The line disconnects.
I slowly lower the phone back onto the desk and remain still as the quiet returns to the office. The war that began long before Ivan ever appeared has finally reached its end.
And tomorrow, I will finish it.
The waterfront is quiet when I arrive. Winter has emptied this section of the harbor long before midnight. Rusted cranes loom above the old industrial buildings like skeletons against the sky, while broken streetlights throw uneven pools of yellow across the snow-covered pavement. The ocean pushes quietly againstthe docks beyond the warehouse district, the low sound of water moving against wood and metal filling the cold air.
Snow moves slowly across the ground, gathering along the edges of the empty lots and abandoned loading platforms. Viktor chose the location well. Remote, controlled, and easy to secure.
I step from the car while the door closes behind me with a muted thud. My men spread out instinctively along the perimeter of the lot, their movements quiet as they take positions near the vehicles and the outer edges of the building.
None of them speaks. They understand what tonight is. This isn’t a negotiation. This is the end of something that began long before any of them entered the organization.
A second set of headlights appears at the far end of the lot a few minutes later, the beams cutting through the falling snow before the vehicle slows and comes to a stop near the opposite side of the warehouse entrance.
Viktor’s men step out first. They position themselves carefully along the edge of the lot, mirroring the distance my own security maintains behind me. Hands remain close to weapons, but no one reaches for them. The tension between the two groups remains controlled.
Everyone here understands the same thing. This fight belongs to two men.
The final door opens. Viktor Sokolov steps out into the cold night.
Time has changed him, but not enough to erase recognition. His hair has more gray than I remember, and the lines around his eyes run deeper now, but his posture remains the same.Straight-backed and confident. The quiet authority of someone who has spent decades within the Bratva. The man who once sat at my father’s table. The man I once called uncle.
Viktor slowly closes the distance between us while snow gathers along the shoulders of his coat. When he stops a few steps away, his eyes move curiously over my face.
“You’ve grown into him,” he remarks.
The reference requires no explanation.Nikolai.My father’s name remains unspoken between us.
I study him for a moment before answering. “You didn’t.”
A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth, as if the remark amuses him more than it offends him.
“Still direct,” Viktor notes. “Your father always believed that was your strongest trait.”
My hands remain relaxed at my sides while I hold his gaze.
“My father also believed you left the Bratva world.”
Viktor gives a quiet breath that almost resembles laughter. “Your father believed many things.”
The cold air moves between us while the distant sound of water against the docks echoes faintly through the dark.
“You killed him,” I continue. There’s no anger in my voice, only certainty.
Viktor tilts his head slightly. “Yes.”
He admits it immediately, with no explanation and no attempt to deny it.
“You arranged the attack on me as well,” I add, the alley returning to my mind, along with the night Rowan stepped into my life.
Viktor’s eyes narrow with brief interest. “That one should have succeeded,” he answers calmly. “Your survival complicated things.”
The memory flashes briefly through my mind, cold pavement beneath me and the taste of blood in my mouth, while Rowan’s voice cut through the darkness, refusing to leave me there.
“You miscalculated,” I remark.
“Yes,” Viktor replies. “I rarely do.”
