one
Nikolaj
Bloodalwayssmellshotterunderground.
Maybe that’s because there’s nowhere for it to go down here—no open air, no wind, no mercy. Just stone walls that hold every scream and every drop of it.
The place feels steeped in old death, as if the monastery above us wasn’t built to worship God at all, but to keep what men like me do beneath it.
Saint Helena is holy on paper. In reality, she’s just another corpse we hollowed out and rebuilt into a Bratva compound—all stone, steel, and sanctified rot. The monks are long gone, replaced by men in dark suits with guns tucked in their jackets and knives hidden in their boots.
I stand in the center of the execution chamber with my hands behind my back, while Pavel Sidorov kneels in front of me.
He’s forty-three years old, broad through the shoulders, and graying at the temples. A man who once thought being old enough meant he’d become untouchable.
There are tears on his face, snot on his lip, and fear rolling through him in waves so sharp, I can almost taste the salt of it. Two of my men were holding him upright earlier, but his knees caved in when Maksim laid the evidence on the table in front of us.
Ledger sheets. Shipment routes. Names. Offshore accounts. Dates. Messages from encrypted lines straight to a faction in Novosibirsk that’s been trying to test my borders for the last six months.
Pavel keeps saying there’s been a mistake. He keeps saying he has children and reminding me he has served the Dragovich name for twenty years. As though loyalty has a half-life that excuses betrayal once it expires.
I look at him and feel nothing.
“Kai,” I say, my voice low but carrying, “read it back to him.”
Kai stands to my left, immaculate in black. He’s been with me long enough to know I don’t ask for repetition unless I want a condemned man to hear every nail being driven into his coffin.
He picks up the final page from the steel table and reads it in the same cool tone a banker might use while discussing investment yields.
“Payment received in three installments. Information provided regarding eastern warehouse transfers, border clearances, and movement schedules for internal security rotation. Final message confirms willingness to continue cooperation in exchange for protection when leadership changes.”
Kai lowers the page and looks at Pavel. “Your words, not mine.”
Pavel breaks down, then lunges forward as far as the men holding him allow. “I was promised immunity!” he blurts. “They said there’d be a transition, said your father was losing control because there’s a division in the ranks, and if I got ahead of it—”
He stops because he hears himself too late. His mouth hangs open, his eyes go wild, and the silence that follows is almost comical.
I take one step toward him, and he recoils. “Say that again.”
“Pakhan, I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t call me that while you’re busy choking on another man’s cock. Say. That. Again.”
His gaze flickers toward the floor. “They said your father was losing control.”
I tilt my head. “And?”
“And that there would be… changes.”
There’s a small sound from the back of the room, something between a huff and a laugh. Maksim. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms folded, the scar at the corner of his mouth pulling even more and making him look fucking feral.
“N—Nikolaj,” Pavel manages finally. “I was loyal, I swear it. I’ve been with your family for years. Your father—”
“You’re not talking to my father; you’re talking to me.”
A few years ago, men said Ruslan Dragovich’s name with the kind of reverence that edges on worship. The man who dragged the Dragovich Bratva out of exile and made our name feared once more. They called him Pakhan and meant it.
Now they say mine with their heads bowed and their palms sweating because the world has changed, and so have the rules.
