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The room is cold, dimly lit, and the only sound is the muffled groans of the man tied to the chair. Blood drips from his nose, mixing with sweat as it runs down his face, soaking his torn shirt. His breathing is ragged, shallow, as though he’s clinging to life with every wheezing breath. I lean back against the wall, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold before me with cold detachment.

Oleg stands over the man, his broad frame casting a shadow across the trembling figure. Oleg has always enjoyed this part of the job—the thrill of breaking someone down piece by piece, pushing them to the edge of their humanity. I’ve always admired his dedication to getting the job done, no matter how messy it becomes.

The man’s name is Viktor, and he’s a small-time dealer who thought he could skim off the top of one of our shipments and walk away without consequences. I can’t help but wonder what goes through someone’s mind when they think they can cross the Bratva and get away with it. It’s laughable, really.

Oleg delivers another punch, a sickening crack echoing through the room as Viktor’s head snaps to the side. He groans, blood spilling from his mouth. There’s a moment of silence before Oleg grabs him by the hair, yanking his head back so their eyes meet.

“Who are you working for?” Oleg’s voice is low, menacing, dripping with the promise of more pain.

Viktor’s mouth opens and closes, gasping for air, but no words come out. I can tell he’s nearing his limit, his body slumped, his spirit broken. Oleg doesn’t care about that. He’ll keep going until he gets what we need or until Viktor’s nothing more than a bleeding corpse in this chair.

I glance at my watch, barely paying attention to the scene. We’ve been here for nearly an hour, and Viktor still hasn’t talked. It’s not uncommon for people to hold out this long, but I’m starting to lose patience.

“Oleg,” I call out, my voice cutting through the heavy silence.

Oleg pauses, turning to face me, his fist still clenched in Viktor’s hair. “Yes, Boss?”

“Wrap it up,” I say, my tone cold, indifferent. “He’s not going to tell us anything.”

Oleg grunts in acknowledgment before letting go of Viktor’s hair, causing the man to slump forward, nearly unconscious. He won’t last much longer, not with the way his body is shaking, his face a bloody mess.

I step forward, my eyes scanning Viktor’s broken form. The man is pathetic, weak, everything I despise. There’s no remorse, no hesitation as I pull out my gun and press the barrel against the side of his head.

“Last chance,” I say, my voice low but sharp. “Who are you working for?”

Viktor trembles, his lips quivering, but he doesn’t respond. His eyes, glazed over with fear and pain, tell me everything I need to know.

He’s too scared to talk. Or too loyal to someone else. It doesn’t matter now.

Without a second thought, I pull the trigger. The gunshot rings out in the confined space, and Viktor’s body goes limp, collapsing in the chair. Blood splatters across the floor, pooling beneath him as life drains from his eyes.

Oleg steps back, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Guess he wasn’t going to crack after all.”

I holster the gun, turning away from the scene as though it’s nothing more than a minor inconvenience. This is what I do. This is my life. Death, blood, and loyalty to the Bratva. It’s all I’ve ever known, and it’s all I’ll ever care about.

At least, that’s what I used to think.

Lately, I’ve been finding it harder to focus. The memories of that night with Jennifer still linger in the back of my mind, gnawing at me like a bad itch I can’t shake. I don’t understand why I keep thinking about her. It was just one night. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. She left, and I should’ve forgotten about her by now.

I haven’t.

I clench my fists, trying to push the thoughts away, focusing instead on the cold, hard reality of the business in front of me. That’s what matters. That’s what’s always mattered.

“I’ll get the clean-up crew,” Oleg says, snapping me out of my thoughts. He’s already pulling out his phone, calling in our team to dispose of Viktor’s body.

I nod, my expression unreadable as I walk toward the door. My footsteps echo against the concrete floor, the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. As I leave, I can still hear the faint ringing of the gunshot in my ears. It doesn’t bother me anymore. Death is just another part of the job.

As I step out into the night, breathing in the cool air, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s changed. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t stop thinking about Jennifer. Either way, I need to get her out of my head, or it’ll be a distraction I can’t afford.

I glance down at my phone, pulling up her name in my contacts. Part of me wants to call her, to demand answers for why she left, why she thought she could walk away from me so easily.

Instead, I shove the phone back into my pocket, forcing myself to focus on what really matters.

The Bratva. Revenge. Power.

***

The next morning, I wake early, long before the rest of the city stirs to life. The penthouse is silent, the soft hum of the heating system the only sound breaking through the stillness. I sit at the kitchen island, a steaming cup of black coffee in hand, eyes scanning through today’s agenda. The Bratva doesn’t sleep, and neither do I.

Oleg texts me: En route.

I toss my phone aside, finishing the last sip of my coffee before heading down to the building’s underground garage. The morning is cold, the air biting against my skin as I step inside the black SUV where Oleg waits in the driver’s seat.

“Morning,” he says gruffly, nodding as I climb in.

I nod back. Oleg is one of the few men I trust implicitly. He’s never wavered, never questioned me. His loyalty is as steadfast as mine to the Bratva.

“Everything lined up?” I ask, leaning back in the seat as we pull out of the garage.

“Yeah. Got the men ready for tonight’s operation.” Oleg’s eyes flicker toward me in the rearview mirror. “We’ll take care of it cleanly. No loose ends.”

“Good. Serge?” I ask.

Oleg’s jaw tightens for a brief second before he responds. “He’s… still a problem.”

I grit my teeth. Serge has always been the wild card, unpredictable and reckless. After the debacle at the club, I’ve tried to get him back on track, but his mind is still trapped in the past—grieving Anthony, chasing ghosts that don’t exist.

“Where is he now?” I ask, my tone harder than intended.

“Last I checked, holed up in some bar. Drunk.”

I sigh, the weight of responsibility is heavier today. I can’t afford Serge’s recklessness, not with the Italians sniffing around, looking for any weakness to exploit.

“When we finish the meeting, find him. Bring him to me.”

Oleg nods, understanding the gravity of the situation. Serge may be my brother, but I won’t hesitate to deal with him if he continues down this path of self-destruction. It’s my job to maintain order within the family, no matter what.

We arrive at one of the warehouse sites, a shipping front we use to bring in goods. I step out of the car, walking through the entrance with Oleg close behind. Inside, the men are already at work, unloading crates. The scent of sweat and metal hangs thick in the air.

I pass a group of men handling one of the containers. One of them fumbles, nearly dropping the crate. My eyes narrow.

“Watch what you’re doing,” I snap.

The man, Pavel, looks up, visibly startled. He’s new, and it shows in his sloppy movements. He straightens immediately, rushing to correct his mistake, but the damage is done.

“Come here,” I order, my voice low but deadly.

Pavel hesitates, then steps forward, his face pale. He stands before me, trembling slightly, eyes darting nervously around the warehouse.

“You drop that crate, and it could cost us millions. You know what that means?” I ask, my voice cold.

Pavel shakes his head, swallowing hard.

“It means you’re useless to me if you can’t handle basic tasks,” I continue. “Useless men don’t survive long in this world.”

Pavel’s face drains of all color, fear radiating off him in waves.

“Timur…,” Oleg begins, but I hold up a hand, silencing him.

“No excuses,” I say, glaring down at Pavel. “Get out of my sight. You have one chance left.”

Pavel stumbles backward, nodding rapidly as he scrambles to get back to work. I don’t tolerate incompetence. The Bratva is built on precision and efficiency, and anyone who threatens that doesn’t last long.

I move on, pushing Pavel out of my mind. Oleg falls into step beside me.

“You’re hard on the new ones,” he says quietly.

“They need it,” I reply. “If they can’t handle pressure, they’re a liability.”

“True,” Oleg agrees. “Sometimes they need time to adjust.”

I glance at him. Oleg is the only man who can speak openly to me, offer his opinion without fear of retribution. Anyone else, I’d have cut down by now.

The day continues like any other, overseeing shipments, coordinating with the men. Business is business, and it runs smoothly, as it should. As efficient as everything is, there’s still a restlessness in me—a constant irritation that gnaws at the back of my mind. Jennifer.

I shake my head, trying to shove the thought away. She’s nothing. A distraction. I don’t have time for distractions.

After hours of overseeing operations, Oleg and I head to Serge’s location. The bar is in one of the rougher parts of the city, a place where men come to drown their sorrows and forget their troubles. I walk inside, scanning the dimly lit room until I spot Serge slumped over at the bar.

He’s a mess—eyes bloodshot, clothes wrinkled, a glass of whiskey clutched tightly in his hand. He doesn’t notice me until I’m standing right beside him.

“Serge.”

He glances up, bleary-eyed, barely registering my presence.

“Timur,” he slurs, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Come to join the party?”

I grab his arm, pulling him up from the stool with force. “We’re leaving.”

Serge tries to pull away, but he’s too weak, too drunk to resist. Oleg moves in to help me drag him out of the bar.

“What the hell are you doing, Serge?” I snap once we’re outside, pushing him up against the wall. “You’re throwing everything away.”

He laughs bitterly, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “What’s the point, Timur? We can’t even find out who killed Anthony. What’s the point of all this power if it can’t fix anything?”

His words hit harder than I’d like to admit.

Serge’s bitter laugh grates on my nerves as I shove him harder against the brick wall. His eyes challenge mine with a flicker of defiance, but mostly, I see the emptiness there—the hopelessness. It pisses me off.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I snarl, my fists tightening around the fabric of his jacket. “You think drinking yourself into oblivion will bring Anthony back? You think this is going to fix anything?”

Serge tries to push me off, but his movements are sluggish, uncoordinated. His breath reeks of alcohol, and the stench only fuels my anger. “You don’t get it, Timur. You never did,” he slurs, shoving me weakly in the chest. “You’ve always been the good one, the one who had all the answers. Well, guess what? You don’t have shit.”

My patience snaps. I slam him back against the wall again, harder this time. “Don’t you dare act like I haven’t tried to help you. I’ve given you every opportunity to pull yourself together, but you just keep fucking up.”

Serge’s lip curls into a sneer. “Help? You don’t even know what help is. You’re too busy playing the coldhearted boss, pretending like nothing gets to you.”

His words sting more than I’d like to admit, but I don’t let it show. I lean in closer, my voice dangerously low. “You don’t know shit about what gets to me.”

Serge shoves at me again, this time with more force, and I stumble back a step. His fists ball at his sides, and I can see the anger brewing in his eyes now, cutting through the drunken haze. “You think you’re better than me, Timur? You think because you wear that fucking suit and boss everyone around, you’re invincible?”

I don’t back down, stepping right back into his space. “I don’t think I’m better. I know I am. Because I don’t let my emotions control me. I don’t spiral into self-pity like you.”

Serge’s fist swings toward my face, and I barely manage to dodge it. The punch lands awkwardly on my shoulder, and I retaliate immediately, slamming my fist into his gut. He doubles over, gasping for breath, but before I can land another hit, Oleg’s voice cuts through the tension.

“Enough!” Oleg shouts, grabbing me by the shoulders and pulling me back. “Both of you, enough!”

Serge stumbles, clutching his stomach, and spits on the ground, glaring at me through hooded eyes. “Fuck you, Timur.”

I lunge toward him again, but Oleg steps between us, his massive frame keeping me from reaching Serge. “I said enough,” he growls, looking between us with disappointment. “You’re brothers, for fuck’s sake.”

The bar door creaks open, and the bartender—a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a nervous expression—steps outside. His eyes flicker between us, clearly assessing the damage before speaking up.

“Uh, I think it’s best if you all leave. Now.”

I can see the fear in his eyes, even though he’s trying to be firm. He knows who we are. This bar has been under Bratva protection for years. It’s practically ours without the paperwork, but we don’t need it on record. It’s our spot, and everyone in this neighborhood knows not to fuck with us. Still, the bartender is too scared to say more than what’s necessary. He doesn’t want this fight inside his place, and honestly, neither do I.

Oleg turns to him with a stiff nod. “We’re leaving.”

I shrug off Oleg’s grip and straighten my jacket, fixing Serge with one last hard stare. “Get your shit together, Serge. Before I do it for you.”

Serge wipes at his mouth, looking down at the ground as if avoiding my gaze. I know he’s still angry, but he’s got nothing left to say. Not here. Not now.

We turn to leave, but not before I catch the bartender’s relieved sigh. I don’t need to remind him who we are, but his expression alone tells me he won’t forget this encounter any time soon. He knows better than to push too hard.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my temper. Oleg walks beside me, his silence heavy, but I know he’s waiting for me to say something. Finally, I glance at him.

“Take Serge home. Make sure he stays there this time,” I mutter, my voice still tight with frustration.

Oleg gives a curt nod. “I’ll handle it.”

I watch as he heads toward Serge, who’s still lingering by the bar, leaning heavily against the brick wall. Oleg slings Serge’s arm over his shoulder and helps him toward the car.

As I turn to leave, Oleg’s voice stops me. “Timur.”

I pause, glancing over my shoulder. Oleg’s eyes meet mine, serious but calm. “Serge isn’t the only one struggling. You need to watch yourself too.”

I bristle at his words, but I don’t respond. Oleg’s one of the few people who can talk to me like that without consequences, but that doesn’t mean I like hearing it. Especially not tonight.

I shove my hands into my pockets and walk toward my own car, my thoughts still racing. Serge is slipping, spiraling out of control, and it’s going to catch up to him if he doesn’t stop. Worse, if our rivals see this weakness in him, they’ll exploit it.

It’s not just Serge I’m worried about. His words, though slurred and drunk, struck a nerve. What’s the point of all this power if it can’t fix anything?

I grit my teeth, pushing those thoughts aside as I climb into my car. I have more important things to deal with right now.

As I drive, my thoughts inevitably drift back to her. Jennifer. The woman who slipped through my fingers like smoke after that night. No one walks away from me, not without a damn good reason. Yet, she did. No explanations, no second glance, just gone. For some reason, it’s been gnawing at me ever since.

I clench the steering wheel tighter, the leather creaking under my grip. I don’t feel anything for anyone—haven’t for a long time. Emotions are just a liability in my world. They get people killed, weaken the strongest men. With her, it’s different. It’s like her rejection has only made me want her more, like she’s some kind of unsolvable puzzle. It makes no sense, and that only pisses me off more.

She’s different from the others, that’s for sure. Not like the women who throw themselves at me because of my power or money, hoping to snag a piece of my life for themselves. Jennifer didn’t seem to care about any of that, or maybe she was just good at pretending she didn’t. Either way, she walked away. I should’ve forgotten about her the minute she left, but here I am, weeks later, still thinking about her.

She had the audacity to act like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing. That’s what makes her so damn frustrating. It’s like she’s rejecting me, and I’m not used to being rejected. By anyone.

A sharp breath escapes me as I force my mind to focus on the road. I have bigger problems to handle. Serge is still spiraling, and I’ve got a Mafia empire to run. I shouldn’t be wasting my time thinking about some intern who probably wants nothing to do with me. No matter how hard I try, she keeps creeping back into my mind.

I shake my head, as if that could clear away the thoughts of her. It doesn’t. Her face, her body, her fucking attitude—it’s all stuck there, like some kind of infection I can’t shake.

My phone buzzes in the center console, interrupting my thoughts. I grab it, glancing at the screen. It’s Oleg.

I press the phone to my ear. “What?”

“Serge is home,” Oleg says, his voice gruff but steady. “I dropped him off myself. He’s out cold, probably won’t wake up until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good,” I mutter, my jaw still tight with lingering frustration. “Make sure he doesn’t leave again without my permission. He’s been reckless, and I’m not letting him fuck things up for us.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Oleg replies. There’s a pause before he adds, “You did what you could, Timur. He’s just… lost right now.”

Lost . The word echoes in my head, and I grimace. I don’t have time for this sentimental shit, but I know Oleg means well. Serge is my brother, and I’ll always do what I can to protect him, even if that means dragging him out of his own self-destruction.

“I know,” I finally say, though my voice is tight. “Just make sure he stays out of trouble.”

“Will do. I’ll keep him in line,” Oleg says before hanging up.

I drop the phone back into the console and lean back in the driver’s seat, staring at the empty road ahead. Serge is home, but I know this won’t be the end of it. He’s too deep in his own shit to just bounce back, and the worst part is, I don’t know if I can pull him out this time. I’ve already got enough on my plate with running the Bratva, keeping our businesses in line, and dealing with our enemies.

Then there’s Jennifer.

She doesn’t belong in my world. I knew that the moment I saw her, all wide-eyed and innocent. She’s the kind of girl who should be wrapped up in her career, safe in her little bubble, not tangled up with someone like me. It’s that exact innocence that pulls at me. It makes me want to corrupt it, to make her mine. The way she looked at me that night, like she couldn’t resist but didn’t want to give in—it’s stuck with me.

Why the hell am I letting her get under my skin? It’s ridiculous. I should be focusing on business, on Serge, on keeping everything running smoothly. I’ve never let a woman mess with my head like this before, and I don’t plan on starting now.

My phone buzzes again, and this time it’s a message from Oleg: All quiet on my end. Let me know if you need anything.

I respond with a simple will do, before tossing the phone back into the console. I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, the faint echo of Jennifer’s laugh lingering in the back of my mind.

This is a distraction I don’t need. Yet, for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s not just going to disappear. Not from my mind. Not from my life.