grimy restroom, tiles stained with piss and despair. The burner phone burned, a lead weight dragging him to Rook's voice—that call, days back, gruff and impossible. Rook, alive? Nobody in the bridge crash, just whispers of a burned-out car. If he lived, where was he hiding? Why?
A fist pounded the door. "Hurry the fuck up, we're rolling!" a soldier barked.
Viktor exhaled, grim. They were marching into Kuznetsov's trap, and he knew it. Lev might survive—unless Viktor put a bullet in him first. One way or another, this was his last night in Moscow. He stepped out, face stone, ready to ride to hell.
KHIMKI OUTSKIRTS, NIGHT
Miles away, Nastya prowled a frostbitten lane near the Khimki warehouse, boots crunching icy dirt, breath steaming like a dragon's. Her gun hung heavy, eyes slicing the dark.
A shadow flickered—behind her. She froze, hand twitching to her blade, scanning the gloom. Nothing but wind and ghosts.
Four steps later, Zara's Chechens melted from the shadows—rifles cocked, cutlasses gleaming, faces etched with hate. A dozen predators, death in their eyes, closing like a noose.
Nastya raised her arms, voice steady as steel. "I'm here for your boss."
They didn't blink, two lunging to grab her. She moved like lightning—one swept off his feet, skull cracking pavement, the other choked in her grip, his own gun jammed against his scalp.
The rest froze, rifles trained, triggers itching. Zara stepped into the moonlight, cold stare cutting through Nastya like a flensing knife.
Nastya shot it back, iron for iron, releasing the man as Zara waved her men to lower weapons.
"You got massive balls looking for me," Zara said, voice glacial, a smirk twitching. "But big balls ache fast, so talk. Why're you here?"
Nastya didn't flinch, eyes locked. "Heard you're throwing a party for Lev. Don't know when, but it's close. Lev's the root of our shit—reckless, greedy, pulling police heat on all of us. He's a problem for you, me, the whole damn game."
Zara studied her, a cold bitch sizing up another, seeing the glint of truth and in a flash, Zara's knife hovered at Nastya's throat. "Why turn on your own blood?"
Nastya didn't flinch. "Lev's no blood of mine. My mother's bones are in the Moskva because of him. Dmitri's too stupid to see it, but I'm not."
Zara's eyes narrowed. "And if I want Dmitri's head too?"
Nastya's voice iced over. "You touch him, and I'll feed you your own spine. Lev's disease. Dmitri's just another symptom."
"Your father's dying tonight," she said, checking her watch with a devilish smirk. "He's probably rolling out now."
Her eyes bored into Nastya's, looking for a reaction. "I hear you. We could make bank together after this—partner up. But if you're playing games, I'll gut you, flay you, and hang your skin for the crows to peck."
Nastya's fierce smile answered, silent but screaming defiance. She turned to leave, but Zara's men blocked her, rifles rising like a firing squad. Zara's voice slashed through.
"No one's leaving till this shitshow's over."
Nastya tensed, pulse spiking. Viktor—how the fuck's he getting out? And Dmitri—where was he? Her plan was a razor's edge, and the blade was slipping.
LEV'S COMPOUND, NIGHT
Lev rallied his men outside, voice a thunderclap over the clatter of guns.
"Tonight, we end the Chechens! Khimki burns!" His TT raised like a warlord's scepter, eyes blazing with slaughter's promise.
Kuznetsov stood at his side, smirking, the trap's puppet master hiding in plain sight. Soldiers roared, rifles high, a pack of dogs unleashed.
Viktor lingered at the edge, loading a rifle, face blank but mind a furnace. Lev's death was his only shot, but the compound was a fortress—soldiers thick, loyal to the bone. A straight move was suicide. He needed chaos, and Kuznetsov's trap might just bring it. He climbed into a van, Makarov loaded, burner phone silent, Rook's voice a ghost in his skull.
Lev's convoy roared out, tires screeching, a war party blind to the noose. Viktor rode in the back, fingers tight on his rifle, heart a drumbeat. The city pulsed with dread—blood in the gutters, sirens howling like wolves.
KHIMKI OUTSKIRTS, NIGHT
Nastya stood among Zara's men, a guest turned prisoner, surrounded by killers.
The warehouse loomed, its silhouette jagged against a moonless sky. Inside, Chechens prepped—clips loaded, C4 stacked, Rook's sniper rifle gleaming like a predator's eye.
Zara's plan was a guillotine, Lev's head on the block. Nastya's mind churned—Viktor, alone in Lev's pack, walking into a meat grinder.
Dmitri, lost, hostage or dead. Her alliance with Zara was a gamble, but Lev's greed had torched too many bridges. If she played this right, she'd claim the Bratva's crown. If not, she'd be flayed meat.
KHIMKI OUTSKIRTS, NIGHT
Zara paced near the warehouse, Aslan at her side. Her men moved like specters, final checks on guns and bombs.
She glanced at Nastya, caged by her crew, and smirked—a cold bitch recognizing a mirror. "Your father's ash tonight," she muttered, almost to herself, "and we'll see if you're worth the air you breathe."
Nastya met her gaze, unflinching, but her thoughts screamed—Viktor, Dmitri, the trap closing. Ninety minutes, and Moscow would be a pyre. She'd either rise or burn with it.