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Vovka

Pacing back and forth does nothing to calm my nerves. The sound of my footsteps reverberates against the rich mahogany walls of my office, a relentless drumbeat to my simmering fury. My hands flex into fists, then release—a metronome of controlled rage. Viktor Makarov is alive. Each report of my fallen men fuels my anger like gasoline on a flame.

Across the room, there's an island of calm in this storm of my making—the informant. They sit, legs crossed, an unreadable expression etched onto their face. Their stillness mocks me; it’s a silent challenge to the tempest that rages within my chest.

"Still alive," I grind out through clenched teeth, barely keeping the growl at bay. "Viktor."

My trusted informant merely tilts their head, acknowledging the turmoil that rattles me without so much as a tremor themselves. It irks me, this power they wield without a word, without a gesture—simply by existing in this space where my world seems to crumble.

I stop dead in my tracks, a statue of rage and disbelief. The news hangs like a specter in the air—Viktor Makarov. Alive. My voice slices through the silence, each word wrapped in barbed wire. "Explain. Now."

The informant doesn't flinch. Their gaze remains as fixed and unyielding as iron. "Our agreement," they start, their voice a calm contrast to my storm, "was clear. Deliver Igor Makarov. Which I did."

"Yet Viktor breathes." My accusation is a bullet shot from my lips, intended to pierce their composure. “How could you not have known that?”

"Viktor was not the target." They state plainly. As if this fact should quell the fire ragging within me. As if the success with Igor could ever be enough.

"Your oversight endangers everything." My hands clench at my sides, the urge to overturn the world with my bare hands almost irresistible. But I hold back. I must think. Plan. Act.

"Viktor's existence came as a surprise to everyone," they continue, unfazed.

“Yet you claim to be in Igor’s inner circle.”

“Igor was a clever and patient son of a bitch.”

“How do I now achieve my plan with Viktor alive and well?”

"We adapt and move forward."

"Indeed." The word tastes like bile. Adaptation isn't a choice; it's a necessity. A game of chess where I am suddenly boxed to make an impossible move.

I draw in a deep breath, trying to cage the wild animal of frustration clawing inside me. The room suddenly feels like a battlefield, and my enemy is sitting before me—unmoved, a statue of infuriating calm. I can't lash out—not here, not at them, not yet.

"Tell me," I force the words out, each one a shard of ice. “Is there a way to capture Viktor?"

They regard me with an unwavering stare as if weighing my worth with their eyes. Silence stretches, taut as a wire about to snap.

"Viktor Makarov is not untouchable," they finally say, voice steady. "But it won't be easy."

"Details." It's a command, not a request. My voice barely conceals the desperation gnawing at my insides. Viktor's alive. A ghost from the past that refuses to die and is now physically hunting me.

"Patience, Vovka," they reply, and I despise the hint of rebuke in their tone. "He must have a weaknesses. We'll need a strategy."

"Strategy ..." I echo. The word feels hollow. Empty. I need action. Assurance.

"Assurance will come with time," they continue, reading my thoughts like an open book. "Viktor will fall. He's human, after all."

"Time," I spit out the word as if it's poison. Time is a luxury I don't have. Every second Viktor breathes is a second too long. Every beat of his heart echoes a countdown to my downfall.

"Then start the clock," I say, the edges of my vision darkening with resolve. I will bring Viktor Makarov to his knees. No other outcome or alternative exists for me now. I will not rule the Bratva world with any bastard, be it dead or alive, ghost or flesh.

I lock eyes with the informant. They sit there, a picture of calm that grates against every frayed nerve in my body.

"You must honor our agreement first," they say, their voice a cool breeze in the stifling tension of the room. "Only then can we discuss Viktor Makarov's downfall."

"Agreement." The word chokes out of me, bitter, like blood from a bitten tongue. I want to rage, smash something—anything—to break this infuriating composure. But I can't. At least not yet. This isn't about brute force; it's chess, not kickboxing.

"Vovka, you understand the terms," they add, and I hear the steel beneath the velvet of their tone. They have me, and they know it. The leverage they hold is as clear as poison and twice as potent.

"Terms," I repeat, my mind racing. The plan—two decades of blood and shadow—teeters on the brink. All because of this single, maddening obstacle. My insides twist as I weigh the cost of compliance against the ruin of rebellion.

"Without honoring your part," they continue, "no strategy against Viktor can commence."

"Damn it." The curse slips out, an involuntary admission of my checkmate. I need control, and to steer the game back into my hands. But the pieces are in play, and the board is theirs.

"Fine," I yield, the word splintering inside me. Each syllable is a shard of the power I'm forced to concede. What choice do I have? None. Viktor is out there, a specter at the gates of my empire. If I don't act, if I don't agree, he could dismantle everything I've built.

"Good." The informant nods, their eyes never leaving mine. It's a silent reminder. They hold the cards now.

"Patience, Vovka," they reiterate, standing up. "All in good time."

"Time," I scoff, my breath fogging the air with the cold fire of my frustration. Patience has never been a virtue of mine. But it seems I must learn it now or lose more than just my temper.

"Indeed," they reply, stepping towards the door. "We await your next move."

"Understood," I growl as they exit, leaving me alone with the echo of my turbulent thoughts. I stand there, still as the statue of a forgotten god until resolve crystallizes within me. I'll play along—for now. Because when the time comes, Viktor will find out just how far I'm willing to go to win.

The door clicks shut behind them, sealing the deal—a deal forged in necessity, not trust. I clench my jaw, the muscle jumping with tension. This bargain, this game ... it's a razor's edge, and I'm the one balancing on it.

"Viktor," I mutter, promising retribution in every syllable. “You should have stayed dead.”

My back turns to the closed door, and my eyes close briefly. Fury boils within me, but beneath that heat lies cold, calculated dread. I've played this game too long not to know when the stakes are high. The implications of paying up claw at my insides—this isn't just money or weapons; it's power slipping through my fingers.

I open my eyes and fix on the spot where the informant stood moments ago. They must think they hold the reins, but even a puppet can sever strings. I never intended to honor our deal fully, but Viktor being alive ... that changes the board. Checkmate looms, and he's now the king I need to topple.

My clenched fist slams onto the desk, and the wood protests beneath my strength. No more delays. The urgency gnaws at me, demanding action, demanding blood.

"Failure isn't an option," I growl to the empty room. "Not for me. Never"

Plans unravel and reform in my mind, each thread a possibility, a pathway to Viktor. He's out there, breathing, plotting—surviving. But so am I. Survival is a game two can play, but only one can win.