UNDISCLOSED WAREHOUSE, DAWN
Lev peeled blood-crusted gauze from his shoulder, wound oozing like a betrayed oath.
Pain seared, a red-hot poker in his flesh, but it was nothing next to the rage boiling his skull. His empire—streets he'd clawed to own—was ash. Most of his men were dead, charred in Khimki's inferno, and the living ones? Cowards, whispering he was radioactive, a walking plague.
Word just hit—Dmitri, his son, was cuffed, rotting in a precinct cell, and Lev himself was a cop's wet dream, a "person of interest."
Nastya—his own blood—hadn't called, and rumors swirled she'd turned, half the Bratva chanting her name like a fucking messiah.
His head burned, vision blurring.
The Americans, sharks smelling blood, would come for him—two million, half-paid, for a deal he'd botched. "Fuck me," he cursed, voice like a rusted metal and vodka, a dark and desperate grin twisting his lip. "I'll finish their job before they gut me."
He summoned Ivan, one of the last loyal dogs, a wiry bastard with eyes like broken glass, "How many C4s can you grab today?" Lev asked, voice low, wound throbbing.
Ivan's face twitched, hiding unease. "Uh, plenty, boss. What's the play?"
Lev's grin was a skull's. "Not war, Ivan. Covering tracks, finishing a deal. Find three men—loyal ones, not rats."
Ivan nodded, scurrying out, leaving Lev to his pain and crumbling throne.
MOSCOW JAIL
A guard sneered at Nastya as soon as she mentioned Dmitri's name. "No visitors for Bratva scum."
Nastya slid a wad of rubles across the table. "Five minutes. Or I'll tell your wife about your girlfriend in Tverskaya."
Dmitri sitting in a private visiting room, looked up, eyes red-rimmed. "Come to gloat, sister?"
"Lev's dead by dawn. When the cops offer you a deal, take it. Say father forced you"
"Why?" Dmitri whispered.
She kissed his forehead, like she had when they were kids and he'd had nightmares. "Because Mama would've wanted it."
MOSCOW BAR, MORNING
Nastya swaggered into a dive bar, air thick with cigarette ash and stale piss. Four Bratva men, grizzled and drunk, slouched at a table, eyes wary as she approached. Her smile was a blade, dark humor glinting.
"Boys, you backing a dead horse with Lev," she said, sliding a bottle of vodka over. "He's a walking corpse, dragging you to hell."
One, a scarred thug snorted. "And you're what, our savior?"
Nastya laughed, sharp. "I'm the one who'll keep you breathing, not burning like Khimki's barbecue."
She poured shots, voice silk over steel.
"Lev's greed fucked us—cops sniffing, Chechens carving. Join me, we run this city. Stay with him, you're dog food." Her logic hit like a fist, vodka sealing the deal. The scarred thug raised a glass, others following.
"Spread the word," Nastya said, leaving them buzzed.
Outside, her grin faded—Dmitri's absence gnawed, but Lev's crown was hers to snatch.
SHOOTING RANGE, AFTERNOON
Viktor and Rook stood at a derelict range, Moscow's decay—rusted cans, bullet-pocked walls—closing in.
Viktor sighted a target through a sniper rifle, scope steady, while Rook scanned with binoculars, their old GROM rhythm kicking in. The air stank of gunpowder and ghosts.
"I almost died in the Bridge crash," Rook said, voice low, no trace of his old chatter.
"Chechens found me, patched me—Zara's crew. I've been her shadow since." His eyes, haunted, flicked to Viktor. "You? Face job for revenge? Ballsy, even for you."
Viktor's laugh was dark, a grave's echo. "Had to look pretty while gutting Lev. After GROM burned, I carved a new me—Drey's dead, Viktor's the reaper." He fired, target shredding. "Thought you were worm chow, Rookie."
Rook's lip twitched, humor crawling out. "Worms spat me back. Too tough to chew."
They traded grim grins, catching up—their banter sharp with pain.
CHECHEN SAFEHOUSE, EVENING
Zara's safehouse was a fortress of C4 crates and rifle stacks, air heavy with cordite and hate. Zara, Nastya, Viktor, and Rook sat at a scarred table, planning Lev's end.
Nastya leaned forward, voice steady, smoke escaping from her mouth like a wicked dragon "Lev's hiding, crew's split—less than half stick with him. Rest are mine. I'll pull strings, find where he's holed up, what he's scheming."
Zara's eyes slit, cold as a flensing knife. "Better hurry, princess. Lev's a wounded dog—dangerous, not dead. Every hour he breathes, my men itch to carve you for his sins."
Her voice dropped, venomous. "Find him, or I start with your pretty face."
Nastya's smile didn't crack, but her gut twisted—Dmitri in jail, Lev hunted, her family fracturing.
Viktor's jaw tightened, Makarov heavy, while Rook stared at the table, GROM's ghosts in his eyes. Zara leaned back, pressure like a noose. "We end this, or Moscow eats us all."
Nastya nodded, fierce but fraying. As they dispersed, Nastya crushed her cigarette into Lev's photo on the dossier. The ember burned through his face, blackening the eyes. She ground it harder than needed.
"Problem?" Viktor asked.
She flicked the ash. "Just remembering the first time he taught me to shoot. I missed the target. He made me hold a lit match between my fingers until it burned out." She flexed her scarred pinkie. "Guess I'm a slow learner."
MOSCOW JAIL, NIGHT
Dmitri stood in a grimy jail corridor, pale as death, dialing a payphone, two inmates looming behind him. His hands shook, voice low as he spoke to Lev. "I'm scared, Papa," he whispered, voice cracking. "But I kept my mouth shut—protected you, Nastya. Didn't snitch on family."
Lev's voice, strained, came through. "Good boy. I'll pull strings, get you out. Soon, I swear." Empty words, but Dmitri clung to them, eyes wet.
A thug behind him, face like a busted knuckle, barked, "Get the fuck off, crybaby! Go sob in your cell!" Laughter echoed, cruel as a shank.
Dmitri hung up, head low, shuffling back to his cage, Moscow's jaws snapping at his heels.
CHECHEN SAFEHOUSE, NIGHT
Back at the safehouse, Nastya stood alone, staring at a cracked mirror. Dmitri's jail call—relayed by a Bratva mole—burned her. Lev's empire was hers for the taking, but at what cost?
Her father, a bleeding ghost; her brother, a caged rat. Zara's threat echoed—"find him, or I start with your face." She smirked, dark humor her shield. "Family reunions are a bitch," she muttered, but the mirror showed a woman fraying at the edges.