Pavel
The heavy oak door to his room was shut, but the silence inside felt louder than any argument. Pavel leaned back against it, his fists still clenched from the confrontation with his father. He hated the way his voice had sounded—urgent, almost pleading—and he hated the way his father had so easily dismissed him.
Sergio is my oldest friend, Pavel. We grew up together!
The words were a hammer blow. His father was a brilliant Glava—ruthless, feared, powerful—but his trust in Sergio Zhukova was a monumental, fatal flaw. It was a weakness born of sentimentality, and sentimentality was a deadly sin in their world.
Pavel walked over to the tall window. Beyond the glass, the River flowed, dark and cold, mirroring the churn in his stomach. He rubbed the back of his neck, the nervous habit he'd tried to break but never could when the stakes were this high. He could still see Sergio's face: that tight, calculating smile that never reached his eyes.
He's getting too hungry for power.
Vera's quiet question echoed in his mind: What if they want to take over?
Pavel knew his sister wasn't just being dramatic. The Petrovs were the recognized leaders, the Glavas of the entire Russian network. The Zhukovas were the next in line, the largest group beneath them. Sergio had the wealth, the muscle, and now, he had the ambition that burned with the cold intensity of a star.
Pavel pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. He needed to talk to someone he knew he could trust. Someone who wasn't blinded by history or loyalty. He scrolled until he found the contact: Dmitri K., his security chief and most reliable informant within the network.
He hesitated. If he raised this alarm through official channels and he was wrong, his father would see it as a direct challenge, confirming his belief that Pavel was just "spreading rumors." But if he was right, waiting meant certain disaster.
I just get a bad feeling about him and his son Nikolai. I think they're planning something.
He couldn't afford to just feel it. He needed proof.
Pavel quickly drafted a coded text to Dmitri, detailing a new, urgent assignment. He asked Dmitri to start quietly tracing two things:
* Any unusual movement of Zhukova assets or men in the regions bordering Petrov territory. It would be small, subtle—Sergio was too smart for a grand display.
* Any recent, unexplained disruptions in Petrov supply lines or contacts that look like 'bad luck.'
Pavel suddenly recalled two minor, yet strange, incidents over the last month—a delay in a shipment from the south, and a key informant who suddenly went silent. His father had dismissed both as incompetence.
What if they weren't incompetence? What if it was Sergio already testing the waters?
Pavel sent the message, the click of the 'send' button feeling like a gunshot in the silent room. The dread only intensified once the deed was done. He had just set his own counter-operation in motion, without the Glava's approval.
He walked over to his desk, pulled out a notepad, and began mapping the various regional holdings. He needed to think like Sergio, anticipate his moves.
If I were Sergio, and I wanted to crush the Glava, I wouldn't go for the head immediately. I would starve the body.
He drew a circle around a key port city, a major bottleneck for their shipments. If Sergio controlled this, he could strangle the Petrov finances without ever firing a bullet.
A sudden, sharp knock on his door made him jump.
"Pavel? Are you in there?" It was his mother, Zoya. Her voice was low and laced with concern.
He quickly slid the pad into a drawer and opened the door. His mother looked elegant even in a silk robe, but her eyes were shadowed with worry.
"Your father is still in his study," she whispered, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. "He's drinking too much tonight. He's angry at you for questioning his judgment."
"I know, Mama, but he's wrong," Pavel insisted, the urgency returning. "I saw the way Sergio looked at you when you gave him that box. He sees us as a means to an end. He sees Father as a wall to be climbed over."
Zoya took his hand, her touch cool. "I told your father to be careful, too. He refused to listen to me either." She looked at him with an expression of deep, almost resigned sorrow. "He trusts his history more than he trusts his own son."
Pavel felt a wave of protective anger surge up. "Then I will have to be the one to protect the family. I'm going to find out what Sergio is planning, Mama. I already set things in motion."
Zoya's eyes widened slightly, her Italian Mafia instincts instantly translating his veiled language. "Be careful, moj syn. Your father's trust is dangerous, but Sergio's ambition is a knife in the dark. If you move against him, you must do it perfectly."
She kissed his cheek, a silent blessing and a warning combined. "Good night, Pavel."
As she left, Pavel went back to his desk. He pulled the map out again. He was officially on his own. He was the only thing standing between his family and Sergio Zhukova's cold, calculating desire for the Glava's crown. The fight had begun, and the first rule of war was to never let the enemy know you were watching.