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Viktor speaks, his energy visibly waning. “You should lean on him more, you know. He's always had your back.”
I shoot him a quick, questioning glance. “Viktor, what are you muttering about?”
He offers a weak smirk. “Just saying, Stasya. Life’s short, and you've got strong allies. I know it’s your way to think you can take on the world all by yourself. It’s an admirable quality, even if it gets you into trouble half the time.”
“But—”
“But you don’t need to bear the weight of the world on your shoulders. Samuil is there for you, for us. And shoulders like his are made for bearing weight. Work with him, be allies. Please.”
I bite back a reply, the heaviness of the situation pressing in on me.
“Fine. I’ll…trynot to be so headstrong and stubborn this time.”
“Good. All I wanted to hear.” He opens his mouth to say something else, but winces in pain instead. After a few moments of composing himself, he tries again. “God, this is irritating.”
“Rest. I’ll be close at hand, Vitya.”
“You always are.”
Exiting the room into the stark hallway, my mind races, thinking about what's next. Samuil is soon beside me, moving with that usual focused intent, every step calculated and sure.
The hospital’s maze-like corridors seem endless. Outside threats and challenges await, casting shadows on our path. But one thing remains clear—our collective purpose. There’s a solid foundation of trust between us built from years of navigating this life together and facing off against common enemies.
Sturdy and strong, it will carry us into battle.
Chapter 4
Samuil
Pungent, earthy aromas of borscht mingle with the savory scent of pirozhki, filling the expansive dining room with the warmth only a well-cooked Russian meal can bring. The rich, crimson soup, laden with beets and tender chunks of beef, steams in ornate porcelain bowls set before each of us.
Beside the borscht, pirozhki with varied fillings—cabbage, minced meat, and apples—lay on the finest China, their flaky crusts perfectly golden. Despite the inviting spread, a tension blankets the room.
My brothers, Andrei, Leo, and Roman, settle into their respective seats, while their wives, Sandra, Nikita, and Valentina, gracefully join, exchanging tight-lipped smiles that fail to hide underlying concerns. Damien, always the observer, lingers at the periphery, his keen eyes absorbing more than he lets on, waiting for the opportune moment to insert himself.
Sandra and Andrei's young twins chatter in hushed whispers at the far end, momentarily oblivious to the strain enveloping the adults, their youthful innocence a stark contrast to our grim demeanor.
My gaze intermittently moves between the meal and the people around the table. My family, bound by blood, loyalty, anddark secrets that have seeped into our very being, intertwining our fates inextricably. I restrain a sigh, leaning back in my sturdy oak chair, fingers gently drumming against the cool, polished wood of the table.
"No shop talk," Andrei—the Boss—reminds sternly, his intense gaze sweeping across us, his usual firmness wilting under the weight of his worry.
A fragile silence follows until Nikita, the gentle ballerina with eyes reflecting years of discipline and soft strength, quietly asserts, "Some matters cannot wait, Andrei."
My chest tightens as I break my silence. No time like the present to bring it up.
"Viktor Zaitsev was attacked."
The name falls like a stone into a still pond, ripples of concern emanating throughout the room. Leo, also known as "One-Eye", levels a sharp glance at me, while Roman’s steady gaze betrays a flicker of alarm.
Valentina, once known as "The Ghost," exudes an eerie calm, her eyes flashing with a glint of dormant danger while Sandra's spine stiffens noticeably. Her alliance with our family is more than marital, it’s a strategic union of powerful bloodlines. Any threat to our stability is an insult to her legacy.
"They intended to eliminate him from the Death Match," I continue, voicing the ugly truth. “At least, that’s my theory.”
"And Anastasia?" Roman probes, his measured tone threading a thin line between concern and strategy.
My jaw clenches at the mention of her name, emotions surging like a storm beneath my composed exterior. "She's entered in his stead."
A chorus of exasperated sighs and groans intertwine, while Sandra's eyes, fierce and maternal, lock onto mine. "This is not her fight, Samuil. She doesn’t belong in that underworld."
