Chicago's streets are gray and cold, wind cutting like a blade through my jacket. I'm crouched behind a dumpster in an alley, Glock in one hand, karambit knife ready. Anya's next to me, her phone glowing as she tracks Boris Volodin's signal. Elena's with us, gripping the knife I gave her, her breath steady despite the danger. My side's still raw from Katya's safehouse ambush, my jaw aches from Dmitri's punch in Queens, but I'm focused. Boris, a Bratva council member, is tied to the digital vault key for our 500 kilos of gold. Anya says he's here, in a meatpacking district bar, but Katya's drones are close, and this feels like a trap.
Dmitri's betrayal burns in my gut, he sold Nikolai to Romanov, and now he's with Katya, running a rogue Bratva crew. The gold's safe, but the key's out there, and Boris might have it. Nikolai's warning—trust no one—keeps me sharp. Anya's hiding something, her hesitations piling up. Elena's training with me, learning fast, but she's Nikolai's daughter, too stubborn for her own good. Sergei, that ghost, helped us before, but he's Katya's man, maybe. The Bratva council's on my side after the safehouse attack, but Dmitri's lies are splitting them. I need Boris to talk, or the key's gone.
Anya's phone beeps. "Boris is inside," she whispers, pointing to a brick bar with neon signs. "Three guys with him, armed. Katya's signal's strong—drones, maybe mercs."
"Get us in," I say, checking my Glock. "Elena, stay tight. Use what I taught you, but no risks."
She nods, her gray eyes fierce, like Nikolai's before a fight. I've shown her knife grips, how to dodge, but she's green. We move, sticking to shadows. The alley's quiet, too quiet. Anya hacks the bar's backdoor lock, and it clicks open. Inside, it's dim, smelling of whiskey and blood. Voices echo, Boris, gruff, talking fast.
We slip behind a stack of kegs, peering out. Boris is at a table, bald, scarred, a pistol beside him. Three Bratva guy stand guard, rifles ready. "Dmitri's got Katya's trust," Boris says, voice low. "The key's safe, but Viktor's close."
My blood runs hot. Boris is with Dmitri, maybe Katya too. I signal Anya to jam their comms, Elena to hold. I step out, Glock raised. "Boris, you're done. Where's the key?"
His guys spin, rifles up, but Boris laughs, leaning back. "Vitya, always rushing. You're too late."
"You sold us out," I say, voice cold. "Nikolai's dead because of you and Dmitri. Talk, or I carve you."
He smirks, hand on his pistol. "Katya's got bigger plans. Join us, kid."
Before I answer, the windows shatter. Drones buzz in, red lights flashing, darts flying. I dive, pulling Elena behind a bar. Anya ducks, her phone sparking as she jams the drones. Boris's guys fire, but two drop darts in their necks. I shoot a drone, sparks raining, and roll, firing at the last guy. He falls, blood pooling.
"Trap!" Anya yells, typing frantically. "Katya's mercs are outside!"
Boris runs for a side door, but I'm faster, tackling him into a wall. His pistol skids away, and I slam my knife against his throat. "The key," I snarl. "Now."
He laughs, coughing. "Miami. Katya's got it. You're dead, Vitya."
Gunfire erupts outside—mercs, Katya's crew, moving in. I tie Boris's hands with a cord, shoving him toward the backdoor. "Move!" I yell to Anya and Elena. We burst into the alley, but it's a warzone. Six mercs, black gear, rifles blazing. Drones dive, shooting darts. I fire, dropping one merc, and dive behind a car, bullets sparking metal.
Elena's next to me, knife ready. "I can fight," she says, voice steady.
"Cover Anya," I say, tossing her a smoke grenade. "Like I showed you."
She nods, pulling the pin and throwing. Smoke chokes the alley, slowing the mercs. I charge, knife out, slashing one's throat, shooting another. Anya's firing her pistol, shaky but hitting a drone. A merc aims at her, but Elena lunges, stabbing his arm. He screams, and I finish him with a shot. She's learning fast, but it scares me.
Boris twists, trying to run. I slam him down, blood on my knuckles. "Miami where?" I growl.
"Club," he chokes. "Katya's meeting buyers. Tomorrow."
A drone dives, grenade dropping. "Run!" I yell, dragging Boris. We sprint for our van, but the grenade explodes, shrapnel grazing my leg. Pain burns, but I keep moving. Mercs close in, and we're pinned. Then Sergei appears, like a damn shadow, his knife flashing. He cuts down two mercs, quick and clean, and shoots a drone. "Go!" he shouts, nodding at me, then vanishes.
I don't get him—Katya's man, but saving us again. We pile into the van, Boris tied in the back. I drive, weaving through Chicago's streets, losing the drones. My leg's bleeding, my side's screaming, but I'm alive. Elena's panting, her knife bloody. Anya's checking her phone, face pale.
"Talk," I say, gripping the wheel. "What's Katya's play?"
Anya's voice shakes. "She's not just selling the key," she says. "She's auctioning control, underworld networks, tech, everything Romanov built. Miami's the hub. Buyers from everywhere."
My gut twists. Katya's not just after the Bratva, she wants the whole game. "The key's there?" I ask.
"Boris's data says yes," she says, but her eyes flick away. That hesitation again. I'm done with it, but I need her.
"Elena, you did good," I say, glancing back. "But you're still green. Stay sharp."
"I'm ready," she says, wiping her knife. "For my dad."
I nod, but she's too much like Nikolai: fearless, reckless. My phone buzzes with Ivan's text. Dmitri hit another safehouse. Council's wavering. Bring Boris, or you're out. I curse. Dmitri's tearing the Bratva apart, Katya's playing chess, and Sergei's a riddle. Miami's next, and it's a bigger fight than Chicago.
I'm the Blade, bleeding but sharp. Katya's got the key, Dmitri's running, and the Bratva's on my shoulders. I speed into the night, Anya's data pointing to Miami's neon hell. The war's growing, and I'm not stopping.