A dog at Viktor’s side barks laughter and slaps a cigar between his teeth.
“That’s right. Do you fuck your own daughter? She looks just like her dead mommy,” he jeers.
He doesn’t even get his full grin in place before Dante raises his gun and puts a bullet clean through his skull.
Silence caves in on itself.
Then chaos.
Guns snap up from every side—Orlov, De Luca, mercenaries, old soldiers.
The illusion shatters.
These men don’t want peace—they want an excuse to kill.
“Relax, boys,” Viktor says, hands raised, voice soft, utterly in control.
He steps lightly over the corpse as two men drag it away, leaving a smear behind.
“It’s all right, Dante,” Viktor adds with a half-smile. “I would have done the same.”
He offers Dante a fresh cigar like they’re brothers sharing a private joke.
Dante takes it without a word.
Viktor exhales slowly. “Let’s get to the girl and leave the past where it belongs.”
But Dante laughs—quiet and humourless.
“The past,” he repeats. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Viktor’s jaw flexes, the only tell he ever gives.
“Don’t start,” he warns.
“You started it the day you fucked my fiance,” Dante says, every word placed with precision. “And again when you forced my hand to end her life.”
A low hiss of shock whispers around the circle.
Of course it comes back to a woman.
Viktor lifts his chin. “I would’ve kept her alive. That was your choice.”
“You took her from me,” Dante replies. “Same thing.”
The room goes still.
Suddenly every man understands:
This is not about their alliance at all.
This is about a woman who died for both their sins.
Viktor’s tone drops to something ancient.
“She loved me, Dante.”
Dante leans forward. “She choseme, Viktor. And you couldn’t stand it.”
