Kiril's POV
The leather of the black Mercedes smelled of expense and fear. Kiril hated the smell, but he was used to it. He was sitting in the back, behind the tinted, bulletproof glass, next to his younger brother, Nikolai. Their father, Sergio Zhukova, was in the passenger seat, talking quietly to the driver—a man named Dmitri, who had the neck of a bull and the eyes of a wolf.
The car was a silent, moving fortress, cutting through the cold country night. Kiril stared out at the passing trees, their shadows whipping by like black ghosts. The air inside the car felt thick, heavy with the weight of unsaid things and hidden ambitions.
His father, Sergio, finally turned around, his smile—the one he'd worn for Vladimir Petrov—now completely gone. His face, usually a mask of calculating charm, was stripped down to a cold, hard plane. He held the small, velvet-wrapped box Vera's mother, Zoya, had given him. He didn't open it. He just weighed it in his hand, a look of contempt flashing across his face.
"Did you see the way Pavel was looking at me?" Sergio's voice was low, a rasp of irritation. "The boy is a viper. A suspicious, ungrateful viper."
Nikolai, who was meticulously cleaning his custom-made switchblade, didn't look up. "He suspects something, Papa. He's not stupid. He sees the ambition in you."
Kiril shifted, feeling a familiar spike of anxiety. He always felt this way around his brother and father when they talked business. Nikolai was a natural; he thrived on the danger, the planning, the cold-blooded efficiency. Kiril... not so much. He was a better strategist than a soldier, a better observer than a killer. But in this family, you had to be a killer.
"Of course, he sees ambition," Sergio sneered, tossing the velvet box onto the seat between them. "Every man in this business sees ambition. The difference is, I have the brains and the network to realize it. Vladimir is too soft now. Too dependent on his Italian wife and his old-man trust. He's the Glava of the past, not the future."
Kiril picked up the small box. It felt soft and utterly meaningless compared to the conversation. "What about the Ivanovich deal, Father? Is that actually important, or is it just cover?"
Sergio let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "It's a magnificent cover, Kiril. We will speak of the Ivanovich deal for months. We will look like the most loyal, cooperative of partners. We'll even make a small profit from it. But no, it's not the real prize." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, even though no one else could hear them over the engine.
"The real prize is the network. It's the moment of maximum confusion, when one Glava falls, and the other rises to claim his crown. We will take the Glava title, Kiril. Not just part of the territory—all of it."
Nikolai finally stopped cleaning his knife, his eyes gleaming with dark excitement. "When do we hit, Papa? Before the Ivanovich deal is finalized?"
"Patience, my son," Sergio said, patting Nikolai's knee. "Vladimir is surrounded by his old guard. We need to weaken him first. We need to create a distraction. And we need to wait for the right time to use the one thing Vladimir trusts more than anything else..."
Kiril already knew the answer, and a chill of revulsion went through him. "His history."
Sergio smiled, a genuine, chilling smile this time. "Exactly. His 'oldest friend.' His 'fifty years of brotherhood.' He is blind, Kiril. He refuses to see what is right in front of him: a man with a much hungrier son than his own, ready to step into his shoes."
Kiril looked at his brother, Nikolai, who was already running through logistics in his head, a predatory focus in his eyes. Nikolai was ready to do whatever their father commanded.
"What is our first move, then?" Kiril asked, forcing his voice to be steady. He had to play the part, or their father would see him as weak.
Sergio stared out at the darkness, his mind already far from the car. "We start by making him feel safe. Then, we start making small, quiet movements on the edges of his operation—a failed shipment here, a lost contact there. Something that looks like bad luck, not sabotage. We make Pavel worry, and we watch the boy try to warn his father. Because the more Pavel warns him, the more Vladimir will see his son as a panicked child, and not a legitimate threat."
He picked up the velvet box again, finally flicking the lid open. Inside was a delicate, gold-and-sapphire cross necklace. He looked at it for a long moment, then slammed the lid shut.
"And now," Sergio said, his voice returning to its normal, colder volume, "we go home. We act like the loyal partners we pretended to be tonight. Vladimir Petrov is living on borrowed time. His fear has already moved into his home, in the eyes of his son and daughter. Soon, it will move into his office."
Kiril looked at the necklace, a silent promise of destruction now resting on the seat beside him. He felt the cold, hard weight of his family's ambition pressing down on his chest. They were driving toward a future painted in blood, and there was no way to get out of the car.