"Move!"
Aleksei's voice cut through the chaos like a blade, his rifle raised as bullets screamed past him, sparks flying off the rusting containers stacked like tombstones. The Bratva convoy had barely made it to the docks before the ambush lit up the night like a warzone.
"They're in the cranes!" Mikhail barked, his breath ragged. "Top rig!"
"Fuckers have snipers!" Aleksei ducked behind a crate as a bullet slammed into the metal next to his head. "I count four."
From across the open ground, Borya Morozov walked through the smoke like death given form, black coat sweeping behind him, eyes cold, unblinking.
"Light it up," he ordered.
"Sir?" Aleksei glanced sideways.
Borya's lips barely moved. "Burn them out."
Aleksei grinned grimly. "With pleasure."
He turned, signaling to Viktor behind a truck. "Grenades. Top rig. Make it rain!"
The dull thunk of a launcher echoed.
Then fire.
One, two, three…explosions ripped through the steel rig, lighting up the sky with flames. The screams of agents dropped from the metal skeleton, bodies tumbling in arcs of fire and bone.
"Cover left!" Mikhail roared. "They're trying to flank us!"
"They won't make it past me," Borya muttered.
A shot cracked. One agent hit the ground, throat shredded open. Another screamed. Bratva men surged forward with ruthless precision, sweeping across the docks like a dark tide.
Aleksei reloaded, eyes burning. "This isn't a raid. This is fucking war."
"It's always war," Borya replied, deadpan. "Only the front changes."
From the far end of the shipping yard, spotlights blazed through the smoke.
"FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
Borya's men didn't even pause.
"Cover fire, now!" Aleksei ordered.
Gunfire exploded from the shadows.
The feds responded with brutal force, and for a moment, the air was so thick with smoke, blood, and death that even sound felt drowned.
"Yakov's down!" someone shouted from behind a burning SUV.
Mikhail spun, grabbed Yakov by the arm and dragged him behind cover. Blood soaked through his vest.
"Yakov..Yakov, stay with me!"
Borya knelt beside them.
"He's gone."
Mikhail stared at him. "But.."
Borya stood. "We move. Now. Before we lose more."
"You're just going to…"
"We grieve later." His voice was ice. "Move!"
Aleksei's voice cut in through the comms. "Truck's loaded. We can push through the north wall!"
"Drive it through." Borya didn't flinch.
A moment later, the growl of the engine thundered across the dock as the armored Bratva truck barreled forward, slamming through stacked crates and punching a hole in the perimeter.
"Out! Now!"
Borya led the escape, picking off the agents in their path. Smoke trailing them like ghosts. Bodies behind. Sirens in the distance.
Across Moscow.
"Son of a bitch!!"
Chief Nathaniel Langford's fist shattered the antique desk lamp.
"Four years!" he snarled, pacing the room like a caged animal. "Four years of raids, investigations, intel… and what do we get? Another pile of our own goddamn corpses!"
He spun toward his aide. "You told me we had them! You said they'd be trapped!"
"They…sir…they must've had someone on the inside…"
"Oh, they always do, don't they? Always one fucking step ahead. The Morozovs are not ghosts! They're flesh and blood and arrogance, and I want that bastard's head on my goddamn wall!"
He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. Drew in the smoke like it was the only thing keeping him from choking on fury.
"I'm tired, Collins. I'm fucking tired of burying my men. Of writing letters to wives and kids."
He exhaled slowly.
"Get me Rian Adler."
"Sir?"
"Get. Me. Adler."
"Yes, sir."
Langford sank into his chair, eyes dark.
"If we can't kill Borya Morozov with guns," he murmured, voice venom-soft, "we'll use something worse."
Chief Langford sat with a cigarette burning low between his fingers, ash balanced at the tip like it was waiting for an excuse to fall. The smoke curled in lazy tendrils toward the high ceiling of his office, thick with the scent of coffee, leather, and exhaustion. The room was quiet, too quiet, except for the low rustle of papers as he flipped through the newest report. Bodies. Blood. Russian bastards slipping through their nets again.
A knock.
"Come in," he muttered, not looking up.
The door opened.
Boots. Soft steps. Then silence.
"Sit."
Across the polished mahogany desk now sat a young man…too pretty for the weight he carried. Delicate jawline, flawless pale skin, and dark lashes that curled too perfectly for a male face. He looked like he should be in a prep school uniform, not sitting across from the Chief of the FBI.
But that was Aubrey Langford.
Or as the underworld would soon know him: Dorian.
Chief Langford didn't waste time. He shoved the file across the desk.
"Your target."
Aubrey flipped it open and froze.
Borya Alexei Morozov.
The photo alone looked like sin in tailored black.
Sharp jaw. Eyes like frozen steel. Blond hair pushed back with precision. The type of man who walked into a room and made it his without saying a word. The type of man who got women pregnant just by looking at them.
Aubrey blinked, forcing the heat crawling up his neck to die.
Focus.
"You're going to get close to him. We need someone on the inside."
"You want me to seduce him?"
Langford looked up finally, gaze hard. "I want you to do what you do best. Infiltrate. Lie. Pretend to care. And when the time comes, deliver his empire to me."
Aubrey nodded slowly, closing the file.
"When do I start?"
"Tonight. He frequents a place called Sable. Wear something expensive. Look like prey."
An hour later, the bass of Sable vibrated through his chest.
Dorian stood at the edge of the VIP lounge, wearing black silk and tailored pants so tight they could be a second skin. He looked expensive, breakable, and off-limits..the perfect bait.
He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.
Then he waited.
For the lion.
"Only three dead. Four if you count the agent bleeding out in the snow."
Ivan Morozov's voice was calm. Too calm but that was his nature and it was a dangerous one.
The long obsidian table stretched like a shadow through the grand dining hall. Gold-rimmed plates, crystal goblets, candlelight flickering over ancient portraits. It was a meal that looked like royalty…if royalty sat atop blood-soaked empires.
Borya sat to his father's left, hands clean, suit fresh, but the cold of battle still clung to his skin.
"You did well," Ivan said, slicing through his venison. "Efficient. Contained. Minimal casualties."
He didn't look up. He never did when he praised. Praise, for Ivan Morozov, was rare currency. And it always came clipped.
Borya accepted it with a nod and silence.
Across from him, Katya smiled faintly, lifting her wine glass in quiet celebration. She'd heard about the firefight on the western docks…everyone had.
"You make it look so easy, little brother," Dimitri said, voice soaked in smug charm as he chewed. "Perhaps next time you'll let me come along and have some of the glory."
"You'd be dead in the first five minutes," Katya murmured.
Dimitri's eyes narrowed. "Careful, Katya. It's unbecoming to mock your elders."
"It's unbecoming to be one and still act like a jealous child," she snapped back sweetly.
Natalia Morozova set her fork down with the grace of a queen ending court. "Enough. We're eating."
Her eyes slid to Borya, as they always did when he spoke out of turn…or didn't speak at all.
"I suppose congratulations are in order," she said, expression unreadable. "Though you do have a habit of bringing the wolves to our door."
Borya stared across the table at her. "And you have a habit of pretending the wolves aren't already inside."
Silence.
Ivan lifted his wine glass. "Let him have this. We needed the morale."
"He's reckless," Natalia said, turning to Ivan now. "You feed his pride and ignore the consequences."
"He gets results," Ivan said simply.
"And what happens when that recklessness spills onto our doorstep?"
"It already has," Borya muttered.
Dimitri chuckled. "Always the martyr."
"I've seen more blood in six months than you've spilled in six years," Borya snapped. "And yet Mother still hands you the crown before the king's dead."
Natalia's face was stone. "I gave birth to you. Not permission to speak like that."
"You gave birth to a soldier and asked for a prince."
That shut the table down.
Even Ivan paused his cutting.
Across the table, Katya exhaled slowly, eyes down.
The tension snapped as the dining room doors opened.
Tatiana Volkov floated in, elegance poured into couture. Raven hair in a slick twist, black velvet dress, blood-red lips curled into a perfect smile.
"Am I late?" she asked softly.
No one answered.
"Borya," she said warmly, moving toward his side. "You didn't call. I worried."
"I don't report in."
She rested a manicured hand on his shoulder. "Only to your father. But I'm here for other things."
He stood.
"Where are you going?" Natalia asked.
"Out."
"Sit down," she ordered.
He didn't.
Their eyes met across the flickering candlelight. Hers, sharp as razors. His, colder than the Moscow winter outside.
"I said, sit."
"I'm not your pawn," Borya replied.
Ivan's voice cut in. "Let him go."
Tatiana stepped closer. "You haven't even touched your wine."
"I don't drink poison."
Her smile faded for a moment. Then flicked back up like nothing had cracked.
"Such drama, darling. Are you always this intense after a kill?"
He didn't respond. He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair.
"Borya," Dimitri called after him. "Tell your whores hello from the family."
Borya turned, slow, deliberate.
"You're not worth a bullet."
And then he left.
Katya stood a second later and excused herself with a sweet smile to no one.
The dining room fell into silence again.
But in Natalia's eyes, there was fire.
In Ivan's, calculation.
And in Tatiana's…nothing but cold strategy.
The Morozovs had built empires from silence.
But tonight, one of their kings walked out with thunder in his wake.