MOSCCOW PRECINCT, DAWN
Dmitri sat in a stark interrogation room, jail orange clinging to his sweat-slick frame, pale as a corpse.
Detectives Volkov and Irina loomed, their stares cold enough to frost hell.
Dmitri's voice cracked, defiant. "I'm cooperating—Viktor's your guy. Anything else, I want my lawyer."
Volkov's laugh was a rusted blade. "Lawyer? Kid, you're already neck-deep in shit." Irina slid photos across—Lev's massacre scenes, bodies gutted, streets red. "Your daddy's leading more men to their graves. Nastya flipped, half the Bratva kissing her boots. Lev? Slipped, he's wounded, and everyone—cops, Chechens—wants his head."
Dmitri's face crumpled, eyes wide, betrayals piling like corpses.
Irina tossed another photo—Lev, grim, with two Americans, suits sharp as knives. "Know these pricks? What's Lev's game with them?"
Dmitri froze, memory sparking—Lev's voice, months back, crowing over a phone, "Payment's in, million up front." A rare grin, vodka raised.
He clamped shut, voice hard. "Lawyer."
Volkov slammed the table, coffee splashing. "We'll pin every massacre on you and your old man—Lev's head, your ass, one big pyre!"
Irina leaned in, venomous. "You know where we're at when you're ready to squeal."
Dmitri held firm, jaw locked, but his eyes screamed—family or survival? They left him, door slamming, his whisper lost in the gloom: "Fuck you."
LEV'S SAFEHOUSE, MORNING
Lev stood on a crumbling terrace, wind biting his bandaged shoulder, pain gnawing like a rabid dog. Blood seeped through gauze, a red reminder of Khimki's fireball.
His empire was ash—men dead, survivors spitting his name like poison. Dmitri caged, Nastya a traitor, half the Bratva chanting her name. "It's now more than rumors," he muttered, dark laugh choking on rage. "Can't blame 'em"
The Americans' deal—a million paid, another due to blow two corporate towers—loomed like a guillotine. "Greedy bastards crashing stocks for profit," he growled, grim humor twisting. "Sunday hits, empty buildings—clean, rich men's game." If he pulled it off, he'd vanish, regroup, reclaim his streets. If not, the sharks would feast.
SAFEHOUSE LOT, MIDDAY
Ivan and two "loyal" thugs—Boris, a hulking bruiser, and Fallan, a wiry weasel—loaded cleaning company vans, bags of C4 stacked like coffins.
The air stank of explosives and doubt. Boris muttered, "What's the boss blowing up? Kremlin?" Fallan snorted, dark humor glinting. "His own ass, probably. This much boom? We're fucked."
They froze as Lev approached, boots crunching, shoulder stiff, eyes cold as a grave.
"Pull this off, fifty grand each," Lev said, voice low.
Their faces lit up, greed outpacing fear. Boris squinted. "What's the job, boss?"
Lev's stare didn't waver. "Two buildings, corporate towers—Sunday, empty. Rich men's game, stocks would crash, No civilians, just rubble. Happens with or without us—might as well cash out." He leaned in, grim. "One guard at each parking lot. Distract him, slip through a basement door, pack the C4. Two teams, I'm with you. We hit both at once."
Sasha's grin was nervous. "Guard's a pushover?"
"Alone," Lev said, a dark laugh. "Wave a bottle, he'll fold." The men nodded, skepticism buried under cash's promise.
Lev's nod was final—death or dollars, no middle ground.
MECHANIC'S WORKSHOP, AFTERNOON
Nastya and Viktor sat in her battered sedan, eyes locked on a mechanic's shop across a muddy street.
The mechanic, a greasy nobody, tinkered on a car, oblivious to death's stare.
Nastya's voice was low, fierce. "One of Lev's dogs came here twice. Smells like a play."
Viktor's jaw tightened, hate simmering.
"Khimki went to shit—Lev's trap, our asses burned." His grin was grim. "Least you're winning, Nastya. Bratva's yours now."
She smirked, masking a flicker of guilt. "Not till Lev's dead. Zara's got a knife to my throat." Her eyes hardened. "Let's get the son of a bitch."
Viktor's nod was pure revenge, but Nastya's gut twisted—father, traitor, prey.
They shared a knowing look, slid out, and strode toward the shop, boots splashing filth.
The mechanic looked up, face paling as Nastya's wicked grin hit, Viktor looming like a reaper.
"Talk," Nastya said, voice silk over steel. "Lev's man—what did he want?"
The mechanic stammered, eyes darting. Viktor's hand twitched to his Makarov, a threat unspoken.
"Two vans," the man blurted. "Cleaning company logos. He paid big to rent 'em. Heard him on the phone—meeting at a warehouse in Yurlovo."
Nastya flinched, eyes narrowing. That warehouse—Lev's C4 stash. "He's blowing something," she hissed, voice venom. "Like Viktor's team—or crazier."
They left the man trembling, diving back into the car. Nastya dialed Zara, voice urgent. "Lev's got cleaning vans, C4 from his warehouse. He's planning a boom, something big."
CHECHEN SAFEHOUSE, EVENING
Zara stood in her safehouse, phone to ear, Nastya's words sparking fury. Her voice was ice, sharp enough to flay. "Find him, Nastya. He slips again, your head's on a spike." She hung up, eyes burning, and turned to Aslan and her men, rifles glinting in dim light.
"Lev's in cleaning vans, packing C4," she said, voice a lash. "Find him—every street, every shithole. He dies, or we do." Her men nodded, piling into cars, engines roaring as they tore into Moscow's night.
Zara's stare lingered, cold as a grave—Nastya better get Lev , or she would bleed for it.
MOSCOW STREET, NIGHT
Lev's vans rolled through Moscow's underbelly, C4 ticking like a heartbeat. Avan drove one, Lev in the passenger seat, shoulder throbbing, eyes scanning for cops or Chechens.
The second van trailed, Boris and Fallan grim, knowing too much boom meant no mistakes.
Towers loomed in Lev's mind—rubble for profit, his ticket out.
Nastya and Viktor prowled parallel streets, Makarov's heavy, Zara's threat a noose. The mechanic's words burned—Lev, C4, another GROM-like explosion.
Nastya's guilt flickered, but her crown was close.
Viktor's hate was purer—Lev's blood, his only goal.
Zara's men fanned out, cars screaming, rifles ready. Dmitri's jail cell loomed in the distance, his silence a weight.
The detectives' board grew, Lev's photo pinned, Americans circled. Moscow pulsed, a city of wolves, and the night was a lit fuse.