The helicopter ride to the mainland was silent. Kirill sat across from me, reviewing security updates on his tablet, wisely choosing not to comment on my mood. The pilot navigated us through the early morning mist, and I watched the island shrink behind us until it was nothing but a speck on the blue horizon.
She was on that speck. My wife. My obsession. The woman who'd somehow become essential to my existence in ways I still didn't fully understand.
I'd never missed anyone before. Had never allowed myself to form attachments that could become liabilities. My father had taught me that lesson early—love was weakness, sentiment was danger, the only loyalty that mattered was the kind you bought with money and fear.
But sitting in that helicopter, watching the distance grow between us, I felt something I could only describe as absence. A hollow space behind my ribs where she should be.
Pathetic. The great Vasily Chernov, undone by a woman he'd known for barely a month.
I pulled out my phone and focused on what I could control.
***
New York was chaos.
The Trophy Room had been cleaned up by the time I arrived—blood scrubbed from floors, broken glass replaced, bullet holes plastered over. But the damage wasn't just physical. Three men dead. Four more in the hospital, two of them critical. And the whispers spreading through the organization like poison: the Pakhan had been absent, distracted, more interested in his new wife than in protecting his people.
I held a meeting that first night in the private room at Marcello's. Every lieutenant, every captain, every man with significant responsibility in the organization. They filled the space wall to wall, their faces a mix of anger, fear, and carefully hidden curiosity.
They wanted to see what I'd become. Whether the rumors were true.
I stood at the head of the room and let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. Then I spoke.
"Three of our brothers are dead." My voice was ice. "Viktor Morozov. Anton Petrov. Yuri Sokolov. Men who served this family with loyalty and courage. Men who deserved betterthan to be gunned down because someone in this room sold them out."
The tension ratcheted higher. I saw men exchange glances, saw the guilty fear that flickered across certain faces.
"We have a leak," I continued. "Someone has been feeding information to Pankratov. Shipment schedules. Cash pickup times. Security rotations. Whoever it is knew exactly when and where to hit us."
"Boss." Dmitri stepped forward, his face tight with barely contained rage. "Let me find them. I'll tear through every—"
"No." I held up a hand. "This requires precision, not rage. The mole has been careful. Sophisticated. They won't be found through brute force."
"Then how?"
"We set a trap." I looked around the room, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "We feed different information to different sources. When Pankratov acts on it, we'll know exactly who betrayed us."
It was a strategy I'd used before—compartmentalized intelligence, each version slightly different, designed to identify the source of any leak. It required patience. Time. Trust in the process.
All things I was running short on.
"In the meantime," I said, "I want extra security on every operation. Double guards on the clubs, the warehouses, the distribution points. No one moves anything without authorization from Semyon or me. Anyone who breaks protocol answers to me personally."
The men nodded, some with enthusiasm, others with visible relief that they weren't under immediate suspicion. Idismissed them with a wave and waited until the room emptied before letting the mask slip.
Semyon appeared at my elbow. "That went well."
"Did it?"
"They needed to see you. To know you're still in control." He handed me a vodka I hadn't asked for. "The whispers will quiet now."
"Until the next attack."
"Which is why we find the mole. Quickly." He sat across from me, his pale eyes sharp with calculation. "I've been running the analysis you suggested. Tracking information flow, looking for patterns. There are four possibilities—men with access to the compromised data who also have means to communicate with the Armenians."
"Names?"
"Dmitri's nephew, Pavel. He handles logistics coordination, would have known the cash pickup schedule." Semyon ticked off on his fingers. "Roman Volkov, one of our port managers. Lucas Federov, who runs security rotation for the clubs. And Alexei Morozov—Viktor's brother."
