"Boss, the guest is here."
At that moment, the front door of Miloshevic's villa was knocked on. A subordinate entered and leaned in to speak quietly to him.
"What? Quickly, show them in!"
The moment he heard the report, Miloshevic's whole demeanor sharpened; he immediately gave the order, sprang to his feet, and hurried toward the entrance with an air of urgency.
Sure enough, it wasn't long before Miloshevic saw the man in question.
The newcomer was about fifty years old, dressed in a trench coat and wearing a wide-brimmed hat that lent him an air of mystery.
"Director Ross (OC), you've finally come!" Miloshevic blurted out in relief. "I've been waiting and waiting for you, like watching for the moon through the clouds!"
"Hmph. So flustered—don't you realize I'm a government official? Walking side-by-side with the head of the Sun Gang in broad daylight will attract attention."
Ross let out a cold snort through his nose, his tone cutting.
After a pause, he asked flatly, "Well? Have you dealt with those two Japanese?"
"Don't even mention it," Miloshevic said with a shake of his head. "I don't know if it's just their damned luck or what, but even with all the killers the Sun Gang sent, we couldn't finish them."
"Useless!" Ross snapped, his temper flaring. "And to think the Sun Gang calls itself Russia's largest syndicate—you can't even handle two petty Japanese operatives? In any case, you know as well as I do: if word of this gets out, none of us will get away unscathed."
"Director Ross, that's not quite fair."
Miloshevic's expression hardened at Ross's attitude. Yes, Ross was a senior Russian government figure, but the Sun Gang boss's pride could not be trampled on.
"We may be just a criminal syndicate," he said, his voice cold, "but we're not some soft fruit for anyone to squeeze. Our operations span all of Europe—if someone wants to destroy us, it won't be so easy."
The words carried the weight of an underworld veteran—ruthless, calculating—and the implication was plain: if Ross dared to stab him in the back, Milosevic would make sure they both went down together.
Sure enough, Ross's expression shifted at that, and after a moment it softened. He asked in a lower voice, "So, it can't be resolved? Who else knows about this?"
"Hardly anyone. Aside from you and me, Kirov's already been taken care of—he'll never talk. That means, besides the two of us, no one knows the details. Oh, and Jack… but he's dead too."
"Find those two Japanese, and get rid of them."
Ross seemed to decide it was time to leave. He walked over to the coat rack, took his hat from the hook, and said coldly, "If necessary, I'll provide assistance. The FSB's tracking system isn't just for show. Remember—make it clean."
"I understand!" Miloshevic finally smiled. This was what he'd wanted from summoning Ross in the middle of the night—his cooperation.
He wasn't a fool. On the contrary, he was shrewd enough to know the value of spreading the risk. What he wanted was to pull Ross directly into this mess, so that the man couldn't just wash his hands of it and stand aside like some uninvolved bystander.
Now, the only thing left was to deal with those two Japanese. Someone had mentioned their names before—one was Kaji Ryōji, the other Kitazawa Ryōta.
And that Kitazawa Ryōta… seemed to be rather famous.
Miloshevic retrieved a bottle of his finest aged red wine and lit a premium cigar. He savored the curl of smoke and took a slow sip of the wine, a little taste of heaven.
But as he sat there, a chill began creeping over him.
The fireplace roared with flames, filling the room with warmth, yet Miloshevic felt a bone-deep cold gnawing at him.
Suddenly, a gust of icy wind blew through, forcing a window open and filling the room with a faint, rattling sound.
Setting down his glass, he walked over to close the window, checking carefully to make sure it was latched tight before returning to his chair.
Still, the chill clung to his spine, as if he were standing in the depths of a frozen pit.
Years of life-and-death experience told him—this kind of feeling was never a good sign.
Without hesitation, he shouted toward the door, "Someone! Bring me my coat. I'm going out—now."
But unlike usual, no matter how loudly he called, there was no reply. No one knocked, no one entered. The villa was silent—eerily so—like he was the only living soul inside.
A creeping unease took hold. He moved to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out a pistol, gripping it tightly.
Then, in one motion, he yanked open the door—pointing the black muzzle straight ahead.
And froze.
There was no one there.
The bodyguard who always stood outside his door was gone.
Suppressing the growing panic, Miloshevic made his way to the first floor. With every step, his dread deepened—there was no sign of any of his men. Not just the guard outside his room, but every subordinate in the villa had vanished without a trace.
That was impossible. Without his orders, they would never leave their posts—certainly not in such an unnatural way.
Goosebumps prickled over his skin. His instincts screamed that something was terribly wrong.
Almost without thinking, he grabbed his car keys, still holding the pistol, and began to run for the door.
But before he'd taken more than a few steps, a nearby lamp clicked on.
The first floor, which had been pitch black only a moment ago, was now suddenly lit.
How could it have turned on… by itself?
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