Do not intervene.
Do not blow cover.
His jaw tightened.
He hesitated.
Then he stopped advancing — positioning himself instead at a distance where he could react instantly if needed.
Good.
I had already recorded everything.
The encrypted comm earpiece remained active.
Microphone feed transmitted in real time.
His voice.
His confession.
His open admission that in just a few weeks he would assume leadership over all five California families
His claim of ownership stake in the club.
His threats. His assault.
All captured. All timestamped. Admissible.
He bent down slowly, picked up the black business card from the floor, and tucked it back inside his pocket like he was reclaiming authority.
“We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other now, Elena,” he said.
Then he turned.
He took one step.
Two.
Before he could make it further—
A shadow blocked his path.
A wall of muscle and controlled violence stepped directly in front of him.
Six feet four.
Broad shoulders filling a black cashmere coat that fell perfectly along a powerful frame.
Dark hair swept back with precision.
His eyes were the same.
Slate-gray. Intense. Predatory.
Unchanged.
Ruslan Baranov.
