Chapter 1

Moscow – One Year Later

POV ILYA KRAVTSOV

The engine's roar cut through the silence of the night as I sped up the bike, climbing the winding road toward Sparrow Hills—or Vorobyovy Gory in Russian. The asphalt growled beneath the tires, and the cold midnight wind whipped against my face. Each curve was a challenge, a dance between machine and road, and I felt alive, connected to the roar of the engine and the darkness surrounding me.

I was leaving behind the bustling, chaotic part of Moscow as I gained altitude. The distant lights became tiny glowing dots, and the road turned into my solitary path. Adrenaline pulsed through my veins, mixing with the cold night air.

The bone-chilling cold would have been unbearable for most, but I’d always been immune to it. My mother used to say I was a “syn d’yavola”—a son of the devil—because my body burned hot like hell, even in Russia's harshest winters.

When I reached the hilltop, I turned off the bike and stood still for a moment. The breeze whispered through the trees, and the silence was deep, broken only by the distant hum of the city below. The lights twinkled like urban stars, an artificial constellation outlining the contours of nightlife.

I knew people were slowly waking up, even though the sky still clung to the night, and lights began flickering on, though I knew they’d soon fade away.

I walked to the edge of the hill and, looking down, I felt suspended between two worlds. Below me, the city pulsed with its own frenetic energy, while above, the sky stretched out in a vast, starry expanse. The moon cast a pale light over the landscape, revealing details hidden by the dark.

I took a deep breath, absorbing the serenity that enveloped the place. In that moment of solitude, Sparrow Hills became my refuge, my silent observatory where I could contemplate the chaos below and lose myself in the endless horizon.

Whenever possible, I woke up early, worked out, and took a ride, aiming to explore different places, but this spot always called to me. From up there, at that hour, the silence helped silence the voices within me, almost like echoes of everything I’d had to do to survive and for the sake of my family.

I could see the Moscow River winding below, the darkness of parks and wooded groves. The Kremlin stood majestic, a fortress of history and power, a silent guardian of ancient secrets.

Leaning against the bike, I simply breathed in the dawn air, welcoming another day.

I could have stayed like that all day, but I settled for a few hours.

Closing my eyes, I felt the cold wind on my face. It wasn’t snowing at that hour because it was March, in the midst of vesna—spring. I slipped my hands into my pockets, feeling my phone vibrate.

It wasn’t a call but an alarm, reminding me it was time to leave this illusion of a peaceful life I could never have and go visit the man who controlled everything. A man with so much power that, with a snap of his fingers, he could destroy us all.

I said goodbye to the horizon, watching the red-toned lights begin to fade, and the lights of houses and apartments below flicker off one by one.

It almost made me smile as I tied my hair into a ponytail.

I got back on the bike, hearing it roar, almost as if it too was protesting my departure.

But life had to go on.

It was an honor to hold the position my brother and I had in the Bratva. Nikolai—or Kolya, as I called him—was thirty-four, a year older than me, and had become the consigliere, or “sovetnik,” after our father’s death, taking his place.

With my brother’s rise, I became Brigadier, a kind of captain responsible for the hands-on work. I was the operational one, the one who got his hands dirty.

Above me was the Obshchak—our underboss, Yurik Kiselev—brother of Pavel Kiselev, the pakhan.

Like in the Cosa Nostra, our hierarchy was respected, and we owed loyalty to the boss. That’s why his summons could never be denied, under any circumstance.

It was just after eight when I arrived at his mansion in Ostozhenka, one of Moscow’s most luxurious neighborhoods. I was announced, and the entire security team was alerted to my arrival.

I parked the bike, left the helmet attached to it, and entered the house, climbing the stairs.

I was led to Pavel’s office, where my brother was already waiting, alone, with an annoyed expression.

“You’re finally here,” Kolya grumbled.

“Am I late? Didn’t notice,” I teased, throwing myself heavily into a chair beside him.

Kolya shot me a sideways look, and I pretended not to care about his opinion.

Anyone who saw us together would have no trouble believing we were brothers, but there was something very different about us. We both wore neatly trimmed beards, but my blond hair was long, while his was short and well-groomed. Nikolai was about three centimeters shorter than me and had the same muscular build, a trademark of the men in our family. Dimitri, the youngest of the Kravtsov boys, was also massive, even at twenty-five.

“You’re taking this too lightly, Ilya.”

“Decidedly, I’m not,” I replied confidently. “You’re the one who sees everything as life or death. Five minutes of delay doesn’t make me irresponsible.”

“It was ten,” he grunted, shifting in his chair.

There was another difference between us. Kolya always dressed sharply in blazers and dress shirts, though they didn’t always hide his tattoos. I preferred leather jackets and vests with jeans.

We both stood when the door opened, and Pavel entered. Even in his own house, with us—his supposed trusted men—he was flanked by security. One of them stayed stationed at the door.

He was known for his extravagance. Different-colored suits, gold chains, multiple rings, and he’d recently had a face tattoo done.

He smiled at us, gesturing for us to sit.

“I like working with united brothers. Soon young Mitya will join us too,” he said first.

“It will be a great honor, sir.”

Brown-noser, I thought, crossing my arms over my chest and rolling my eyes.

“I imagine so,” he said arrogantly, then turned to me. “Ilya, the mission I have for you is extremely important. It won’t involve life-threatening risks or the need for violence, at which I know you excel...” He chuckled, making me tilt my head slightly back and frown. I couldn’t say anything, only observe, because I had to be obedient. “But it is something important to me.”

I wasn’t particularly inclined to respond, to be honest. I wasn’t a man of few words, but I knew when I should just analyze and listen.

Kolya, however, made a gesture, as if I were a sulky child, encouraging me.

“Yes, sir,” I said, crossing one leg and resting my ankle on my knee.