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Andrei nods, his face a mask of grim determination. "We'll start with the Turks," he states in agreement. "They're the obvious choice, but we can't overlook the possibility of an inside job."
The discussion becomes all about strategy, plans forming and reforming as we consider every angle. Mariya's grip on my arm tightens, a silent communication of her support. She's in this with us, her fate intertwined with Bratva's more tightly than ever.
As the night deepens, we're a circle of shadows bound by blood and loyalty, each of us prepared to wage war to protect what's ours.
Chapter 20
Mariya
Leaning against the cool, unadorned wall of the Antonov household's study, I find myself an island of calm in the chaos of Bratva strategy swirling around me.
Anastasia, whose presence is as commanding as the fighters she bests in the ring, clicks her knuckles with an almost musical rhythm, each pop a declaration of her readiness for whatever comes next. Valentina, with eyes like an eagle, surveys the room, her assassin's instincts attuned to every shift, every murmur. And then there's Nikita—once the prima ballerina of the Bolshoi—whispering to Leo, a delicate exterior veiling the core of resilience I've come to admire.
The camaraderie among the women unfolds with an ease that belies the gravity of our situation. "Our men," Anastasia begins, her voice tinged with dry humor, "all this posturing, and yet the problem remains unsolved."
Valentina's laughter, usually so contained, slips out, a soft and melodic counter to the tension. "Think of them as intricate timepieces—complex, precise, and easily thrown off by the simplest grain of sand."
Nikita's eyes twinkle with shared understanding. "They need us to recalibrate them now and then."
"It seems every feared Bratva man has an even more formidable Bratva woman behind him," I add, earning knowing smiles and nods of silent assent.
My gaze is drawn inevitably to Damien. He moves with an air of authority that's as natural to him as breathing, his voice firm as he coordinates efforts, his instructions slicing through the buzz of conversation with the elegance and sharpness of a well-honed blade. Watching him, I feel a surge of pride—this is the man I am coming to love, a man of power and conviction.
As the debate intensifies, I soak in the theories and suggestions that crisscross the room like an intricate weaving of words and wills. Someone raises the point of reviewing security footage; another suggests delving into the minutiae of financial transactions.
Roman contemplates aloud. "Could this upheaval have roots in the new trade routes we've established?"
Samuil, his voice a deep timbre that resonates through the charged air, considers another angle. "What about the botched deal with the Spanish? Could it be fallout from that?"
Valentina interjects with a cool clarity that commands attention. "We mustn't overlook the personal angle; sometimes the deepest cuts are not about business."
Their exchange is a mosaic of potential and peril, a conundrum wrapped in the enigma that is the Bratva's lifeblood. Loyalties and betrayals weave a complex tapestry against which our lives are set—a single loose thread could unravel us all.
As the meeting disperses into clusters of whispered strategy, my thoughts sharpen into focus. I may be a newcomer to this shadowy realm, but I refuse to be a bystander. Damien's world is now my own, and I will stand at his side, come what may.
The glow of the screens in the dimly lit room casts an eerie light as we huddle around, a cluster of intent faces reflecting the images flickering in front of us. The footage rolls back and forth, a silent film replaying the normalcy before it shattered into chaos.
"There," Roman says, pausing the frame on a man lurking in the background, a face that doesn't fit the scene, a ghost among the living. His stance is too guarded, his gaze too watchful. This isn't the posture of a diner enjoying a meal or even a waiter attending to his tasks. It's the calculated stillness of a predator.
Samuil leans forward, his finger tapping against the glass. "Rewind it. Again."
We watch the loop, a ballet of patrons and staff until the interloper appears once more. Each time, he's a shadow threading through the backdrop, never engaging, always observing. It's damning in its subtlety.
Andrei's hand clenches into a fist. "It's too well-timed, too clean. "
The conversation ebbs and flows around me, a tide of speculation and strategy. I can't help but feel a knot of frustration in my gut. This isn't a scene from a crime show; this is our reality, and the stakes couldn't be higher.
Damien's voice cuts through the din, pulling our attention. "We need to consider the possibility that these events were orchestrated as a series of strikes, synchronized to cripple us."
The room falls into a heavy silence, the implication hanging like a guillotine's blade. I glance at Damien, his profile etched with concentration. His intuition is sharp, likely honed by years of navigating the treacherous waters of their world.
Nikita's soft voice breaks the quiet. "If that's the case, then we're dealing with an enemy who knows us—our routines, our strengths, our weaknesses."
Anastasia nods, a fierce determination in her eyes. "Then we tighten our ranks. We trust no one outside this room until we have answers."
“Wait.” Damien raises his finger toward the screen. “Our mystery man is meeting with someone.”
My breath catches as I watch the two familiar figures—one I've known my entire life and the other I thought I was beginning to understand. They move with a casual air, and their interactions are brief yet laden with an ominous significance.
