Midnight under a rain-slick bridge outside Moscow.
The wind had teeth, and the fog rolled in like smoke from a war long over but never buried. Nastya's leather jacket glistened in the headlights as she stood with arms folded, boots planted like roots. Arman loomed beside her, a silent shadow. The duffle bag at their feet bulged with money and not enough trust.
A car approached—quiet engine, tinted windows. It stopped short, maybe ten paces out. One man stepped out. Tall. Pale. Sharp-jawed. Clean white coat over a smug face.
"Dan," Nastya said coldly.
He didn't smile. "Zara's moved up the timeline. Change of plan."
"You're empty," Arman said, hand twitching near his coat.
Dan shrugged. "No product tonight. Instead, three times your usual shipment will be waiting at Dock 42. Dawn. You're expected to move it. Payment's due in full on the next re-up."
He reached for the duffle. Nastya didn't move. His fingers curled around the handle anyway.
"This," he said, lifting it, "is a down payment. Welcome to growth."
Nastya's eyes narrowed. "Zara didn't call. Didn't show. She sends you—with this?"
"Well, she's watching," Rolan said.
His smirk was sharp enough to draw blood. Then he turned, disappeared into the car, and was swallowed by night.
Back inside their car, Arman's jaw twitched.
"What's the play?"
Nastya stared through the windshield, eyes distant.
"She thinks she's giving me more than I can chew."
Then her lips curled into a slow grin. Calculating. Icy. Dangerous.
Arman looked over. "You have a plan?"
She said nothing. But her smile deepened as the rain hit harder.
---
A grimy bar, barely lit, barely alive.
Viktor sits at the far end, a beer in hand, eyes on the door. The TV overhead sputters static before locking onto a news anchor's plastic face.
"...massive heroin bust intercepted at Sheremetyevo. Customs officials say the drugs were sewn into bus seats. Over one hundred kilos seized.."
Viktor's fingers clenched around his glass. Bad timing. Bad heat.
The door creaked. Boots. Then the scent—smoke, leather, rain.
Nastya slid into the seat beside him, still wearing the night like armor. She waved for vodka, then said nothing.
They drink in silence. A war between them in every glance, every swallow.
"You look like shit," she finally says.
"You're not glowing either."
A beat.
"You're bleeding into the news already," he said, eyes still on the screen.
"Not mine," she muttered. "But it'll land on me."
"Everything rolls downhill."
She downed the shot, wiped her mouth. "Zara just dumped a war on me. No warning. No support. Just a ton of bricks and a smile."
Viktor gave her a long look. "You wanted the crown. It always comes with a blade."
"I can't move that much product in a week. Not without burning half the city."
"Then don't"
She leans in, eyes fierce. "It's not just business. She wants me out. Maybe dead. And you're the only bastard I trust not to gut me when my back's turned."
Viktor doesn't flinch. "You shouldn't."
The silence cuts deeper than any threat.
Then Nastya pulls back, takes a long drink.
"If I fall," she says, "you'll be next. They're circling."
"I'm already bleeding."
She finishes her vodka, stands, and looks down at him with something between regret and respect.
"When the volcano erupts, don't wait for an invitation."
Then she walked into the rain, leaving Viktor with the weight of ash in his chest.
---
5:12 a.m. Mist thick as a wall. Distant cranes stood like grave markers.
Arman rolled his shoulders as Chechens filled the van with bricks of white hidden in seats, panels, wheel wells.
Zara's man—Dan—watched, all casual elegance. He didn't lift a finger. Just counted.
Arman said nothing. But his eyes tracked every move.
"You're quiet tonight," Dan offered.
Arman lit a cigarette, didn't answer.
When the van was packed, Arman slammed the doors shut. He didn't say goodbye. Just looked at Dan like the next time they met, someone wouldn't walk away.
Then they drove.
Behind them, in the mist, a black car idled. Engine off. But not empty.
---
Metal. Concrete. Fluorescents that buzzed like insects.
Dmitri sat behind bulletproof glass, orange jumpsuit stretched across arms grown harder, heavier. Prison had turned him into something leaner.
Nastya sat across the divide. Her fingers were bare. No rings, nothing flashy.
"You look healthy," she says.
"You look powerful."
"I need eyes inside."
Dmitri tilts his head. "I thought I was just rotting in here."
A guard stood nearby, uninterested. This wasn't the first sibling chess match.
"I need you," she said, blunt.
Dmitri tilted his head. "Need? Or want?"
"The Chechens lost the prison routes after the riots. There's demand. No supplier."
"You want me to build a new empire from behind bars."
"I want you to matter again."
His jaw flexed. Something burned behind his eyes.
"Why now?"
"Because if I don't move this weight, I die. And if I move it wrong, I burn. I need ground. This is your ground."
Dmitri smiled faintly. "You always knew how to light fires."
"Will you do it?"
He leans closer, his voice low and sharp.
"I do this, it's not for you. It's for me. I want to matter in here."
Nastya stares into him. "Then build it."
"And if it burns?"
"We sell the ashes."
He grins, the kind of grin that comes before a riot.
"You'll owe me."
She stands to leave. "That's how family works, brother."
He watches her walk out. His breath fogs the glass, but his eyes are fire.
---
The Range
The cold was crisp enough to bite. Viktor sat in the dirt, wiping his rifle barrel, breath fogging in front of him. The wind whispered like a warning.
Then—footsteps.
"Miss me?" Rook grinned, scarf around his neck, shotgun slung lazy across his back.
"You're late."
"I was handcuffed... to a bed... Long story. Whipped cream. No regrets."
Viktor didn't laugh. "You could've been dead."
"I was stuck in cloud 9 briefly. Then I got hungry."
Then—CRACK. Bark exploded inches from Viktor's head. Both men hit the ground.
"Sniper!" Viktor barked.
Rook dove behind a log. "You made friends again?"
"Not mine."
Another shot cracked air. The rounds were tight, fast, methodical.
"Same ones from Warsaw?" Rook asked.
"Maybe. Or someone worse."
Viktor scanned the ridge, eyes slicing through branches. He fired—twice. Missed. Rook bolted sideways. Another bullet tore through his coat but missed flesh.
"They're good," Rook muttered.
"No. They're trained."
Then silence.
They stayed low, heartbeats thunderous.
"Who the fuck was that?" Rook asked.
Viktor didn't answer. Just checked his clip.
Whoever it was, they weren't shooting to warn. They were shooting to kill.
And they were just getting started.