I’m used to the pressure. It’s baked into this job. It’s expected when you’rePakhan. The weight of dozens of lives hangs on your every decision. Men live and die by your word. Deals are struck in blood. Trust is a razor blade held between your teeth before shoving it between an opponent’s ribs.
But this? This is different. This isdeliberate.
Whoever’s doing this isn’t just some street-level rival trying to expand their turf and being stupid enough to think my Bratva is an easy target. This isn’t a random punk trying to make a name for himself.
This is someone with reach. With actual information that’s fucking me over time and time again with theaudacityto come aftermyBratva knowing full well what the consequences should be and not caring in the slightest.
This is calculated chaos, and it’s working.
Lev hasn’t said another word, but I can feel the tension pulsing off him in waves as we roll through the industrial district and onto the backroads that wind toward the compound. His jaw tics. His fingers twitch on his thigh near the holster at his hip, like he’s wishing someone would give him an excuse to draw.
I know the feeling all too well.
We pass an old gas station where we used to meet informants a few years ago. It’s shuttered now, boarded up and spray painted over with local gang tags that have no meaning in my world other than a sign of a pest needing to be knocked down a few pegs.
I mark it with my eyes anyway. Anything familiar is worth watching twice these days.
Finally, I break the silence. “Do we have any eyes on the Romanian deal?”
Lev nods once out of the corner of my eye. “Matvey said the package made it past the border checkpoint. Last he heard, the container’s been offloaded and was supposed to arrive on Friday.”
“Supposed to,” I repeat.
He doesn’t respond.
Supposed todoesn’t mean shit anymore. Not when supply chains are being hit mid-transfer or when customs paperwork magically disappears overnight.
I sigh, flicking on the turn signal with more force than necessary.
We pull into the driveway of the compound just as the sun is beginning to touch the tops of the dead trees sprawled at the property’s edge. The guards at the front gate wave us in without question, eyes sharp.
I nod once as we pass.
Pulling up to the front of the compound, I park in the usual spot and kill the engine.
Neither of us moves right away.
Lev exhales like he’s trying to smother his thoughts before they come out. I glance over at him, then out the window toward the compound—my fortress, my home, my kingdom. For the first time in a long while, it doesn’t feel entirely mine. Not when Iknow there are cracks running beneath the surface, shuddering the foundation.
“I want everyone back in tonight,” I say. “The entireSovet.We’re doing a full sweep. Comms, routes, loyalty checks. I want every weak link found.”
Lev’s already pulling out his phone before I finish the sentence. “Done.”
My eyes swing backto the compound, a silent sentinel in the heart of Moscow. Stone-built with high, reinforced windows facing the front of the property, their glass reflecting the warped shapes of the rare, nearly cloudless sky beyond. Cameras and floodlights are stationed at every corner of the perimeter.
I’m already in no mood to face whatever bullshit is waiting for me once I step in through those front doors. No doubt, another fire will land in my lap and I’ll have no choice but to turn around and head back out to deal with it.
Such is the way of life asPakhan.
I push the door open and step out, breathing in the slightly chilled air.
Winter’s been dragging its feet this year, too proud to let spring claim its place. The cold clings like a warning. Normally, I wouldn’t give a damn about the weather—cold is a constant in this country, but freshly fallen snow makes it harder to cover blood stains and even harder to bury bodies when needed.
And right now, bodies are piling up faster than holes we can dig.
Lev falls into step behind me, boots crunching against gravel dusted with slush. We move up the front steps and into thecompound through the wide double doors. Heat blasts us as we enter, but it does little to thaw the tension coiled inside my chest. I shrug off my coat, toss it on the nearby hook, and roll my shoulders to keep from feeling like I’m wearing iron chains.
The scents of cigar smoke and lemon oil hang in the air. The floors gleam, recently polished and spotless. Everything is pristine, sterile, unlike the chaos outside.
