Rain's slamming down on this Manhattan rooftop, soaking my jacket, stinging my eyes. I'm crouched next to Nikolai Volkov, my boss, my family. My karambit knife's tucked under my sleeve, its weight keeping me calm. Below, a black van sits in the alley, 500 kilos of gold inside—$40 million, the Bratva's biggest deal ever. Neon lights from the city glow through the storm, but my gut's screaming. Something's wrong, and I don't ignore that feeling.
"Eyes open, Vitya," Nikolai says, his voice rough like gravel. He's scanning the shadows, gray eyes sharp. "This gold's our future."
I nod, muscles tight. I'm trained in Systema—knives, guns, fighting dirty. Nikolai pulled me out of the gutters when my parents got gunned down in a gang fight. I was eight. He's the only dad I've known. I'd die for him. I've killed for him. "Feels off," I mutter, checking the rooftops across the street.
He grunts. "Always does."
I tap my earpiece. "Anya, you got the buyer on your drone?"
"Up and running," Anya says, her voice sharp in my ear. "They're late. I don't like it, Vitya."
"Keep watching," I tell her. Anya's my oldest friend, a hacker who left the Bratva to go clean. She's back for me, but I know she hates this life. I trust her—mostly. Rain drips off my hood as I shift, watching the alley. This deal's too big, too smooth. That's when things go bad.
A red dot flashes on Nikolai's chest. "Down!" I yell, diving for him. Too late. A sniper's bullet rips through his head, blood spraying like paint on the wet concrete. He drops, eyes wide, gone. My heart stops. Nikolai, the man who raised me, who gave me a purpose is dead.
Gunfire explodes below. Drones buzz in like angry wasps, their red lights flashing, cameras spinning. Masked guys swarm the van, moving like soldiers, not street punks. I roll behind a metal box, yanking out my Glock. Rage burns in my chest, but I'm ice. I've got to be. "Anya, who are these bastards?" I hiss into the earpiece.
"Jammers!" she snaps. "They're blocking my drone. Military stuff, Vitya!"
I peek out. Six guys, maybe more, hitting the van. They're fast, coordinated. I vault the box, landing on one. My karambit slashes his throat, quick and quiet. Blood pours, mixing with the rain. Two others turn, rifles up. I dive, using the dead guy as a shield, and fire my Glock. Two shots, two kills. Their bodies hit the ground, but the van's doors slam shut. Tires screech. The gold's gone, speeding into the night.
I crawl to Nikolai. His face is slack, rain pooling in his open eyes. I check his pulse—nothing. "Trust no one," he said ten minutes ago, half-laughing. Now it's a knife in my gut. My hands shake, but I close his eyes. Whoever did this is dead. I swear it on his blood, on the Bratva.
A drone dives at me, shooting a dart. It grazes my shoulder, stinging like fire. I spin, throwing my karambit. The knife hits the drone's battery, and it bursts into flames, crashing in a spark of metal. Bullets rip the concrete near my feet. I sprint for the stairwell, sliding inside as more shots echo. The Bratva's going to fall apart without Nikolai. That gold was our power, our future. I'm the only one left to fix this mess.
In the stairwell, I reload my Glock, breathing hard. My mind's racing. This wasn't a rival gang. The drones, the teamwork, it's too slick, too clean. Someone big, someone outside the Bratva. Not the Italians, not the Triads. Someone new. "Anya, give me something," I say, voice low.
"Got a signal trace," she says, sounding tense. "It's coming from a server in Brooklyn. I'm digging, but Vitya, this feels like a trap."
"Safehouse," I growl. "One hour. Get there."
I hit the street, neon signs blurring past me. My backup knife's in my boot, heavy, real. Nikolai's gone. The gold's gone. Someone just started a war with the *Bratva*, and I'm going to end it. I keep my hood up, slipping through crowds. Sirens wail in the distance, cops already sniffing around the rooftop. Nikolai's blood is still on my hands, sticky under the rain. I don't wipe it off. It's a reminder.
I grab a cab, tell the driver to head to Brooklyn. Anya's text comes through: Server's in a fight club. Watch your back. I don't plan to play nice tonight. The cab drops me near a row of warehouses, where music thumps from a brick building. A crowd's inside, screaming around a cage where two guys beat each other bloody. Sweat and beer stink up the air. I spot my guy—wiry, ex-military, talking on a burner phone in the corner.
I move fast, blending with the drunks and gamblers. He's giving orders, not watching his back. Stupid. I grab his arm, twist it hard, and drag him to a back room. The door slams, cutting off the crowd's roar. I shove him against the wall, my knife at his throat. "Who hit the rooftop?" I snarl.
He spits, grinning like he's got no fear. "You're done, Kuznetsov."
I slam my fist into his gut, and he doubles over, gasping. I press the knife harder, blood beading on his skin. "Talk, or you're meat."
He glares, but I see the fear now. "Romanov," he chokes out. "That's all you get."
Romanov. The name's a ghost, no Bratva ties, no street talk. I lean in, blade biting deeper. "Where's the gold?"
He laughs, coughing, blood on his lips. "Gone. You're too late."
I cut his throat, clean and fast. He slides down the wall, dead. I wipe the blade on his jacket, heart pounding. Romanov's no rival gang—he's an outsider, playing a bigger game. I need Anya to crack this name, find out who he is. I step back into the rain, the crowd's cheers fading behind me. The *Bratva*'s bleeding—Nikolai's dead, the gold's gone, and I'm all that's left to stop it from falling apart.
But Nikolai's words are stuck in my head: "Trust no one." I've got Dmitri back at the safehouse, Nikolai's right-hand man, big as a bear and twice as mean. He's loyal to the Bratva, but he's never liked me much. Thinks I'm too young, too soft because I don't kill for fun. Then there's Anya, who's hiding something—I can hear it in her voice. And Elena, Nikolai's daughter, who doesn't even know her dad was a crime boss. She'll come looking for answers, and I can't let her get hurt.
I slip into an alley, checking my Glock. Romanov's out there, holding my gold, thinking he's won. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know the Blade. I'm coming for him, and I'm bringing hell. But first, I need answers, and Brooklyn's just the start. The rain's cold, but my blood's fire. This war's mine now.