Crimson 3

The air in the underground meeting room felt colder than usual. It wasn’t because of the Moscow winter but because of the man standing at the head of the long, metal table. Damian Volkov, heir to the Russian Bratva, didn’t need to shout to make his presence known. His cold, piercing blue eyes were enough to silence a room, and the men seated before him knew better than to speak without his permission.

The room was dimly lit, with a single light casting shadows across the table. Damian stood, tall and unmoving, his sharp features set in a mask of calm authority. He rarely sat during these meetings. Sitting implied comfort, and comfort wasn’t something he allowed in moments like this.

“Speak,” he said, his voice low but firm.

The men glanced at one another nervously. No one wanted to be the first to talk, but the silence only made the tension worse. Finally, Mikhail, one of Damian’s most trusted lieutenants, cleared his throat.

“There’s been movement near our eastern border,” Mikhail said, his voice careful. “Unmarked shipments. We believe it’s the Kazakov faction.”

At the mention of the Kazakovs, Damian’s jaw tightened. They were a rival group that had been growing bolder in recent months, testing the limits of the Bratva’s control. Damian’s gaze hardened, though he remained silent, forcing Mikhail to continue.

“We intercepted one of their men,” Mikhail added hesitantly. “He… talked.”

The room went completely still. Everyone’s attention shifted to Damian, waiting to see how he would react. Damian’s face remained unreadable as he stepped closer to the table.

“What did he say?” Damian asked, his tone calm, though there was an edge to it that made Mikhail hesitate.

“He said there are whispers of discontent,” Mikhail admitted. “Among our own men. Some believe the Kazakovs offer a better future.”

Damian’s fingers tapped the edge of the table, the rhythmic sound unnerving the men around him. He let the silence drag on, his icy gaze sweeping across the room.

“Discontent,” Damian repeated, his voice soft but dangerous.

Mikhail shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, Pakhan,” he said, using the title reserved for the leader of the Bratva. “He claimed there are traitors among us.”

Damian’s stare lingered on Mikhail, who looked like he was trying not to shrink under the weight of his boss’s scrutiny. “And what do you believe, Mikhail?” Damian asked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the air.

Mikhail sat up straighter. “I believe in you, Pakhan.”

“Do you?” Damian’s steps were slow and deliberate as he walked around the table. The other men remained still, afraid to even breathe too loudly. “Because belief isn’t enough. Words are cheap, Mikhail. I don’t need belief. I need loyalty.”

“I am loyal,” Mikhail said quickly, his voice betraying a hint of fear.

Damian didn’t respond immediately. He stopped walking and turned his attention to the rest of the table. “Do all of you feel the same?” he asked, his voice quiet but commanding. “Are you all loyal to the Bratva? Loyal to me?”

The men nodded, some speaking up to declare their loyalty. Damian wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he walked to the far end of the room, where a large map of their territories was pinned to the wall.

“Mikhail,” he said, not turning around. “Take two of your men and intercept the next Kazakov shipment. I want it burned. Let them know we are watching.”

“Yes, Pakhan,” Mikhail replied, relief evident in his voice.

“And the whispers?” Damian asked, his gaze still fixed on the map. “The discontent?”

He turned back to face the table, his icy eyes locking onto each man in turn. “Find the source. Root it out. I don’t care how long it takes. Anyone who speaks against the Bratva will answer to me.”

The men nodded quickly, their fear clear. Damian didn’t need to raise his voice. The threat in his tone was enough to make sure they understood.

The meeting ended shortly after, the lieutenants leaving one by one. They murmured “Pakhan” as they passed him, their voices filled with respect—or perhaps fear. To Damian, it didn’t matter which it was. Respect and fear often went hand in hand.

When the room was empty, Damian finally allowed himself a moment of stillness. He walked over to a small drawer embedded in the wall, pulling a key from his pocket. Opening the drawer, he took out a small locket.

The locket was simple and unadorned, but it was the only item Damian truly cherished. He opened it slowly, revealing a faded photograph inside. His mother’s warm smile stared back at him, her eyes filled with kindness. Beside her stood his father, his arm draped protectively around her shoulders.

For a moment, Damian’s icy exterior softened. The memory of his parents was both a source of strength and a wound that never fully healed. Years ago, they had been betrayed—ambushed by someone they trusted. Damian had watched them die, powerless to save them. He had been a teenager then, but that night had changed him forever.

The betrayal had taught him a lesson he would never forget: trust was a weakness. Emotions, attachments—they were vulnerabilities that could be exploited. Damian had spent years hardening himself, building walls around his heart and ensuring no one could ever hurt him again.

He clenched the locket in his hand, the edges digging into his palm. He couldn’t afford to dwell on the past, not when the present demanded his full attention. With a deep breath, he placed the locket back in the drawer and locked it away.

Leaving the room, Damian’s face was once again a mask of cold determination. He had no time for sentimentality. The Bratva needed him to be strong, ruthless, and unyielding. And Damian would do whatever it took to protect what was his.

Because in his world, survival wasn’t about strength alone. It was about control. And Damian Volkov was a man who controlled everything—except, perhaps, the ghosts of his past.