Snow fell heavy over Moscow, blanketing the city in white silence that felt almost holy—an illusion hiding the blood that flowed beneath its streets.

Inside a grand hall carved of stone and steel, the Bratva council gathered. Men in dark coats and fur collars lined the long oak table, their faces hard, their voices low. Cigarette smoke hung thick, the air heavy with vodka and tension.

At the head sat Sergei Volkov, the new Pakhan of the Bratva. Broad-shouldered, scar cutting across his jaw, eyes cold as ice. He had risen to power through fire and betrayal, and his rule was marked by brutality.

Before him rested the coffin.

The...