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DIMITRI

Aleksandr's office smells like old wood, leather, and gun oil. Scents I didn’t realize I missed until I stepped inside and shut the door behind me.

That familiar combination takes me back to years gone by, to moments of significance and consequence that shaped my life within the Bratva.

The aroma has become synonymous with power and decisions that alter fates.

The room is dim, lit only by the morning light pushing in through tall windows and the golden lamp on the corner of his desk.

Thick drapes hang heavily against the windows, blocking the outside world from peering in.

Shelves lined with rare books and locked drawers holding Bratva secrets stand as silent witnesses to countless plans and verdicts.

Aleksandr sits behind the desk, jacket off, cuffs rolled neatly to his forearms. His posture is straight, his shoulders broad, and he exudes authority without effort.

He doesn’t look up right away. He is focused on the file he is reading.

His expression reminds me of our childhood, how he studied chess moves with that same intensity, plotting several steps ahead.

Lev stands near the corner, scrolling through surveillance photos on his phone, a cigarette unlit between his fingers. He glances up as I enter, nodding once. It is the only acknowledgment I need. In our world, words are often unnecessary.

I walk in and take the chair across from Aleksandr. The leather creaks beneath me, familiar and comforting in its own way.

I study my brother as he finishes whatever document holds his attention.

Prison didn’t change me as much as it refined me, burning away the unnecessary parts.

I wonder if he notices the difference. The hardened edges and newfound patience that come with counting days and nights in a cell.

My newly dyed black hair is the most visible transformation.

The blonde locks I had my entire life are gone.

It is a deliberate choice I made the day after my release.

A physical manifestation of how prison altered me to my core.

Aleksandr finally sets the file down and looks up, his cold blue eyes locking on mine. “You ready?” he asks simply.

“I'm ready,” I reply.

His gaze holds mine for a moment longer, assessing and measuring. His eyes linger on my black hair, taking note of the transformation.

“The hair,” he comments, his tone neutral but curious.

I run a hand through the dark strands. “Blonde was for the man who got framed. Black is for the man who's coming back to burn it all down.”

Aleksandr's eyes gleam with approval. Then he leans back in the chair, steepling his fingers. “Good. Because this war is shifting. We don't respond like thugs. We respond like kings.”

There is something in his voice, a calm certainty that has always made people listen. It isn’t volume or aggression but absolute conviction. The voice of a man who knows the value of each word spoken.

Lev tosses a folder onto the desk. The sound of paper hitting wood punctuates the silence.

“The thread we needed. Petrov's payments came through Valkyr Logistics.

One of his shell fronts tied to Morozov's holding company in Geneva. We confirmed the dates. The money moved three days before the witness came forward.”

I feel a surge of pride thinking about Sandy and how she had unraveled what others couldn't see. Her intelligence had proven invaluable, and her determination matched our own. But I keep my face blank. There will be time for personal reflections later.

Aleksandr's mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. It is the expression of a predator who has cornered its prey after a long hunt. “Petrov didn't just build the lie. He funded the entire play.”

“And Russo packaged it,” I add, leaning forward slightly. “Gave it to the feds wrapped in a bow.” The pieces finally connect, forming a picture of betrayal and calculated moves against our family.

Aleksandr nods. “Russo’s been dancing between both sides for years. Feeding Morozov intel while pretending to keep our enemies at bay. But now we have proof. Not just whispers and suspicion.”

The revelation isn’t entirely surprising but having confirmation changes everything. Suspicion can be ignored, but evidence demands action. And action is what the Bratva does best.

Lev taps his phone screen and turns it toward me. “Russo was spotted leaving a private club near Brighton Beach. He met with Kiril the same night Petrov transferred money to that numbered account.”

I look at the grainy surveillance photo. With his off-the-rack suit and politician smile, Russo shakes hands with Kiril, a man known for breaking bones and burying bodies. The picture tells a thousand words, none of them innocent.

Aleksandr leans forward slightly. His voice doesn’t rise.

It never does when he is serious. That is what makes it so lethal.

“This is not just corruption. This is a coordinated attack on my family.

They didn't just target you. They tried to dismantle the foundation of everything we've built.

And they did it with the arrogance of men who think I won't cut their throats in broad daylight.”

I meet his gaze, steady and cold. “Then let's start with Petrov.”

Aleksandr inclines his head. “Exactly.”

He pulls out another file, which is thinner but more telling.

His fingers, adorned only with the gold family ring on his right hand and his wedding band on his left, spread the contents across the polished surface of the desk.

“He goes to the Hawthorne Club every Thursday.

Same booth. Same waiter. Same bullshit sense of immunity. You're going to take that from him.”

The photographs show Petrov entering the exclusive club and being greeted with smiles and handshakes. He is accustomed to the respect he hasn’t earned, a man who believes money can shield him from consequences.

Lev steps forward and slides a blueprint across the desk. “Side alley leads to a service corridor. We'll tap into the back security feed and disable the camera loop for thirty minutes. That's your window.”

I study the blueprint, committing it to memory. The layout is simple enough. However, high-end establishments often overlook basic security measures, relying instead on their reputation and exclusive clientele. This is their mistake.

Aleksandr points to the floor plan, his finger tracing the extraction route. “No blood inside the club. We do this with precision. A quiet extraction. You get him out and into the car and we’ll take him to the dungeon. He talks, or he vanishes.”

I nod, understanding the parameters. This isn’t about making noise. It’s about sending a message that will resonate throughout the underworld, a message that will make others think twice.

“If he talks?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it confirmed.

“Then we cut deeper,” Aleksandr states, his voice like velvet over steel. “We follow the money. We expose the others. Russo goes next. Then Morozov.”

I lean back in the chair and nod once. “Simple.” And it was. Not easy, but simple. The best plans always are.

Aleksandr's voice sharpens like a blade being honed. “No mistakes. No collateral damage. I want the message to be unmistakable. We are not hiding in the shadows. Morozov wanted a war. Let's show him what happens when you strike at the Avilov Bratva and miss.”

Lev lights the cigarette and blows smoke toward the ceiling. The gray cloud swirls and expands above our heads. “You want him broken?” His question is casual, but the implications are anything but.

Aleksandr looks at me. Our eyes connect, and at that moment, he understands exactly what I want. “I want him to understand that the man he put behind bars walked out stronger,” I hiss.

I feel something shift inside me. Not rage or vengeance. Focus, pure and clarifying that comes from having a purpose larger than oneself.

Aleksandr stands, his fingers gripping the edge of the desk. “Then I'll make sure he understands.”

He slips on his jacket and tucks his cell phone into his pocket. “We move tomorrow,” he declares. “Tonight, you stay with Sandy. Rest and hold what is yours.”

His acknowledgment of Sandy's place in my life is significant. The Bratva is traditional in many ways, often in a brutally direct manner. But Aleksandr doesn’t just tolerate her.

He sees her worth not just as his sister-in-law but as a woman who has earned respect in her own right.

She isn’t an outsider anymore. She is one of us.

“I already am,” I reply.

Aleksandr claps a hand on my shoulder, firm and brief. His grip is strong, conveying more than words can. “Then tomorrow, you show them why the Popov name still carries fire.”

I feel the truth of his words in my bones. Otets had built this empire with blood and vision. Aleksandr has maintained it with intelligence and ruthlessness. Now it is my turn to prove my worth, to show that prison didn’t extinguish what made me a Popov.

I leave the office without another word. The mission is clear. The enemy is exposed.

The hallway outside is long and lined with paintings of Russian landscapes. I walk past them without really seeing them, my mind already mapping out tomorrow's operation. The extraction, the interrogation, and the necessary aftermath.

My men nod respectfully as I pass. My absence didn’t diminish their loyalty. In fact, it seems to have strengthened it. There is honor among our kind and respect for those who suffer for the sake of family.

I stop by the security room to check in with Ivan. “I need everything you have on the Hawthorne Club. Staff schedules, security rotations, every detail.”

Ivan nods without question. “On your desk within the hour.”

As I walk toward the kitchen, I think about Sandy. She waited and worked tirelessly to prove my innocence, eventually uncovering the threads that led to the revelations of today. She was fierce in her loyalty and brilliant in her strategies.

She is there, sitting by the bay window, laptop open.

She looks up as I enter, her eyes searching my face for information.

Her gaze lingers on my black hair, a change she is still getting used to.

She’s only known me with blonde hair, but she understands what this transformation means to me.

This is my battle armor, my declaration of intent.

“It's happening,” I say simply.

She closes the laptop and stands. Her movements are purposeful. “When?”

“Tomorrow. Petrov first.”

She crosses the kitchen and stands before me. There is no fear in her eyes, no hesitation. Only understanding and resolution. “Good. He deserves what's coming.”

I cup her face in my hands, allowing myself to truly look at her for the first time today. The woman who has become my anchor. The woman who has fought her own war while I fought mine behind bars.

“Aleksandr said to rest tonight. To hold what is mine,” I tell her, my voice soft.

She smiles, slow and knowing. “And what is yours, Dimitri Popov?”

“You,” I say. “You and the future we're building.”

I lean down and kiss her, pouring everything I can’t say with words into it. The gratitude and unbreakable bond that has survived separation and slander.

That night, we did rest. But first, we reminded each other what we were fighting for. What made all the risk worthwhile. Her body was against mine, our hearts beating in sync, and we whispered our plans for after the storm passed.

As she sleeps beside me, her breathing deep and peaceful, I stare at the ceiling and continue planning. Petrov will be just the beginning. A message written in fear rather than blood. A statement that will echo through the criminal underworld.

The Popov family is not broken. The Avilov family will not break. And I am not beaten. By the time I return to Sandy's side after tomorrow's mission, I will have already begun writing Petrov's end. Not with bullets or blades but with the precise destruction of everything he believes keeps him safe.

That is the true power of the Bratva. Not violence for its own sake, but the strategic application of pressure until the enemy crumbles from within, understanding that crossing us is not just a mistake but a fatal miscalculation.

I turn toward Sandy, watching her chest rise and fall gently. For her, our family, and our future, I will ensure that our enemies learn that lesson well. Tomorrow will be the first chapter in their education. And I will be a thorough teacher.