“You buried him,” she says. “Not because he betrayed you, but because he was close to the truth you’ve hidden for decades.”
The elders shift uneasily. A few glance at Igor. A few glance at me. The fracture has begun.
I deliver the final blow. I slide forward the taped confession, the words of one of Igor’s old soldiers who admitted to taking his money, carrying out the orders. The room stills as I press play, the gravelly voice filling the warehouse, recounting every detail of the hit, the payoff, the lies told after.
Igor doesn’t deny it. He leans back in his chair, lips curling into a sneer. “I gave the order,” he says. His eyes find mine, sharp and deliberate.
“Your father carried it out, because her father was sniffing too close to the truth. I did it to protect the Bratva. I would do it again.”
The words burn. Not just for Vivienne, but for me. The admission isn’t only guilt—it’s ownership. He believes what he did was strength. That it makes him untouchable.
I don’t wait for votes. I don’t wait for arguments.
I draw my gun and fire. The shot cracks like thunder, the recoil sharp in my palm. Igor jerks back, a red bloom spreading across his chest. His body slams against the chair before sliding to the floor, lifeless.
The warehouse erupts.
Gunfire ricochets off concrete. Men shout, chairs crash, blood sprays across the steel table. The elders fracture: some dive for cover, others draw their weapons. My men are alreadymoving, returning fire, cutting down those loyal to Igor. The room is chaos, deafening and close.
A bullet shatters the wall inches from Vivienne’s head. I pull her against me, shielding her with my body as I fire back, dropping one of Igor’s loyalists where he stands.
Misha staggers, hit in the shoulder, blood soaking his coat. I grab him by the collar, dragging him toward the exit as my men lay down cover fire. Smoke fills the air, stinging my eyes, choking my lungs.
We push through the chaos, out into the freezing night. The car waits, engine running. I shove Misha into the back seat, blood still pouring, and slide behind the wheel. Vivienne throws herself into the passenger seat, hair wild, eyes blazing.
The windshield is cracked, the tires screech on ice as I slam us into gear and tear down the road. My knuckles are raw, bloodied on the steering wheel, but I don’t loosen my grip.
“There’s no going back now,” I say, voice low, steady despite the pounding in my chest.
Vivienne doesn’t look away from the smoke rising in the rearview mirror, the warehouse fading into black behind us. Her voice is calm when she answers. “I don’t want to.”
***
I drive until the road narrows to nothing but ice and forest, until the smoke is far behind us, and the only sound is the roar of the engine and the hammer of my pulse. Misha groans in the back, one of my men pressing a cloth hard to his wound, trying to stem the blood.
Vivienne sits motionless beside me, hands folded in her lap. Not trembling. Not broken. Her face is pale in the dash light, but her eyes burn with the same fire I saw in her when she laid Igor bare before the elders.
This is what she wanted. Not survival. Not safety. Justice, revenge—call it what you will. But it is hers now, as much as it is mine.
I glance at her, at the steel in her posture, the defiance in her silence, and I feel the truth settle in my bones.
This isn’t only about vengeance. Not anymore.
The Bratva elders have lived too long in the shadow of men like Igor, clinging to fear as their only currency. They want to keep us locked in wars we can’t win: endless blood against state agencies, double-crossing politicians, international rivals who never stay buried. They drag us toward destruction with their outdated alliances, their hunger for power that brings nothing but heat on our heads.
If I follow them, if I let their ghosts dictate the future, the Bratva won’t last another decade. It will tear itself apart.
I don’t want to destroy the Bratva. I want to reshape it. Burn out the rot. Build something leaner, sharper. Power that isn’t bought by fear alone, but by respect and brutal clarity. Loyalty that doesn’t come from terror, but from knowing there is no stronger hand to follow.
Killing Igor was the first step.
Beside me, Vivienne turns her head, finally meeting my eyes. In hers, I see the reflection of what I already know: she’s not just here for her father anymore. She’s here because she wants to watch the old order fall. She wants to see what comes after.
So do I.
Tomorrow we count the dead. Tomorrow we deal with the elders who remain. But tonight, with blood drying on my knuckles and the road stretching dark ahead, I know we’ve already crossed the point of no return.
Chapter Twenty-Five - Vivienne
