We drive toward the dawn, towardhome. I close my eyes, feeling the first gentle fluttering of the twins, warm and safe in their haven within me.
The future, however bloody its foundation, is secure.
33
MATVEI
Isit, not in the cold silence of the office I usually occupy, but in the soft stillness of the nighttime nursery. The air smells faintly of powder and warm milk, a scent utterly foreign before yet is now warm and familiar. I watch the twins, my son and daughter, asleep in their matching cribs, as I have often done since their birth four months before. Their chests rise and fall in perfect, tiny rhythm.
This is the new architecture of my life, the empire I risked everything to protect.
The blood that stained my hands when I endedSamson'stwisted life has long been washed away, but the memory is a permanent, corrosive discoloration beneath the skin. It’s the cost of entry to this room, the toll I paid to keep these two safe, to keep Sonya whole. I look at my hand—the one that held the gun, the one that pulled the trigger and ended my own brother’s life—and I feel nothing but a stark finality. He made his choice. He chose the rot.
Since his death, I’ve had my most trusted people picking apart the mess Samson left behind. We’ve traced the payments, thecoded messages, the shifts in territorial aggression. We followed the tendrils ofSamson'sambition that lead not just to a power grab, but totreason.The betrayal was deeper than fraternal jealousy; it was a strategic, calculated act of sabotage against the Volkov Bratva.
The answer that came back was a cold spike of recognition: theAbramovich Bratva.
It wasn’t just a simple alliance; it was a completeco-opting. Samson had been playing a long game, preparing to deliver the entire Volkov operation—our legitimate fronts, our cash flow, and our territories—to the Abramovich family on a silver platter. They had promised him the full title and a seat at the table once I was out of the way.
Samson, in his psychopathy and lifelong hatred, believed killing me would not only satisfy his rage but solidify his claim as a mafia don, a perverse echo of the old-world succession laws my father kept from him.
Genevieve Mancini was a loose end I tied up with less ceremony than a discarded receipt.She wasn't worth the cost of a bullet.Weeks after her arrest, she wooed a guard and somehow escaped. My people found her trying to flee to Mexico with forged papers andSamson'semergency cash fund. She’s now locked away somewhere in the frozen North in a facility that requires no signature for entry and offers no signature for release. She will live the rest of her life in silent, forgotten isolation, the ultimate punishment for a narcissist: being rendered utterly invisible. The Mancini family has been notified—their disgrace is complete, their influence now a smear in the dirt. They are neutralized.
But the Abramovich heads—Dmitri and his son, Roman—are still breathing, still scheming, still operating under the assumption thatSamson'sfailure was merely a setback, not a death blow to their plot. They believe the Volkov Bratva is now vulnerable, distracted by internal conflict. They think they can swoop in, claim the spoils, and rewrite the narrative.
They are wrong.
I rise from the nursery rocking chair. Every detail of the room has been calibrated for silence and protection.Sonya, asleep in our bed, murmurs sleepily as I kiss her softly, then head downstairs.
It is time to leave our sanctuary and perform the last necessary surgery for my organization. For our future.
Downstairs, Evgeny waits for me by the steel-backed front door. His face is a road map of concern, but his posture is all business.
“Everything is in place,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Dmitri and Roman are at the old warehouse down on South Walcott. They believe they’re meeting with our neutral peace broker to discuss a temporary truce. They are alone, save for two drivers.”
I nod. “Good. The other families?”
“TheKalnikovshave publicly sworn fidelity. TheStepanovsare withdrawing from the city, consolidating their operations in Miami. They know better than to challenge stability. Your swift action against Samson proved that the strength of the center still holds. The rest will fall in line once the Abramovich are taken care of.”
This is the key. Therealchallenge is not the criminal enterprise, but the obstacle to legitimacy. For years, I’ve beenguiding the Volkov Bratva toward a future where our assets are diversified across real estate, tech ventures, and green energy. In this future, my children will never have to worry about a midnight knock. However, that future requires undisputed and unquestioned stability. The Abramovich family, with their old-world vendettas and reckless, violent methods, represents the past I’m trying to bury. They’re too volatile, too visible, and their ties to Samson make them a perpetual point of weakness.If they live, they talk. If they live, they plot revenge. If they live, the city remains a contested zone, and my business cannot fully transition into the light.
We slip into the armored sedan.
“How long?” I ask Evgeny.
“Thirty minutes, allowing for traffic.”
I close my eyes and review the facts one last time. Samson, dead by my hand, a traitor. Genevieve, permanently silenced. The Volkov internal structure has been purged save for the remaining loyal. The surrounding families are either subservient or in retreat. All that remains is the head of the serpent. I must sever it now, cleanly and completely, so the body of the Volkov organization can heal and mutate into something new.
The warehouse is dark when we pull up, save for the lights on in the main area where Dmitri and Roman Abramovich wait, two silhouettes in the gloom. Their drivers stand about twenty feet away, hands visible, wary.
Dmitri, a man whose face is a road map of bad decisions and old scars, manages a false, greasy smile. “Matvei. Thank you for agreeing to this. A sensible man knows when to talk peace.”
His son, Roman, is younger and sharper, his eyes darting constantly, the eyes of a predator always looking for a way to gain the upper hand. He looks at me with pure, undiluted dislike, a man who sees my current distress as an opportunity.
I stroll toward them, the tap of the soles of my shoes loud in the silent warehouse.
“There is no peace to discuss, Dmitri,” I state, my voice calm with a lack of inflection.
