The drive back to Volkov Tower felt longer than the journey to the warehouse, though no one spoke a word.
Snow lashed against the armored van, blurring Moscow's streets into streaks of white and darkness. Every man inside the van carried wounds, physical or otherwise but none heavier than Dimitri's.
Natalia sat beside him, knees nearly touching, watching his hands. He never fidgeted, never trembled, but now…
His fingers curled and uncurled like he was trying to hold onto something slipping through his grasp.
Yuri drove in silence, his jaw locked tight, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds. Tomas breathed raggedly across the seats, drifting in and out of consciousness. The back of the van smelled of blood soaked into winter leather.
No one dared interrupt Dimitri's storm.
Not yet.
Natalia reached slowly, gently, placing her hand over his.
His breath hitched, just once.
Then he looked at her.
Not as the unshakeable Bratva boss.
