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Viktor

I have just finished my first official meeting with top members of the organization, and they all have the same question.

‘How is the investigation going?’

Well, I’ve promised to dig out whoever is behind this chaos, and I mean it.

The weight of my phone in my hand is like a lifeline threading across continents. First, I call Thiago, then Sergei in Moscow, then Ricardo in Miami. Their voices, usually so sure, now tremble with uncertainty. They are now troubled about their safety, seeing as a hit on Igor could go this smoothly.

"Anything," I press them. "A whisper, a rumor—I need it all."

In the shadows, screens flicker as I look at surveillance footage from when my father arrived in Moscow through them. Faces flash by, going about their activities, oblivious to the fact that their actions might hold the key to everything. My hands grip the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening as frustration gnaws at me. I scour each pixel for the truth hidden within, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. The night drags on, my pulse thundering with every dead end. I’m relentless, pausing only to jot down notes or to instruct my men, the fire of vengeance burning brighter with each passing moment.

"Pause there," I tell Zasha. We zoom in on a hooded figure slipping through an alley. A dead end, but every detail is a thread, one that might lead me to the heart of this treachery.

Lev and Zasha faces still unknown in the Russian crime world, are weapons in my arsenal. I’m damn well going to leverage that. I send them out to hunt for words in alleys, clubs, and any whisper they can bring back.

Days later, this strategy pays off, and I find myself deep within the underbelly of Volgograd, where loyalty is bought with blood, and secrets are currency. My presence alone commands attention, but today? I wield fear like a blade.

"Speak," I demand of a cowering informant I’ve been told knows all the latest and juiciest stories. His eyes dart away, but he knows better than to lie.

"Rumor has it that the Makarov clan has a new Pakhan , and that he is a beast," he stammers.

“Congratulations, you are one of the first to meet him,” I say, smiling with deadly sweetness.

His gaze drops, and my eyes follow. This fucking fool is in the middle of peeing himself. Pathetic.

The trip yields nothing I do not already know, and frustration gnaws at me. Two months have passed since my father’s murder, and still, no concrete lead. Back in the office, Yelena's hand is steady as she offers me a drink. I refuse; my mind must stay clear. There’s a map spread before us, now littered with notes and names. Each could be a piece of the puzzle; each could be a knife waiting to strike.

"Pursue every name as a prime suspect," I remind myself.

This hunt consumes me. Day bleeds into night, and still, I push on. Every lead followed; every rival cornered. A trail of broken bones and nine dead bodies now follows my investigation, but I do not give a fuck. My name strikes fear even in the hardest of hearts. They know Igor’s son has returned, and he thirsts for justice.

"We must find them," I urge Zasha and Lev, who nod with grim determination. They have been my allies since my days in New York. Seen me bleed and fight. Now, we hunt together.

"War," I murmur, staring at the board that charts my father’s last days. I am at the center of a bloody war and yet I do not know who the enemy is. I slam my fist into the wall again. Pain radiates through my body, and I allow it to flow through my veins. I will unravel this mystery, and retribution will rain like fire when I do.

"Vengeance," I promise my father’s ghost, "will be ours."

Days later, my phone beeps. It’s a message from Lev:

Pee Pee Boy has some information.

???

He insists on telling you himself.

Bring him in.

"Talk," I growl as soon as my men drag him in. He shakes, eyes darting around.

"You have to promise to protect me in this war."

"Not if you have a hand in what happened to Igor Makarov."

"Nnnooo … I … I … don’t," he stammers.

"Then you have my word."

He explains that after I first accosted him, he had gone snooping and found one of the hitmen. The bastard had bragged to someone about involvement, and that’s how word got to him.

"If your words check out, you will be well rewarded," I assure him.

"Offer our guest a room," I say to Lev. "And get me the bastard. If he can’t be found, bring his mother, father, brothers, sisters, girlfriend, boyfriend. Hell, exhume his ancestors and bring them here."

My men nod and, before long, return with the culprit. He tries to put on a brave face, but I can see right through his facade.

"You, my dear friend, will tell me why you and your goons attacked and killed Igor Makarov. My father." His eyes pop wide with fear as I reveal my identity.

Good. Let him stew in fear.

"I don’t know what you are talking about."

"Your fake bravado is quite irritating," I say calmly.

"Here, Pakhan ," Lev’s voice cuts through my fury, sharp as the blade he’s handing me.

I nod, pressing my lips into a thin line. I lean close to the man’s ear, my voice low and dangerous. "I do not ask the same question twice."

The hard look on my face must have told him I am dead serious because he begins to spill what he knows. He’s just a lowly car workshop owner—a man who stumbled into a nightmare far beyond his comprehension. In the past, he’d helped some of his friends disguise stolen cars, petty crimes that seemed insignificant at the time. But on the day Igor was murdered, those same friends brought him their vehicle, demanding he switch the plate number and repaint it with a different color. That same day, they returned, this time, ordering him to remove the fake plates and repaint the car its original color. All of it, he tells me, was done in a frenzied span of few hours. The timeline grates against my patience, and my teeth clench.

"Names and addresses of your friends?" I growl.

"I can give that information to you, but the three of them were killed in a car crash two days ago."

"Someone is covering their tracks," Zasha says calmly.

"What else do you know?"

"Boris, my late friend.” He continues hurriedly. “Said his boss has eyes and connections all over the world and that ‘a damn stripper in New York USA gave Igor away.’"

Upon further questioning, I am shocked at the mention of the familiar name and place far away from here. Someone in DanceCheck strip club had called someone he knows here in Moscow to brag about being in the know about how Igor Makarov was brought down.

"Get him out of here and lock him in the dungeons."

Once he’s dragged out, I turn to Zasha. "We leave for New York now!"

It’s time to get to the root of this investigation. Fury boils in my veins, a firestorm threatening to consume reason itself. I am willing to maim, break, and even kill nine more people without hesitation. Each step I take tightens the noose around their necks, and whoever masterminded this will wish they’d never been born by the time I’m done.