The rain in the Citadel didn’t fall; it drifted in heavy, oily sheets that smelled of diesel, dead fish, and the slow rot of a city that had long ago sold its soul.Viktor Volkov stood at the railing of the Svetlana, a rusting iron tub of a freighter that had spent three weeks groaning across the Adriatic. He didn't look like a ghost. Ghosts were ethereal, translucent things. Viktor was made of hard angles and scarred tissue, a man carved out of the very basalt of the Montenegrin mountains where he’d spent the last decade in a different kind of hell.As the boat bumped against the rotted wood of the Pier 17 docks, the vibration hummed through the soles of his boots. He hadn't felt this specific vibration in ten years. The last time he was here, he was being thrown into the trunk of a black sedan, his father’s blood still warm on his face, the screams of his mother echoing in a house that was already being doused in gasoline.He was twenty then. A prince of the Volkov line. Now, at thi

The safehouse was anything but safe. It was a hollowed-out basement beneath a dry cleaner’s in the South Side, smelling of industrial perchloroethylene and old, damp concrete. Viktor sat on a plastic crate, watching Rico and the two other survivors—Pino and Vanni—unravel in real-time.Vanni was pacing, his hands trembling so violently he couldn't light his cigarette. Rico was slumped against the wall, staring at the bricks of white powder they had retrieved from the van."We're dead," Vanni whispered, the smoke finally curling from his lips. "The Morettis... they don't lose shipments. They don't lose crews. If we go back and say we lost the driver and the van, and that we’re sitting on this—" he gestured wildly at the drugs—"they’ll peel us like grapes.""Shut up, Vanni," Rico snapped, though there was no heat in it. Only exhaustion. He looked at Viktor. "You. Dante. You’re the only reason we aren't cold on that dock. But you heard them. They said the Morettis sold us out. Why would t

The Old Quarter was where the Citadel hid its scars. It was a labyrinth of crumbling brick, narrow alleys that never saw the sun, and tenement buildings that leaned against one another like tired drunks. To the Morettis, this district was a wasteland of diminishing returns. To Viktor, it was the perfect blind spot.He stood in the center of a third-floor apartment on Blackwood Street. The wallpaper was peeling in long, jaundiced strips, and the floorboards groaned under the weight of his boots. Outside, the rhythmic drip of a leaky gutter provided the only soundtrack to his thoughts.Rico stood by the door, his hand hovering near his holster. He looked at the dust-covered room with open disdain. "This is it? This is the 'foundation' of your empire, Dante? A condemned box in a neighborhood that hasn't seen a police patrol in five years?"Viktor didn't answer immediately. He was focused on the telephone junction box on the wall. He reached out, his fingers tracing the ancient copper wir

The rain in the Citadel was a persistent, freezing needle that found its way through even the thickest wool. Viktor leaned against a brick wall in the alleyway behind the Blue Velvet lounge, his silhouette blending perfectly into the grime of the North Side. He was checking the weight of his 9mm, his mind already three steps ahead of the evening's objective.Enzo had sent him here to eliminate a secondary threat—a mid-level banker who was leaking High Council transaction records. It was supposed to be a clean hit. A silent disappearance. But as Viktor’s internal clock signaled the banker’s departure, the rhythm of the street changed.The sound wasn't the rhythmic footfalls of a drunken businessman. It was the frantic, uneven slap of heels on wet pavement.Then came the second sound: the heavy, coordinated crunch of boots.Viktor didn't move. He became a part of the wall, his breathing shallow, his eyes like cold flint.A woman burst into the alleyway. She was breathless, her auburn ha

The morning after the takeover, The Velvet Ace smelled less like a revolutionary headquarters and more like a dying animal. Viktor stood in the center of the main floor, the harsh daylight filtering through high, grime-crusted windows, illuminating the true extent of Sal Valente’s incompetence. Cigarette burns scarred the felt of every poker table. The air-conditioning unit hummed with a death rattle, and the accounting ledgers he had seized were a chaotic jumble of grease-stained napkins and crooked arithmetic.Rico walked in carrying a crate of cleaning supplies and a look of deep skepticism. "You stayed here all night, didn't you?"Viktor didn't look up from the floor plan he was sketching on a pad of paper. "Sleep is a poor investment when the foundation is rotting, Rico. Look at the flow of this room.""The flow?" Rico set the crate down. "It’s a gambling den, Dante. People come in, lose their shirts, and leave. The only 'flow' is the money going into our pockets.""That’s why Sa