Belyaev soldiers poured through the smoke. I counted fast—twenty, twenty-five, all armed with rifles. Military-grade. They moved in formation, covering angles, professional as any tactical team.
They shot the Sidorov guards first.
Five guards positioned around the auction hall. Five men who'd worked these auctions for years, kept the peace, enforced the neutrality that made The Settling sacred ground.
All five went down in less than ten seconds. Methodical. Efficient. Three shots each—two to the chest, one to the head. Professional kills.
The auctioneer was reaching for something under his podium—panic button, weapon, didn't matter. Three shots. He dropped behind the podium. Didn't get up.
Then Yevgeny Sidorov.
The elderly Pakhan had stood from his seat in the front row, probably trying to understand what was happening, probably thinking this was a mistake that could be corrected. He'd run The Settling for fifteen years. Had kept it neutral. Had made it sacred through sheer force of will and reputation.
Three shots to the chest. He fell backward into his chair. His head lolled. Blood spread across his expensive shirt.
Dead. Just like that. The man who'd created the only neutral ground in the bratva world, murdered in his own auction house.
The room erupted.
People screaming, running, chairs overturning. The Kozlovs drew weapons immediately—Pavel Kozlov was on his feet with a pistol in each hand, firing at the Belyaev soldiers. Two of them went down. The others found cover behind overturned chairs.
The Morozovs moved as a unit toward the east exit. Viktor Morozov's men surrounded him, guns out, creating a protective formation. Efficient. Practiced. They'd drilled for this.
The Sokolovs were slower—old men trying to remember how to move under fire. Viktor Sokolov stumbled. One of his men caught him, hauled him toward the west exit.
The Volkovs—the three men I'd cataloged earlier—were moving too. The oldest giving orders, the other two covering him, all three armed and dangerous.
And the Belyaev soldiers kept coming. Fanning out through the auction hall, guns raised, shooting anyone who fought back.
This was insane. Attacking The Settling violated every code, every tradition, every unspoken agreement that kept the five families from open warfare. This was sacred ground. Neutral territory. The one place where violence wasn't allowed because violence here would destroy the fragile balance that kept total chaos from erupting.
The Belyaevs had just destroyed it anyway.
Beside me, Kostya was on his feet. He had his gun out—a Glock 19, the one he carried everywhere—and was firing controlled shots at the Belyaev soldiers advancing down the center aisle. Two shots, center mass. One soldier dropped. Three more moved to replace him.
"NIKOLAI!" Kostya's voice cut through the chaos. "WE NEED TO GO!"
He was right. Every strategic instinct I had screamed the same thing: LEAVE. This wasn't my fight yet. This was the Belyaevs making a catastrophic mistake that would unite all five familiesagainst them. This was strategic suicide. Smart move was to survive, regroup, prepare for the war that was coming.
Stay out of it. Get to safety. Let the Belyaevs destroy themselves.
Except.
On stage, three Belyaev soldiers were moving toward Sophie.
She was backed against the far wall, small and terrified in that grey dress, her hands up like that would protect her. One soldier grabbed her arm. She fought—twisted, kicked his knee hard enough to make him stumble, clawed at his face with her other hand.
Good. Fight. Don't let them—
Another soldier grabbed her from behind. Wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides. She thrashed, kicking backward, but he was twice her size and trained for this.
The third soldier pulled something from his tactical vest. Black fabric. A hood.
He forced it over her head. Her scream was immediate, muffled by the fabric. Panicked. The sound of someone whose worst fear was coming true.
They were taking her. Taking her into the smoke and chaos and whatever hell the Belyaevs had planned.
"NIKOLAI!" Kostya again, desperate now. "WE GO NOW OR WE DON'T GO!"
