Page 150 of Mafia and Scars

He wants me not because I tend to his needs. He wants me because he finds solace in me—just by me being me.

And I love this feeling of being wanted by him.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

VIKTOR

Another day and another lead on Gennady. The tip off says that he might be at a meeting tonight.

We head to the location after the sun begins to set. The air hangs heavy over the ruins of an old cement plant. Concrete skeletons loom in the distance, half-swallowed by weeds and rust. This disused rundown place located in some industrial area is the perfect cover for covert arms dealing. And it’s a perfect place for someone to die.

My hand tightens on the gear shift for a fraction of a second before I step out of the SUV. Boots crunching on the gravel, the cool metal of my sidearm presses firm and reassuring against my ribs.

Nikolai is already scouting the perimeter with two of our men. Matvey lingers at my six, silent as death. And Grigory is standing by the open trunk and loading a second clip into his rifle. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t need to. He’s as invested in this as I am. It’s bad for business. It’s just bad overall.And it’s fucking personal.

“We’re ending this tonight,” I grit out.

Grigory nods once. “No witnesses.”

The Albanians made their move too early. Got greedy. Thought they could carve out a seat at the table by aligning with Gennady and skimming from the same pot we’d built brick by bloody fucking brick. Whatever Gennady offered them—access, immunity, leverage—it won’t be enough. This is Bratva territory now. And I’m here to show them they have nothing unless we’re the ones to give it to them.

The crackle over the earpiece tells us it’s time.

The cement plant stinks of mold and machine oil. Wind whistles through rusted beams like the ghost of men who built this place and died beneath its weight.

We move fast, splitting into teams with a silent and deadly precision.

Grigory takes the south flank. I lead the strike toward the loading bay where the meeting is supposed to go down.

Our intel is solid. They’re moving crates from a truck into the holding bay. A makeshift operation if we’ve ever seen it. A deal arranged by someone with just enough clearance and no soul left to sell.

And Gennady is central to it all. My jaw tightens. The FSB doesn’t create men like him by accident. They design them. Strip out hesitation. Wire loyalty into their bones. But Gennady is a unique breed all of his own.

We slip through a side entrance. I count five men guarding the first hallway. Two with rifles, three with sidearms. All Albanian.

I nod to Grigory. The wicked smirk on his face makes me shake my head.

I aim a bullet into a man’s chest. Another in the throat. The silencer makes quiet work of it.

Grigory takes out the others before their weapons even clear their jackets.

Blood paints the ground and walls.

My pulse doesn’t spike. My breathing doesn’t change. This is simple muscle memory. Precision. Execution.

We push forward. I step over a body still twitching.

Nikolai’s voice crackles through the comms. “Southeast clear. Two trucks. Multiple crates of weapons for delivery. I count six more inside.”

“Copy,” I say, turning toward the men and Grigory. “Hold. Wait for my go.”

Through the cracked glass of a busted office window, I see them standing over the desk making the deal. It’s a crowded room. Mostly muscle.

Two men shake hands. One is in a leather coat, broad-shouldered and scruffy—he’s an Albanian boss. The other wears a tailored jacket and dark gloves.

And there he is, in the flesh.

Gennady.