The Russian Mafia’s Queen
One by one, the men nodded.
Nicholas turned back to the grave, his eyes hollow but burning. “Goodbye, little brother,” he whispered, barely audible. “I’ll make sure the devil chokes on the souls I send him for you.”
And then he walked away.
Because mourning was over.
War had begun.
_
The underground warehouse smelled like oil, blood, and secrets. It wasn’t just a meeting place—it was a battlefield waiting to be drawn.
Nicholas stood at the head of the long steel table, blueprints and surveillance photos spread across it like a deck of cards. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, untouched. His jaw was tight, eyes locked on the image of a man taped in the center.
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