It doesn't make the betrayal feel any smaller.
The door to my office opens. I don't turn around. I know the sound of my brothers' footsteps the way I know my own heartbeat.
Alexei enters first, his energy preceding him like a weather front. I can hear the particular cadence of his walk, the restless rhythm that never quite settles.
Zakhar follows. Quieter. More contained. The silence around him dense enough to feel.
"Brother," Alexei says, and I hear him throw himself onto one of the leather couches. "Your message sounded serious. What's happening?"
I allow myself a moment before turning to face them. A moment to remember.
The first years we became a family. Three boys against the world, surviving Moscow's streets through cunning and violence and an unshakeable bond that transcended blood. We had nothing but each other. No money. No power. No future except the one we carved with our own hands.
We built an empire from that nothing. Built it together, brick by bloody brick.
And now everything is about to change.
Either the attraction we all feel for Victoria will tear us apart, or it will unite us. Either we become four against the world, or we fracture into pieces that can never be reassembled.
I don't know which outcome frightens me more.
I turn from the window. Cross to the cabinet where I keep the good vodka. Pull out the bottle and three glasses.
Zakhar's eyebrow rises slightly as I pour. It's not even noon.
"If you're bringing out the Beluga this early," Alexei says, watching me with sharp eyes despite his casual posture, "this is more than a status report."
"It is." I hand them each a glass, then settle into the chair across from the couch. The leather is cool against my back. "But let's handle the pressing business first."
I look at Zakhar. "Eryan Nis. Any progress?"
He shakes his head, taking a measured sip of vodka. "No chatter on the streets. The Albanian hit was the last known operation. Whoever he is, he's gone quiet."
"Or he's planning something bigger," Alexei offers.
I turn to him. "The warehouse thief. The one with the Valkov tattoo. Any leads?"
Alexei's expression shifts. More serious now. "I have something. Following up on it. Nothing concrete yet." He pauses, swirls the vodka in his glass. "Could be random. Guy sees a cool tattoo somewhere, decides to copy it. Doesn't know what it means."
We all share a look. The same thought passing between us without words.
It wasn't random.
The man in our warehouse wearing Valkov's mark. Ramiz Krasniqi's trying to ambush us in his house. The stolen shipments. The increasing pressure on all sides.
These pieces are connect. We just haven't found the pattern yet.
"Put pressure on the streets," I tell Alexei. "Now more than ever, we need to understand what's happening. Because this is no longer just about us."
Zakhar goes still. That particular stillness that means his full attention has locked onto something.
"What do you mean?" he asks quietly.
I look down at the vodka in my hand. Clear and cold and burning. Like the truth I'm about to speak.
My throat tightens. The words feel like glass shards.
"Victoria told me something last night." I have to stop. Breathe. Force myself to continue. "Something that happened to her when she was a child."
