The North Side was a landscape of skeletal skyscrapers and half-finished luxury lofts, a graveyard of urban ambition stalled by the High Council’s greed. To the city planners, it was a revitalization project. To Viktor Volkov, it was the front line.He stood in the center of an abandoned construction site on the 42nd floor of what was meant to be the "Moretti Plaza." The wind whistled through the open steel girders, carrying the scent of rain and wet concrete. Viktor’s side throbbed with every breath—a sharp, hot reminder of the dockside ambush—but he refused to let the pain dictate his posture. He remained as rigid and unyielding as the iron around him, his charcoal coat fluttering slightly in the gale.Beside him, Nikolai consulted a tablet, the blue light reflecting in his tactical glasses. "The local crews have already begun to fold, Viktor. They’ve seen what happened at Pier 17. The whisper on the street isn't just about a 'New Ghost' anymore; it’s about a new god. They’re terrif

The air in the basement of the North Side social club was thick with more than just the smell of stale espresso and old tobacco. It was heavy with the palpable weight of resentment. Viktor sat at the head of a long, scarred oak table, his hands folded neatly in front of him. He looked every bit the CEO in his charcoal suit, but the flickering overhead light caught the hard, predatory stillness of his posture.To his left and right sat the men he had recently integrated into his expanding empire—street bosses, veterans of the Moretti regime, and younger opportunists who had traded their loyalty for the promise of a "New Order." But the order Viktor had delivered wasn't what they expected."We’ve been patient, Viktor," Rico began. He was leaning back, his chair creaking under the strain of his agitated movements. He no longer wore the jagged yellow smile from the warehouse; his expression was pulled tight by a growing desperation. "We gave you the docks. We gave you the counting houses.