Chapter 4:
The Volkov family private jet sliced through the humid Indian air, a sleek, dark predator carrying a pack of wolves to a new hunting ground. Inside, the atmosphere was a unique blend of familial camaraderie and coiled tension, each brother a sharp tooth in the same formidable jaw. Viktor, at thirty-five, sat in a leather armchair, reviewing a digital dossier on Vikram Sharma, his expression as immutable as granite. He was the head of the Krasnaya Bratva, the Red Brotherhood, a designation whispered with terror and reverence across continents.
Lev, thirty-two, the eldest after Viktor, a pragmatist with a mind for strategy, was meticulously checking logistical charts on his tablet. His dark hair was neatly cropped, his gaze sharp and analytical. He was Viktor's steady hand, the one who ensured their illicit plans were executed flawlessly.
Mikhail, thirty, the volatile enforcer, restless even in the plush confines of the jet, was idly cleaning a disassembled handgun. His movements were fluid and dangerous a coiled energy barely contained. He had a predatory gleam in his eyes and a reputation for settling disputes – and eliminating problems – with brutal efficiency. He was the family's most feared executor.
Dimitri, twenty-eight, the quiet observer and intelligence gatherer, sat hunched over a laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard. He was the family's digital ghost, adept at finding information others couldn't and erasing their tracks. His gaze was intense, even behind his thin-rimmed glasses.
Andrey, twenty-six, the charmer and negotiator, was already practicing his most winning smile in the reflection of the window. With his easygoing demeanor and fluent command of several languages, he was the velvet glove on the Volkov fist, adept at luring targets into their web. He was also openly bisexual, his romantic interests as varied and enthusiastic as his social skills, something he embraced with flamboyant confidence.
Ilya, twenty-four, the tech prodigy, was immersed in a virtual reality headset, oblivious to his surroundings. His genius lay in the digital realm, creating impenetrable firewalls for their operations and exploiting technological vulnerabilities in their rivals. He was socially awkward but brilliant beyond his years.
Sergei, twenty-two, the master of infiltration and disguise, was studying a series of photographs of the Sharma residence, his expression blank, already mentally mapping entry points and escape routes for their future endeavors. He was a chameleon, able to blend into any environment, perfect for their clandestine needs.
Nikolai, twenty, Viktor's fiercely loyal shadow and protector, sat silently near Viktor, his gaze constantly scanning their surroundings, his posture radiating a quiet readiness for any threat. He was a man of few words but unwavering devotion, always ready to step between Viktor and danger.
And then there was Yegor, eighteen, still finding his place within the family hierarchy, his eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and nervousness as he looked out the window at the approaching Indian coastline. He was eager to prove his worth and often peppered his older brothers with questions.
"So," Yegor began, breaking the relative silence, "this Sharma guy... he's really in trouble, huh? Like, proper on the ropes?"
Lev lowered his tablet. "He's leveraged himself precariously. Viktor is merely... adjusting the balance of power in this region. Absorbing a failing asset."
Mikhail chuckled, snapping his handgun back together with practiced ease. "Think of it as claiming new territory, little brother. This city will be ours, eventually. Sharma's just the first domino."
Andrey, ever the social lubricant, chimed in, adjusting his perfectly tailored jacket. "Let's not be too grim before we've even landed, shall we? Think of the cultural experience! The vibrant colors, the spices... and perhaps some interesting local conquests for yours truly." He winked. "Though I must admit, the humidity reports are rather alarming for my hair."
Dimitri, without looking up from his laptop, muttered, "Initial scans of Sharma's network show significant vulnerabilities. Predictable security protocols for someone trying to operate outside their depth."
Ilya remained lost in his VR world, occasionally making unintelligible sounds.
Sergei's gaze remained fixed on the photographs.
Nikolai's eyes flickered towards Yegor but remained otherwise impassive.
Yegor, undeterred, turned to Andrey. "So, is this like... expanding the Bratva's reach? Is that why Papa agreed to this deal?"
Andrey smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Precisely, Yegor. Every acquisition, every new 'partnership,' as Viktor likes to call them, broadens our empire. And Sharma? He's just a provincial kingpin who thought he could play with the big boys. An amusing, if pathetic, stepping stone."
As the plane began its descent, Viktor finally spoke, his voice cutting through the air. "We are here for business. Sharma's desperation has created an opening. We will secure our interests, and then we will observe. This anniversary party... it will be informative." His gaze swept over his brothers. "Remember our priorities. Discretion. Dominance. And Nikolai..."
Nikolai's eyes met Viktor's, a silent understanding passing between them.
As they disembarked onto the sweltering tarmac of the Delhi airport, the heat hit them like a physical wave. The sensory overload was immediate – the cacophony of sounds, the vibrant, almost overwhelming colors, the intense aromas of spices and exhaust fumes.
"Good heavens," Andrey exclaimed, fanning himself dramatically. "It's like stepping into a sauna that's also having a very loud, very aromatic street fair."
Mikhail grinned, a flash of something primal in his eyes. "I like it. It's got... raw energy. Untamed."
Lev adjusted his tie, his expression stoic but a faint wrinkle forming between his brows. "The logistics of moving our security detail through this environment will be... challenging. Utter chaos."
Yegor stared wide-eyed at the throngs of people, the brightly decorated vehicles, the sheer density of life. "It's... insane," he murmured, a touch of culture shock evident in his voice. "So many people!"
Viktor, however, remained unmoved, his gaze sweeping across the scene, assessing, calculating. He saw not chaos, but fertile ground. Opportunity veiled beneath a layer of vibrant disarray. The heat, the noise, the unfamiliar scents – they were merely details to be processed, factors to be accounted for. Vikram Sharma had invited them into his world. They would play his game, for now. But on their terms. The shadows had arrived, and they brought the might of the Krasnaya Bratva with them.
[Extra: Viktor's POV]
Viktor Volkov gazed out the window, not seeing the approaching Indian landmass, but a tapestry of blood and ambition. He hadn't been born into power; he had clawed his way to the very top of the Bratva, a brutal ascent carved with steel and sacrifice. He was just a boy when his father, a mid-level enforcer, had been taken out in a rival hit, leaving Viktor to mature at an unforgiving pace. He'd learned early that sentiment was a luxury he couldn't afford, that control was the ultimate currency.
He'd killed countless men. The violence, the bloodshed, it was simply part of the business, as natural and inevitable as breathing. He didn't feel anything specific when he saw blood, or when he caused it. It was just an outcome, a consequence, often a necessary one. A stain on the pavement, a body cooling in an alley – these were just parts of the daily routine, no more noteworthy than the sunrise. He'd witnessed countless betrayals, each one a lesson, hardening his resolve and sharpening his instincts until empathy withered entirely. He had learned that trusting too much was a death sentence, and the only person he could truly rely on was himself. This constant exposure to the brutal realities of his world, the endless cycle of violence and deceit, had stripped away any tenderness or softness. He wasn't sure if he was heartless or truly a psycho; the labels were irrelevant. He was efficient. He was effective. Anger, a raw, primal emotion, was something he learned to suppress. When he lost control, it wasn't a flare, but an explosion – a cold, methodical killing spree that left nothing but devastation. There were no accidents, only outcomes, and in his world, some outcomes were simply part of the cost of doing business. Human life was a variable, easily expendable when it obstructed his objectives. He had learned to view people not as individuals, but as assets, liabilities, or obstacles. And obstacles, he dealt with decisively and without a flicker of hesitation. Their screams, their pleas, their last desperate breaths – th
ey were just background noise to the symphony of his power.
Write a comment ...