The car slid into a quiet street lined with thin-barked birch trees, their white limbs glowing faintly under the amber streetlamps. Krestovsky Island was serene on the surface—quiet, exclusive, respectable. But Anton knew better. Half the deals that kept Saint Petersburg on its knees were struck in villas just like these.
The safehouse wasn't much to look at from the outside—old stone, narrow windows, a gated fence. No cameras. No curiosity. Just shadows and silence.
Anton stepped out of the car and pulled his gloves on slowly. Leather. Black. The kind that never left fingerprints.
The front door opened before he could knock. Two of his men stepped aside silently—grim-faced and stiff. The kind of men who didn't flinch when things got ugly.
"Is he inside?" Anton asked.
"Kitchen. Tied to the chair. No noise, no fuss."
Anton nodded once and entered.
The air inside smelled of cheap tobacco and disinfectant. There was a humming refrigerator, the tick of a clock, and beneath it all—the muffled tension of fear.
He walked down the hallway and into the kitchen.
There he was.
Borodin. Early forties. Accountant. Glasses askew. Face pale. Hands bound to a chair with a nylon rope that cut into his wrists. He looked up as Anton entered, and immediately started to speak.
"Anton—Mr. Reznikov—it's not what you think—"
Anton didn't say a word.
He moved to the counter, calmly poured himself a glass of water from a bottle, and took a sip. He didn't need threats. He was the threat.
"Odessa," Anton said quietly. "You thought I wouldn't notice?"
Borodin swallowed hard. His lips trembled. "It was just a side arrangement—I didn't mean to offend—"
"You didn't offend," Anton interrupted, still calm. "You lied. You moved against me. You endangered an entire shipment—our shipment."
Borodin's eyes widened. "I was trying to make up for the losses last quarter. Your father's pressure—he doesn't allow space for errors—"
At the mention of his father, Anton's jaw twitched.
"Don't bring him into this," he said, more ice than man now. "You're not worth his attention."
Borodin opened his mouth again, but Anton stepped closer. One hand on the back of the chair, the other on Borodin's shoulder. He leaned in.
"You thought you could skim from my table. You thought Odessa would be quiet. It won't be."
A long silence followed.
Borodin finally broke, his voice shaking. "I have a daughter—"
Anton straightened.
For the briefest second, something flickered in his expression. He remembered another face—his mother's, at the kitchen table, a tea glass in hand, humming an old Soviet lullaby she used to sing to him when the house was too dark.
He blinked it away.
"We all have people we love," he said.
And then he turned and walked out of the room.
Behind him, one of his men followed quietly. "What should we do with him?"
Anton didn't pause. "Take the fingers that touched the ledgers. Leave the rest. Let him live—poor, afraid, and under watch."
The man nodded. That was mercy. For Anton, that was compassion.
As he stepped outside into the night air again, Anton finally exhaled. His hands were steady, his eyes calm. But something had changed.
He'd shown restraint.
He'd chosen not to kill.
And it wasn't because of Borodin's daughter.
It was because of her
————————————————————
By the time Anton arrived at the Reznikov estate—an expansive, brutalist manor of glass and stone that rose like a scar on the edge of the city—it was nearly three in the morning.
Inside, the lights were low, but he wasn't alone.
His father was waiting.
Viktor Reznikov.
A relic of the old world. Sharp as broken glass and twice as dangerous. He didn't run the empire anymore—not in name—but he pulled the strings behind every curtain. His presence filled the room like smoke: invisible, but choking.
Anton entered his father's private study. It was a cold room—floor-to-ceiling books, maps of shipping routes, old weapons mounted on the wall. A single glass of brandy sat untouched on the desk.
Viktor didn't rise when Anton stepped in.
Just looked at him. Long and slow.
"I hear you spared Borodin."
Anton didn't respond at first. He walked to the desk, his boots echoing on the marble floor.
"I did."
His father tilted his head.
"Why?"
No accusation in his voice. Just a challenge.
Anton didn't flinch. "Because dead men can't be made examples. And fear spreads better when it breathes."
Viktor studied him, quiet. Then:
"No. You spared him because you're getting soft."
"And softness," he said, voice dropping, "kills kings."
Anton's jaw locked. He wanted to say it wasn't softness. That it was strategy. That a frightened man walking among your enemies did more to control them than a corpse in a ditch. But that wasn't the whole truth.
The truth had long red hair and a fire in her eyes.
And no place in his world.
His father stood, finally. Loomed.
"If you keep letting your emotions bleed through, this empire will eat you alive. The Bratva is watching, Anton. They already question if you have what it takes."
Anton didn't move. But his voice, when it came, was cold steel.
"They can question. Let them. I answer only to results."
There was a long silence. His father smirked, faintly. A thin, bitter curve of his mouth.
"You're not your mother, Anton."
A flicker. Something passed through Anton's eyes—fury, grief, restraint. But he didn't let it rise.
"No," he said.
"But she's the only part of me worth anything."
He turned and left the room.
⸻
Later That Night
Alone in his private quarters—glass walls, a view of the city drowning in fog—Anton poured himself a drink. He didn't taste it. He was thinking.
The world was closing in.
His enemies wanted weakness. His father demanded strength. The Bratva watched him like wolves. Every decision he made, every breath he took, had weight.
But in his mind—she lingered.
A girl with a sharp tongue and too-honest eyes.
A girl who had no idea what kind of fire she'd just walked into.
Why can't I forget her?
He'd see her again. That much he was sure of.
And next time, there would be no accidents.