Moscow was a city that never slept, not because of its energy, but because of its fear. The Volkov name still echoed through its streets like a ghost, whispered in alleyways and clubs, carved into the walls of power. And now, after years in exile, Dimitri had returned.
He and Natalia rode in silence in the stolen car they had taken from a roadside outpost. The roads were slick with rain, neon lights reflecting off puddles like blood and glass. She watched the skyline grow closer, towers and shadows, danger and home.
"You really think we can take him down?" she asked quietly.
"I do not plan to take him down," Dimitri said. "I plan to end him for good."
There was no hesitation in his voice, and that scared her more than any threat outside. He was not the same man who had left Moscow. He had crossed a line somewhere in those mountains, and now, nothing could pull him back.
