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Viktor

I'm in the back seat of my car, the leather cool and slick against the tailored lines of my suit. The city blurs past the tinted windows, but my focus narrows as Zasha hands me a discrete envelope. It's unassuming, yet it weighs heavy.

"Details of Marina for the past two decades," he says, his voice betraying no emotion.

I nod. My fingers are adept at unsealing the envelope without tearing the paper. The contents spill into my lap: photos, reports, and a dossier on Marina that promises answers. My eyes scan each word, absorbing the information with predatory keenness.

"Interesting,” I murmur under my breath. Marina had also been a stripper in DanceCheck and had used the same stage name as Scarlett. A stage name shared by two women who've entangled themselves in the web of my world. They were friends and roommates during their days at the New York City University. Both are now involved with two different Bratva leaders. The coincidence is too precise to ignore. It is either they are both in on something, or there is a good excuse for why their lives are treading the same path. According to the report, Marina is the daughter of my father’s mistress, but their relationship is very strained, almost non-existent.

Anger rips through me, sharp and cold as ice. Has Scarlett been fooling me with all that sweetness? My temples pound with the rush of blood and suspicion. What game is being played here? Are they both under Sidorov’s payroll or is this some twisted fate shit?

" Pakhan?" Zasha probes, watching me closely. “What’s the next line of action?” He asks having read the look on my face.

"Drive faster," I command the driver, my pulse accelerating. "We have a truth to uncover."

The city streaks by in a haze, but my mind is elsewhere. Inside me, a storm rages—a tempest of emotions I can't quell. Scarlett. Her image flashes before my eyes, sweet yet feisty, the person holding the final piece to this puzzle.

"Electra," the name burns on my tongue like acid. It's a link, a clue that could tie Scarlett to Marina, and the betrayal coils in my gut like a serpent. I've brought her into my life, my home, let her close enough to strike at the heart of my empire. The thought is abhorrence, repugnant.

I grapple with the chaos swirling inside me as anger contends with the betrayal. But it's the uncertainty about Scarlett that claws at my soul. A part of me believes she could be innocent, a victim of coincidence. But what if she isn’t? She could then be the key to unraveling everything I've built. Every instinct in me screams to trust no one, yet the memory of her touch, defiant gaze, and pure laugh makes me doubt.

I’ll give her the benefit of explaining herself.

My fingers clench into fists, knuckles white as bone. The drive home is tense; every red light is a test of patience I do not possess. My thoughts are a tangled mess, doubts and suspicions wrestling for control. But above all, retribution.

Scarlett's laughter echoes in my head, a haunting melody that once soothed the beast within. Now, it's a siren song, luring me toward potential ruin. The possibility that she's connected to Marina, maybe even working against me, scrapes against my insides.

"Boss?" Zasha's voice cuts through my reverie, cautious, probing. “Give her room to explain herself.”

"Silence." The command is sharp, brooking no argument.

When we arrive, I'm out of the car before it fully stops, striding toward the mansion with purpose. The need for answers consumes me, a hunger that demands satisfaction. I need to confront Scarlett, look into those steel-grey eyes, and find the truth lurking behind them.

But I stop dead in my tracks as I realize a foreign emotion. Fear. An emotion I long thought dead and often despised in others. I have not experienced fear since I recovered from the failed assassination that claimed my mother. Why did it suddenly surface?

Am I afraid of what I might learn? Fearful of the level of destruction I would bring down knowing Scarlett is a traitor? The most dangerous fear—that I might lose through my own hands the woman who has come to mean more to me than power or vengeance.

"Scarlett," I whisper her name like a prayer, a plea for clarity in a world gone mad. Our room door looms ahead, and with each step, I steel myself for the confrontation to come. My hand rests on the cold metal of the doorknob, ready to turn and face whatever lies beyond.

I push open the door to our suite, urgency clawing at my chest. The silence is a living entity, oppressive and thick, suffocating the space where laughter and whispers once lived. Scarlett's presence, usually so vibrant, is ominously absent. I scan the room, noting the meticulous arrangement of her belongings, an order that she never adheres to. It's as if a ghost tidied up behind her.

"Scarlett?" My voice doesn't carry. It falls flat, devoured by the quiet. The eerie stillness seeps into my bones, heightening the sense of wrongness that has been trailing me since the revelations emerged. I move through the space, the air stagnant, waiting for a sign of life—a note, a misplaced scarf, something to indicate she is here, she is real.

Nothing.

I bring out my phone and swipe to dial her number. Before my thumb presses 'call', the screen lights up with a buzz, Yelena's name flashing across it.

"Yelena?" I answer, the sound razor-sharp against the silence.

"Viktor," she gasps, and terror laces her every syllable. "It's Scarlett—she's been taken."

The words land like a gut punch, stealing the breath from my lungs. Taken. Abducted. The world tilts, reality skewing as I clutch the phone tighter.

"Details, Yelena. Now." My command is terse, every muscle tensed for action. Her panic is contagious, but I can't afford to catch it—not now.

"Yelena, fucking calm down and talk to me!" I bark into the phone, my grip on it so tight I'm surprised it hasn't shattered like my goddamn patience. My heart's a hammer in my chest, pounding out a rhythm of pure, unadulterated rage.

"Viktor, I—I don't know how—it happened so fast—" Her voice is a frantic whisper that grates against my already frayed nerves.

"Start at the beginning," I demand, my tone ice-cold despite the firestorm within me. "Where's Scarlett?"

"Sh-she went to the bathroom ..." Yelena stammers, and I can almost hear her sobbing on the other end. "In the boutique. We were shopping, and she just ... She needed to go, and I waited outside for her."

"Go on." I clench my jaw, muscles tensing as if readying for a fight.

"Then she didn't come back, Viktor. She took longer than usual, and I got worried. I went looking for her, and—"

"Yelena, what did you find?" I snap, not wanting her to spiral into hysteria.

"Signs of struggle. Her bracelet was on the floor," she chokes out, her voice laced with disbelief and terror. "And one earring too. But there was no sign of her. She's gone."

The world narrows to a pinpoint of fury; every curse that passes my lips is a promise of retribution. Someone will pay for taking what's mine. And they'll pay in capital blood letters.

"The two guards you asked to follow us showed up," Yelena's voice crackles with a mix of hopelessness. "They looked around, but Scarlett ... she wasn't there anymore."

"You mean my men failed." The sentence rumbles from deep within my chest.

"Grigori and Pavel were outsmarted."

"The fuck there were!" The curse slices through the air, a verbal blade aimed at the incompetence of my men. How could they let this happen? Grigori and Pavel are supposed to be reliable, sharp—hawks among pigeons. And yet, they have allowed the unthinkable to occur under their goddamn noses.

"Did they see anything at all?" My words are clipped, each one loaded with barely restrained fury.

"Nothing, Viktor. They didn't see anyone coming or going." Her voice trembles, and it only fuels my rage further.

"Useless," I hiss, slamming my fist against the wall, the impact echoing through the silence that follows. These were not just any men; they were handpicked by me, trained to watch, to protect, and now they've failed. They've failed Scarlett, they’ve failed my children, they've failed Yelena, they've failed the Bratva—my Bratva—and most of all, they've failed me.

"Stay where you are. I'm coming." I end the call abruptly. It takes every fiber in me not to crush the phone in my hand.

Their carelessness stings like acid on an open wound. There will be hell to pay for their negligence. As the leader of the Bratva, it is not just my right but my duty to ensure that justice, brutal and unflinching, is served. The rest will learn by example.

I storm through the corridors of our headquarters, my blood boiling hotter with each step. The door to the interrogation room slams open under the force of my rage, rebounding against the wall as I enter. Grigori and Pavel stand before me, their faces already washed pale with fear.

"Explain," I bark, my tone venomous. "Explain how you let her vanish!"

They shuffle uncomfortably, eyes darting between each other, searching for a lifeline that isn't there. Grigori's voice breaks first, a pathetic stammer that grates on my already frayed nerves. "We—we were watching, boss. Just like we should. She went to the—"

"Spit it out!" My fist crashes down on the metal table, the sound resonating like a gunshot. They flinch, and it takes everything in me not to reach across and throttle them.

Pavel finds his tongue next, though it hardly fares better than Grigori's. "The bathroom area ... we saw her go in. We didn’t see her come out." His gaze flicks to the floor, unable to meet my searing stare.

"Then?" I snarl, leaning in close enough to see the tremor in his hands.

"Yelena ... she went looking after a few minutes," Grigori continues, the words tumbling out in a jittery rush. "Came out frantic. That's when we knew."

"Knew what?" I press, though the answer boils in my veins like poison.

"Scarlett was gone. Abducted." Pavel's admission is a death knell, sealing their fate as surely as any sentence I could pronounce.

My anger, sharp and icy, carves through the room, leaving no room for excuses or forgiveness. These men had one job, and they failed.

"Did you know?" My voice slices through the heavy silence, a sneering blade that has them recoiling. "Did you know she's pregnant with my children? That she carries the heirs to this Bratva in her belly?" The words are venomous, my snarl baring the raw edge of paternal fury.

Pavel and Grigori exchange a glance, their Adam’s apples bobbing like they’re choking on the thick air. They nod, eyes wide with fear, the knowledge of what's at stake now etched into their expressions.

"Has the Bratva ever failed you?" I lean back in my chair, arms folded, the question hanging between us like a guillotine.

"No," they murmur in unison, voices barely above whispers, knowing full well the sanctuary the Bratva had provided them. The brotherhood that had been their salvation until today.

"Then do you understand the magnitude of your failure?" My gaze pins them like insects to a board, waiting for them to squirm under the weight of their incompetence.

They swallow hard, their nods slow and laden with dread. Their silent admission is all the confirmation I need—they have failed the Bratva, failed me, irrevocably.

I don't even blink as I turn to Lev and Zasha, who stand like silent sentinels by the door. My eyes, cold and unforgiving, lock onto theirs. "Dispose of them," I command, each syllable dropping like a stone into the stillness.

Lev and Zasha don’t flinch; there's no hesitation in their step as they move forward. They are the embodiment of loyalty and obedience—traits Pavel and Grigori should have shown. The two men before me quiver, their fates sealed by my order, their ends decreed by my word.

"Please, Viktor—" Grigori begins, but his plea is cut short by the finality in my gaze.

"Out," I say, not to the condemned but to my loyal soldiers. And as they usher the traitors from my sight, I know the Bratva will not suffer such betrayal again. Not under my rule. Not while I draw breath. The Bratva will not become weak under my reign.