Moscow Correctional Facility – Morning
The steel clanged. Dmitri didn't flinch.
He lay flat on the floor of his cell, sweat pooling beneath his spine, abs tightening with every brutal sit-up. Forty… fifty… eighty… he'd stopped counting when his thoughts took over.
Every grunt came with a memory.
Nastya's face.
Lev's blood.
Viktor's smirk.
He pulled harder, punishing himself, driving through the sting. She said Lev brought it on himself — that his greed would've killed them all, just like it did their mother. She said she had no choice.
But she still chose.
She split the Bratva. She left their father exposed. She crowned herself Queen while he rotted six feet under. That was the part Dmitri couldn't shake — not the death, but the betrayal.
One more sit-up, teeth clenched.
Then another.
And another.
Until his muscles locked and his breath burned, and he collapsed on the floor, gasping against the concrete. The ceiling blurred above him, dust dancing in the sunbeam slicing through rusted bars.
He rolled to his side, arms numb, vision spinning. The sharp scent of bleach and metal filled his nose.
The truth?
He didn't know if he hated her… or missed her more.
Bratva Safehouse – That Afternoon
Nastya leaned against the table, arms folded, shadows slicing across her leather jacket from the half-open blinds. Her scar was healing well — the one from Lev's last scream. A trophy.
Across from her stood Arman — scar running from his left brow to cheekbone, as if Moscow itself had tried to cut him in half.
"All the street-level pickups came in clean," he said, his voice deep, accented, loyal. "Except one. Borya."
Nastya raised a brow. "Borya? He used to run for Lev."
Arman nodded once. "His boys got jumped. Product gone, payment short. He asked for leniency. Hoped his time with Lev counted for something."
Nastya's smile was ice. "It does."
Arman almost smirked.
"Two days," she said. "No more. And if he still owes—"
"I'll make him remember who rules now."
She picked up her glass, swirling clear vodka. "And Arman?"
He paused at the door.
"Get the trucks ready for tonight's re-up. Zara doesn't like delays."
Arman gave a sharp nod. "Understood."
When he left, Nastya leaned back, staring out the cracked window.
Power looked different in her hands. Bloodier. Louder. Lonelier.
Sniper Range – Outskirts of Moscow
Viktor adjusted the scope.
The rifle was a beast — matte black, custom recoil, scope like a predator's eye. He zeroed in on the target 400 meters out. A watermelon with a smiley face drawn in permanent marker.
Boom.
The fruit exploded into pulp and red mist.
Lev. Again.
He'd done this every other day for weeks.
Put Lev's smile on the melon, then blow it to hell. Each shot was crisp. Clean. But the satisfaction always rotted before he could reload.
He set the rifle down, hands steady, mind spiraling.
But his hand trembled briefly before the next shot.
That never happened.
His body knew the war wasn't over.
Lev was greedy. But greed alone didn't justify blowing up two towers. That kind of chaos was orchestrated. Funded. Someone powerful wanted that destruction — and Lev to almost got it done.
What if the same person funded the GROM set-up and if that same someone realized Viktor and Rook survived?
They wouldn't just sit back. They'd tie up loose ends.
He pulled out his phone. Two rings. No answer.
"Pick up, Rook," he muttered.
Still nothing.
He opened the GROM tracker app — buried under layers of encryption. Rook's GPS ping… was offline.
Gone.
Viktor's breath stilled. A warning crawled up his spine.
The silence stretched.
He began disassembling the rifle with quiet precision.
Something was coming.
And it wouldn't be wearing a smile.
Moscow Correctional Yard – Later That Day
The prison yard buzzed with noise — laughter, sneakers squeaking on cracked pavement, the thud of fists into punching bags. In the corner, two inmates argued over cigarettes. A game of basketball echoed near the fence.
Dmitri lay on the bench press, exhaling hard. The bar shook as he pushed up another rep.
Until a shadow fell across him.
A large, ugly brute — tattoos crawling up his neck, nose bent like a broken railing — gripped the bar with a crooked grin.
"Push harder, brat," he growled, slamming the bar back down.
Dmitri grunted, arms straining, caught between fight and failure.
The others laughed.
The brute stepped back, proud. "Bench is mine now."
Dmitri sat up slowly. Blood at boiling point. Face flushed.
Then, without warning, he launched up and drove his forehead into the man's nose.
CRACK.
The brute staggered, stunned, blood flowing.
Before he could retaliate, two guards rushed in, dragging Dmitri away.
As he was hauled off, Dmitri caught the man's glare — cold, vengeful.
The yard was watching now.
But so was he.
UNKNOWN LOCATION – NIGHT
Aboard a sleek private jet, a man in a tailored black suit sat with perfect posture. His eyes, icy and predatory, were fixed on a thick file laid open before him.
Viktor's photo.
A scarred hand tapped it. "Still breathing," he murmured.
Across from him, a younger man in a gray jacket shifted. "And the other one—Rook?"
"Off-grid. Likely hiding."
"Director wants it quiet. Moscow's already unstable."
The man smiled, a slow curl of menace.
"Then let's tighten the noose. We end them in the dark. No graves. No headlines."
He closed the folder with a snap.
PRIVATE LOUNGE, UNKNOWN LOCATION – SAME NIGHT
The room reeked of money — One of those rooms where rich men whispered wars into existence. Black-tinted windows, ambient jazz, cigars that cost more than rent in Praga, It was the kind of quiet that cost lives to maintain and security that didn't wear uniforms.
A man in a tailored gray suit sat with a tumbler of scotch, his fingers drumming lightly on a folder. Inside were surveillance photos. One showed Viktor. Another — Rook. A third, their shredded squad file from GROM's classified archives.
Across from him, a bearded man in a navy coat lit a cigarette with trembling hands. He looked powerful in all the wrong ways — the kind of power that never got fingerprints on a weapon but left blood behind anyway
"I thought we had the whole GROM team exterminated," the man said slowly. "Now two of them are running around Warsaw. Probably figuring things out."
The Director didn't blink. His scar caught the light, a reminder of older wars.
"They won't get far," he said. "Warsaw is a hunting ground. We know the alleys they hide in. The hands they shake. Their instincts are sharp — but we taught them those instincts. That makes them predictable."
"You gave the same assurances years ago."
The Director's eyes hardened. "And I was a Commander then — I followed orders. Now I give them."
The man looked away, the clink of ice the only answer.
The Director stood, buttoned his coat, and tossed the folder onto the table.
"The loose ends will be tied. Quietly. You'll never hear their names again."
He started walking out, but paused at the door.
"The world forgot GROM. Let's not remind them."
The door clicked shut behind him — and the rich man poured himself another drink, but his hands were still shaking.