Sergei looks back at Viktor, his eyes narrowing, the humor gone. “Tell me. When Andrei lifted your eyelid and checked your pulse on the concrete. Did you know it was me who ordered him to keep you alive?”
Viktor exhales, controlled, like heat off steel. His hand brushes the knife at his side, the leather of the grip creaking. “Viktor,” Lev murmurs, a warning.
Sergei steps closer, testing the line. “I could've let you die. One word and you would've stopped breathing. I gave you a chance to kneel. And you wasted the gift.”
Viktor’s voice drops, turning low. “You shouldn't have come here.”
Sergei’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. “Is that a threat, nephew?”
“No.” Viktor lifts his chin, meeting his uncle’s gaze with a terrifying clarity. “That’s a promise. You wanted these docks so badly you spilled family blood for them. You tried to kill me for the harbor, Sergei. Now look around. You’re standing on my territory, and you’re the only one who doesn't realize it's empty.”
Two of Viktor’s men move at once. Sergei’s men mirror them. Wind cuts across the pier, and the cold water slaps against the pylons.
“Put down your weapons,” Viktor orders.
Sergei sneers, his face contorting. “You think you command this ground? You think my men listen to a whelp?”
Viktor doesn't blink. He keeps his eyes locked on Sergei.
“I’m not talking to yours,” Viktor says, the silence of his own men deepening behind him. “I’m talking to mine.”
A pause stretches out. Three of Sergei’s men hesitate. Two keep their aim raised, their knuckles white. The others glance between Viktor and Sergei, measuring the old king against the new.
Viktor closes the distance. “You came here to measure me,” he says. “Now you have.”
Sergei bares his teeth. “What makes you think you walk away from this?”
Viktor looks past him, straight at the guards. “Because they already know I’m the rightful heir. Not the man who poisoned his brother’s house and spilled blood on our block.”
The hesitant guards shift. One lowers his gun a fraction, the barrel dipping toward the concrete. Another flicks a glance at Petrov, then drops his eyes.
Sergei snaps, “Raise your weapons. That is an order.”
The guard nearest him swallows, his throat working. “With respect, Sergei, the streets are already talking.”
“Talking?” Sergei spits the word like poison. “About what?”
“That Viktor lives.” The guard’s grip tightens, then loosens. “He is the rightful Pakhan.”
A muscle jumps in Sergei’s jaw. Viktor steps closer, his presence expanding until he seems to swallow the light from the sodium lamps. “My father trusted you. You killed him for it. Tonight I finish what you started.”
The middle guard lets his weapon fall. The metal clatters against the concrete, the sound echoing over the water. Sergei whips toward him, his face twisting. “Pick that up.”
The guard doesn't move. He meets Viktor’s eyes instead, ignoring the man he was supposed to protect. “You stand after a bullet like that. Men notice.”
Viktor’s voice stays even. “Put down your weapons.”
Two more obey, their barrels dipping toward the ground. Sergei turns back, breathing hard, his chest heaving under hisheavy coat. “This means nothing. A few wavering dogs? You think this is victory?”
“It means the city is listening again,” Viktor says, his gaze never wavering. “And you are running out of men willing to die for a ghost.”
Sergei turns, expecting his remaining men to form up. No one moves. “Point your guns,” Viktor says quietly.
A beat of heavy, salt-chilled silence passes. Then, three barrels lift and fix on Sergei. Sergei freezes, the blood draining from his face. “You traitorous sons of?—”
“They were never yours,” Viktor says. “They were Father’s. Now they are mine.”
Sergei looks from face to face and finds nothing left but the end of his reign. “I’ll kill you for this, Vitya. I’ll?—”
