The night Moscow burned, the rain never stopped.
Sirens screamed in the distance, echoing through the ruined streets as the city bled from the inside out. Specter's death had cracked the balance, his men scattered, rival families moved like wolves circling a wounded prey, and in the center of it all stood Dimitri Volkov, covered in his father's shadow and his enemy's blood.
Natalia did not look back when they left the estate. Her hands were still trembling, the metallic scent of gunfire clinging to her skin, Dimitri walked beside her, his silence heavier than the storm.
They drove for hours until the city lights faded into gray hills and forgotten villages. When they finally stopped, it was at an abandoned dacha near the river, it was old, isolated, and half-hidden by birch trees. Dimitri forced the door open with his shoulder, then turned on the small lamp by the window.
"Not much," he said quietly. "But it is safe."
