The safehouse is a dive bar in Hell's Kitchen, all dim lights and stale beer. I push through the door, rain still dripping off my jacket. My Glock's tucked under my shirt, my backup knife in my boot. Nikolai's blood is dry on my knuckles, a weight I can't shake. An hour ago, he was gunned down, 500 kilos of gold stolen, and some bastard named Romanov became my enemy. I'm here to rally the *Bratva*, but Nikolai's words—trust no one—are loud in my head.
Inside, the bar's packed with *Bratva* guys—hard faces, scars, and tattoos. The council's here, the big shots who run our world. Dmitri "The Bear" Sokolov stands at the back, arms crossed, big as a damn truck. He's Nikolai's right-hand man, all muscle and no patience. His eyes lock on me, cold, like I'm the reason everything's gone to hell. I don't flinch, but I feel the room shift. These guys are scared, angry, and looking for someone to blame.
I step to the center, boots creaking on the sticky floor. "Nikolai's dead," I say, voice steady. "Sniper got him. Gold's gone. We got hit hard."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Dmitri steps forward, his voice booming. "You were there, Vitya. You let him die."
The words hit like a punch. I clench my fists, keeping my cool. "I fought. They were pros—drones, jammers, military moves. Not a street crew."
Dmitri snorts, spitting on the floor. "You're Nikolai's pet, not a leader. We need strength now, not excuses."
The council's watching, guys like Ivan and Yuri, old-school *Bratva*. They're nodding at Dmitri, and it stings. I've bled for this family, but Dmitri's got years on me, respect I don't. "I'm finding who did this," I say, staring him down. "I got a name—Romanov. He's behind it."
"Romanov?" Ivan asks, leaning forward. "Never heard it."
"Me neither," I say. "But I killed one of his guys in Brooklyn. He's no *Bratva*. He's an outsider, playing big."
Dmitri laughs, loud and mean. "You killed a nobody and think you're a hero? Nikolai's dead, and you're chasing ghosts."
I step closer, voice low. "You got a better plan, Bear? Or you just gonna yell?"
His face goes red, fists balling up. For a second, I think he's gonna swing. Then Anya's voice crackles in my earpiece. "Vitya, I'm outside. Got something on Romanov. Hurry."
I hold Dmitri's glare, not backing down. "We find the gold, we find the killer. I'm not stopping. You with me or not?"
Before he answers, the bar door crashes open. Five guys storm in, leather jackets, guns out. They're *Bratva*—but not ours. Rivals from Brighton Beach, smelling blood in the water. "Time's up, Kuznetsov!" one yells, firing a shot into the ceiling.
Chaos erupts. Tables flip, bottles shatter. I dive behind the bar, Glock in hand. Dmitri roars, grabbing a guy and slamming him into a wall. The council scatters, some pulling weapons, others running. I pop up, firing twice—two rivals drop, blood pooling. A third swings a shotgun my way. I roll, glass crunching under me, and throw my knife. It hits his shoulder, and he screams, dropping the gun.
Dmitri's a beast, tossing guys like ragdolls. He smashes one through a window, glass exploding into the street. I'm fast, precise—two more shots, two more down. But a rival grabs a *Bratva* kid, young guy named Misha, and puts a gun to his head. "Back off, Kuznetsov!" he shouts.
I freeze, Glock steady. "Let him go," I say, voice cold. "Or you're dead."
He laughs, but his eyes are nervous. Dmitri charges, no warning, and tackles the guy. The gun goes off, grazing Misha's arm. I fire, dropping the rival before he can shoot again. The bar's quiet now, just groans and broken glass. Dmitri's panting, blood on his knuckles. He saved Misha, but his glare says he's not doing it for me.
"Thanks," I mutter, retrieving my knife.
"Don't thank me," he growls. "You're not Nikolai."
The council's back, looking shaken. Ivan claps Dmitri's shoulder, like he's the hero. I swallow my anger. We're alive, but the *Bratva*'s cracking. These rivals came because we're weak without Nikolai. I need the gold, and I need Romanov's head.
Anya slips in, her hood up, laptop bag slung over her shoulder. She's small, sharp-eyed, with a smirk that hides her nerves. "Vitya, we gotta talk," she says, glancing at Dmitri. "Outside."
I nod, but before I move, a girl steps through the busted door. She's young, maybe 19, with Nikolai's gray eyes and a stubborn jaw. Elena Volkov—his daughter. My stomach drops. She doesn't know her dad ran the *Bratva*. She shouldn't be here.
"Viktor," she says, voice shaking but firm. "Where's my father?"
The room goes quiet. Dmitri raises an eyebrow, and Ivan looks away. I step toward her, keeping my voice soft. "Elena, you shouldn't be here. It's not safe."
"Don't lie," she snaps. "I heard about a shooting. Where is he?"
I hesitate. She deserves the truth, but not here, not now. "He's gone," I say, hating the words. "I'm sorry."
Her face crumples, but she doesn't cry. "How? Who?"
"Not here," I say, guiding her toward the door. "I'll explain, but you gotta go."
She pulls away, eyes blazing. "I'm not a kid. Tell me now."
Dmitri cuts in, voice hard. "Girl, this ain't your world. Get out."
Elena glares at him, fearless. I step between them. "Enough, Dmitri. I'll handle it."
He snorts but backs off. I turn to Elena, lowering my voice. "I'm finding who did this. I promise. But you stay away, okay?"
She doesn't answer, just stares like she sees through me. I don't like it. She's Nikolai's kid—stubborn, smart, and trouble I can't afford.
Anya tugs my sleeve. "Vitya, now."
I follow her outside, rain hitting my face again. The street's empty, but I feel eyes everywhere. "What you got?" I ask.
She pulls out her laptop, fingers flying. "Romanov's ex-GRU, Russian military intel. He's got a syndicate—tech, mercenaries, the works. No *Bratva* ties, no gang ties. He's a ghost, Vitya, and he's playing for the whole city."
I curse under my breath. An outsider like Romanov hitting us means this is bigger than revenge. He wants our world. "Where is he?" I ask.
"No location yet," she says, biting her lip. "But I found a signal tied to a club in Times Square. It's active tonight."
"Then we're going," I say, checking my Glock. "You sure about this?"
She hesitates, just a second too long. "Yeah. Sure."
I don't like that pause. Anya's hiding something, but I can't call her out now. Nikolai's dead, the gold's gone, and the *Bratva*'s ready to eat itself alive. Dmitri's waiting for me to fail, Elena's asking questions I can't answer, and Romanov's out there, laughing. I need answers, and Times Square's my next stop.
I glance back at the bar. Elena's still inside, talking to Ivan. Dmitri's watching her, then me. His eyes say he's not on my side. Nikolai's voice echoes—trust no one. I'm starting to think he was right. I pull my hood up and head into the rain, Anya at my side. Romanov's got my gold, my family's blood on his hands. I'm coming for him, and nothing's stopping me.