NEXCORP TOWER TWO PARKING LOT, SUNDAY AFTERNOON
Sirens wailed as Detectives Volkov and Irina roared into the NexCorp Tower Two parking lot, Moscow's concrete sprawl stinking of cordite and fresh blood.
Police vans swarmed, lights flashing, officers roping off the chaos left by Viktor, Nastya, and Zara.
Lev's corpse sprawled in the basement, skull blown open, heart pierced, a bag of C4 at his feet—identical to the explosives in the abandoned van on Komsomolsky Prospekt, where Boris's body laid, brains splattered.
Aslan's corpse, chest shredded, lay nearby, a silent casualty.
Captain Petrov stormed in, facing a thunderhead, voice cutting through radio static. "What the hell is this mess, Volkov?" he bellowed, pointing at Lev's body and the C4. "You had Dmitri's lead—why's this city a fucking warzone?"
Volkov's jaw clenched, Irina's eyes hard as flint. "Dmitri gave us a date—Victory Day payment, tied to Lev's Americans," Volkov said, voice tight. "We were chasing it when this blew up—vans, snipers, all hell."
Petrov's laugh was a rusty shank. "Criminals saved your asses, stopped the buildings from going down, and left us this shitpile.
You're mopping it up—reports, press, everything." He stalked off, leaving the detectives in the wreckage, Lev's empire is a bloody tombstone, their lead a bitter punchline.
BRATVA SAFEHOUSE, TWO WEEKS LATER
Nastya leaned back at a scarred table, a gut wound stitched, a faint scar under her leather jacket. The Bratva was hers, its men bowing to her razor-sharp grin, forged in blood and betrayal.
Zara sat across, eyes cold as a flensing knife, a cocaine deal on the table—Chechen powder for Bratva streets. "Ten keys, clean, by Thursday," Zara said, voice venom. "Your dogs screw it, I'll carve my share from their bones."
Nastya's laugh was sharp, wicked. "My dog's heel, Zara—unlike Lev, who's feeding rats now." She leaned in, smirking as sharp as a blade. "We'll move your snow, queen of shivs. Moscow's ours."
The deal clicked, power sparking, but Nastya's eyes flickered—Dmitri, caged, a loose end she hadn't cut, his shadow gnawing at her crown.
MOSCOW DIVE BAR, TWO WEEKS LATER
Viktor and Rook slouched in a grimy bar, neon buzzing, air thick with cigarette ash and sour beer. Baltika bottles clinked, their scars—GROM's brutal etchings —catching the dim light.
Rook, less hollow now, flashed a grin, his old chatter creeping back. "That Chechen in Grozny," he said, voice rough. "Three rounds to the chest, still swinging. You cracked his head like an egg."
Viktor's laugh was raw, dark humor curling. "Your Kabul guy—RPG prick, head gone, body sprinted ten steps. Fucking puppet show."
They raised their beers, toasting GROM's fallen, eyes steel. "To the dead," Viktor said, "and the bastards we buried with 'em."
Rook nodded, lighter, chattier. "Lev's last gasp—'what's the hold-up?'—he died a confused human." They clinked again, laughter rough, but Viktor's grip tightened, Lev's ghost a faint scar, Nastya's new throne a heavy shadow.
MOSCOW PRISON, THREE WEEKS LATER
Dmitri slumped in his cell, orange jumpsuit filthy, his face a storm of rage and despair. Concrete walls crushed him, his world reduced to steel bars and echoes.
Lev was dead, skull split. Nastya ruled the Bratva, allied with Zara's Chechens—prison whispers stabbed like shivs, each rumor of her power a twist in his gut. "Fucking snake," he snarled, cursing her, Lev's corpse, even himself.
Trapped here, betrayed, while she wore the crown he'd bled for.
A guard's boots scraped, pausing at his cell. He leaned in, voice a whisper, sliding a burner phone through the bars. "For you," he muttered, gone.
Dmitri stared, pulse hammering, fingers shaking as he snatched it. One number saved—no name. He dialed, breath ragged, dread and fury clawing his chest.
The line clicked. "Hello, little brother," Nastya's voice purred, sharp as a razor, wicked as sin. "You didn't think I'd forget you, did you?" Her grin bled through the phone, a wolf's promise, and Dmitri's blood froze—Moscow's predators never slept.