The underground chamber was nothing like the world above.
No light, no warmth — only the steady drip of water from the pipes and the hum of power running through concrete walls.
Nicolas stood before the steel chair bolted to the floor. The intruder sat bound to it — wrists and ankles strapped tight, head slumped forward. Blood streaked his chin where Matteo's men had struck him during capture.
Nicolas rolled up his sleeves, silent. He didn't speak, didn't rage — that was the worst kind of quiet.
Matteo stood near the door, uneasy. "Sir… he's barely conscious."
"Good," Nicolas said, voice calm and dead cold. "He'll remember every word."
On the metal table beside him lay an array of tools — pliers, a soldering iron, a small torch, a syringe of saline, and a set of electric probes. Precision instruments. Not of war — of control.
Nicolas picked up the torch, ignited it, then let the flame hiss for a long moment in front of the intruder's face. The man stirred, groaning.
"Let's start again," Nicolas said softly. "Who sent you?"
The man coughed, blood and spit mixing. "You… you think you scare me, Volkov?"
Nicolas tilted his head. "No." He pressed the heated metal against the man's thigh. The flesh sizzled — the smell sharp and vile. The scream echoed off the stone walls.
"I terrify you."
He dropped the torch, leaned close. "Names. Contacts. Who ordered the hit on my lab?"
The man laughed weakly, through pain. "You're finished. They'll come for you. For your woman too."
That single word — woman — snapped something inside Nicolas.
He slammed his hand into the man's jaw, then grabbed him by the collar. "Say her name again," he hissed, "and I'll make sure you choke on your own tongue."
Matteo flinched but said nothing. He had seen Nicolas like this before — but never this raw.
Nicolas grabbed a knife, slicing open the man's shirt. "Let's see who you really work for."
As the fabric fell away, the dim light caught something on the intruder's torso — a dark, coiled tattoo etched into the skin just above the ribs. A serpent devouring its own tail.
Nicolas froze. Recognition flickered.
The Osborous.
Half Moscow. Half Albanian. A hybrid syndicate — brutal, silent, and believed to have been wiped out years ago. They trafficked in weapons, secrets, and revenge. And now… they were here.
"Impossible," Matteo whispered, staring at the mark. "They were dismantled."
"No," Nicolas said grimly, eyes narrowing. "They were rebuilding. In silence."
He stepped back, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened. The rage was there — but so was something colder. Strategy.
He leaned close again to the intruder, voice low, deadly steady. "Tell me which of your heads is pulling the strings. Moscow or Tirana?"
The man's lips bled as he smiled. "Both. You don't get it, Volkov. They don't just want your weapons — they want you."
Before Nicolas could react, the man started convulsing. His veins turned dark, eyes rolling back.
Matteo swore. "He's poisoned himself again—damn it!"
Nicolas stepped back, jaw tight. "Cyanide, same as the first one."
The man went still. Silence again. Only the echo of Nicolas's breathing remained — heavy and controlled, but barely.
After a long pause, Matteo said quietly, "Sir… what now?"
Nicolas wiped the blood from his hands, his expression unreadable. "Now," he said coldly, "we let Greece know the storm they wanted has already arrived."
---
Later that night…
The rain hadn't stopped. The Greek head, Aras Demetriou, waited in his private villa on the coast, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. When Nicolas entered, drenched and silent, Aras knew something had changed.
"They were Osborous," Nicolas said, his voice like steel. "Your docks were used for the exchange. My lab was hit. My woman nearly killed."
Aras frowned deeply. "That's impossible. Osborous is a ghost organization."
"Then it's time we start hunting ghosts," Nicolas replied.
He placed a blood-stained photograph of the serpent tattoo on the table. "They're moving under both our territories — Moscow's money, Albanian smuggling routes. If we don't move first, they'll burn us both."
Aras's eyes darkened. "You think they're after the weapons?"
"They're after control," Nicolas said. "And they're using our war to cover theirs."
For a long time, neither man spoke. The thunder rolled again, low and distant.
Finally, Aras exhaled, smoke curling upward. "Then we burn them first."
Nicolas's jaw tightened. "We'll need more than fire. We'll need truth. And for that…" — he looked out toward the sea — "I'll make them speak, one by one."
The storm outside raged harder, as if echoing the one that had just begun inside him.