3rd POV 

Moscow, Russia 

The chandeliers cast golden light over the gathering of Moscow's most powerful crime lords. Beneath the glittering opulence, quiet conversations carried layers of subtext, deals being struck in hushed tones. It was a congregation of the ruthless—each man in the room wielding influence like a blade. 

At the heart of it stood Victor De Felice. 

He did not need to announce his authority. It settled in the room like an unspoken rule. As he walked past, the air seemed to shift—subtle gestures of deference followed in his wake. A seasoned enforcer from the Solokov family straightened his tie, his posture unconsciously stiffening. Another man, holding a half-filled glass of whiskey, hesitated before taking a sip, as if waiting for Victor's acknowledgment. 

Near the bar, a lower-ranking member hastily refilled Victor's drink before he could even signal for it. The young man's hand trembled slightly, betraying his nerves. Victor accepted the glass, his fingers brushing against the crystal rim in idle thought, but he said nothing. The silence was its own kind of response. 

Across the room, Vasily Ivanov, a veteran in the Russian underworld, observed Victor's approach with measured eyes. The man had seen leaders rise and fall, had once thought himself untouchable—until Victor's presence had begun shifting the tides. His lips curled into something resembling a smile, but his fingers drummed against the polished surface of his cane—a subtle display of unease. 

"Victor De Felice," Vasily greeted, his voice composed but edged with caution. "Moscow's honored tonight." 

Victor inclined his head. "A rare visit," he acknowledged, his voice smooth yet carrying an undertone that made even a simple statement feel deliberate. 

Vasily chuckled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Rare, indeed. Most men wouldn't cross so many borders without reason. Especially not a man like you." 

Victor's lips curved slightly, the kind of smile that never quite reached his eyes. "Borders are meant to be crossed. Opportunities lie beyond them." 

A murmur of interest flickered among those who had turned their ears toward the conversation. Vasily's gaze sharpened. "And what opportunity brings you here, Victor?" 

Victor took a slow sip of his drink before answering, letting the moment stretch. "Observation." 

Vasily raised an eyebrow. "An expensive trip for mere observation." 

"Knowledge," Victor corrected smoothly. "That's never a wasted investment." 

The older man chuckled again, though this time there was a shadow of something else beneath it. He wasn't a fool—he knew there was more to Victor's presence than polite words and business pleasantries. 

"You remind me of your mother," Vasily mused, taking a slow sip. "Always thinking three steps ahead. Though, she was... bolder in some ways." 

The remark was calculated—a subtle attempt to test the waters, to see if Victor would react to the comparison. Instead, Victor merely tilted his head, his expression unchanging. 

"Bolder," he repeated, letting the word hang in the air for a moment. "Or reckless?"  

Vasily chuckled, but the momentary flicker in his expression betrayed the slight shift of power in the conversation.  

Victor leaned in slightly, just enough to make Vasily truly meet his gaze. "People who think three steps ahead live to see their plans unfold," he said smoothly. "Those who don't... end up as stories men like us drink to." 

The weight of his words settled between them, a quiet warning wrapped in polite conversation. Vasily held his gaze for a moment longer, then exhaled a slow breath and lifted his glass in a silent toast. 

"To knowledge, then," he said. 

Victor clinked his glass against Vasily's, the sound crisp and deliberate. "To knowledge." 

As Victor turned away, the murmurs of conversation resumed, but the atmosphere had subtly shifted. The room had just been reminded why Victor De Felice wasn't just another player in their world. He was the one setting the board. 

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The night stretched on, the air thick with cigar smoke and murmured conversations. The glint of gold chandeliers reflected in half-emptied glasses, the scent of aged whiskey mingling with expensive cologne. This wasn't just a social gathering—it was a battleground where words held the same weight as bullets. 

Victor De Felice sat at the center of it, a man who understood that true power didn't need to be flaunted. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass, absorbing the undercurrents of the room. Conversations ebbed and flowed around him, each word a calculated move in the unspoken war of influence. 

But tonight wasn't just about maintaining dominance. It was about something far more delicate—planting doubt. 

Across the room, a cluster of high-ranking mafia figures engaged in a quiet yet intense discussion. Victor noted the way their shoulders tensed, the way their eyes flickered toward him before quickly looking away. There was something unspoken between them. Something he intended to expose. 

He rose smoothly, his presence casting a shadow over the group before he even spoke. Their conversation stilled, laughter cutting off mid-breath. 

"Gentlemen." His greeting was polite, but it carried the weight of expectation. 

The man at the center of the group—Oleg Petrov, another seasoned figure in Moscow's underworld—turned to face him. There was no mistaking the caution in his expression, though he masked it well. "Victor De Felice. An unexpected visit, but Moscow is always prepared to receive distinguished company."  

Victor's lips curled into something resembling a smile. "An overdue one, perhaps. I find that distance makes it easy to overlook... shifting tides." 

A flicker of understanding passed between them. The others exchanged glances, some intrigued, others wary. 

"Tides shift for many reasons," Oleg said, watching Victor carefully. 

"They do. Sometimes naturally. Sometimes by force." Victor's tone was casual, almost amused. He let the words hang in the air before continuing, as if savoring the tension. "Which brings me to a rather pressing matter." 

He took a measured sip of his drink before setting it down, the clink of glass against marble unnaturally loud in the expectant silence. 

"An attack on one of my bases in Italy. Bold. Precise. Too well-planned to be random." 

A ripple of unease moved through the group. A younger man—barely in his thirties—shifted in his seat, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass. Another cleared his throat, an instinctive reaction to tension. 

Oleg tilted his head. "Troubling news. I assume you have leads?" 

Victor studied him, his gaze unreadable. "I have... suspicions." 

The youngest of the group—Mikhail Sidorov—made the mistake of scoffing. "Surely you don't think the attack came from Moscow? That would be... unwise." 

Victor turned to him slowly, as if only now acknowledging his presence. The room seemed to still. 

"Unwise?" Victor echoed, his voice smooth but carrying an edge. "Perhaps. But confidence often blinds men to wisdom." 

Mikhail swallowed, his bravado faltering. 

Victor let the moment stretch before turning back to Oleg. "Loyalty is a delicate thing, Oleg. You understand this better than most." 

Oleg met his gaze evenly. "Loyalty isn't questioned among allies."  

Victor's smile was knowing. "Ah, but isn't that exactly why it should be?" 

A sharp sound cut through the tension—the clatter of a dropped glass. The young man's drink had slipped from his grasp, shattering against the polished floor. He muttered a curse, quickly bending to clean the mess, but the damage was already done. His nerves were showing. 

Victor barely acknowledged the disturbance, his focus never wavering. He had planted the seed. Now, he just had to let it grow. 

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough that only those at the table could hear. "We all build our empires on trust. But trust, once cracked, can never be repaired—only replaced." 

Silence. Heavy. Weighted. 

Victor leaned back, satisfied. The room may have been filled with some of the most powerful men in the world, but at that moment, he controlled the conversation, the doubt, the fear. 

By the time the night ended, paranoia would take root. Men would start questioning their allies. Their subordinates. The cracks in their unity would spread. 

And Victor would be watching when they broke. 

As he retreated from the group, Victor's smile remained inscrutable. The veneer of elegance and charm had concealed his true purpose – to extract the secrets that lingered in the shadows. He was the puppeteer, deftly pulling strings to orchestrate a symphony of manipulation, all while wearing the mask of a gracious host. 

Victor stepped away from the group, his expression remained composed, his easy smile betraying none of the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. The gathering around him carried on—crystal glasses clinking, hushed conversations weaving through the gilded hall—but his focus had already shifted. The fragments of intel he had gathered whispered to him like ghosts in the dim light, urging him to dig deeper. 

He moved with calculated ease, pausing here and there to exchange pleasantries, all the while keeping his senses trained on the room. Then, a hushed conversation to his left caught his attention. Two men stood near the bar, their voices barely above a murmur. 

"Did you hear about the attack on De Felice's base?" 

Victor casually reached for a glass of whiskey, his posture relaxed as he leaned against the bar, angling himself just enough to eavesdrop without drawing suspicion. 

"Yeah," the second man said, swirling the drink in his hand. "Executed perfectly. Someone on the inside fed them intel." 

Victor took a slow sip of his whiskey, his grip tightening imperceptibly around the glass. 

"But the attack wasn't just business. Word is, someone with an old score to settle pulled the strings." 

The first man let out a low chuckle. "That narrows it down to half the underworld, doesn't it?" 

Victor set his glass down with deliberate softness, his mind already working. He needed more. 

With a slight nod of acknowledgment, he turned and made his way toward a secluded hallway, his movements unhurried. If someone had orchestrated this attack for personal reasons, he had a good idea of where to start looking. 

He didn't bother knocking when he reached the study. The heavy wooden door swung open, and inside, a man startled at his sudden entrance. An arms dealer, one of many Victor had done business with over the years. The man's fingers twitched toward his glass of vodka—a nervous tell. 

"Relax," Victor said smoothly, stepping further inside. "Just a friendly conversation." 

The man swallowed. "Of course, Victor. What can I do for you?" 

Victor lowered himself into the chair opposite him, drumming his fingers against the mahogany desk. "I assume you've heard about the attack on my Italian base?" 

The dealer hesitated. "There are... rumors." 

Victor tilted his head. "And yet, I have a feeling you can offer more than just rumors." 

A long silence stretched between them, the air thick with tension. The dealer's gaze darted toward the door, as if calculating the odds of leaving this conversation unscathed. 

Victor leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You see, I'm not a patient man when it comes to betrayal. So, let's not waste time." 

The dealer exhaled shakily, reaching for his drink but thinking better of it. "Fine," he muttered. "The job was too precise to be random. Whoever planned it had knowledge of your security rotations, supply shipments... someone close to your operations must've fed them that intel." 

Victor absorbed the information, his expression unreadable. Then, he took a small folded note from his pocket and placed it on the desk. "Tell me if any of these names were involved." 

The dealer hesitated before unfolding the paper, scanning the list. His Adam's apple bobbed. "This one." His finger hovered over a name. 

Alexander Graves. 

Victor masked his reaction, though inside, a slow, simmering realization settled over him. He sat back, letting the weight of the revelation sink in. So, Elias' father was behind this.  

But Victor knew Alexander. He was smart, cautious—but he wasn't reckless. No, he wouldn't launch an attack like this alone. Someone else was involved. Someone bolder.  

He narrowed his eyes. Who else had the means and the nerve to go after me?  

Then, a name surfaced from the depths of his memory. A name he hadn't thought about in years. 

Silas.  

Victor's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. He had his answer. Now, all he needed was proof—and revenge. 

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The dim glow of the study's lamp cast long, creeping shadows across Victor's desk as he leaned back in his chair, the weight of revelation settling in his chest. His fingers tapped idly against the polished wood—a slow, deliberate rhythm, like a countdown. He had the truth. Now, it was time to act. 

With precise movements, he reached for the secure line and dialed. The line rang once, twice—then clicked. 

A voice answered, sharp, expectant. 

"Victor?" 

Victor's lips curled. "Kai." 

A brief pause, then a shift in tone—caution laced with something darker. "What happened?" 

Victor exhaled, his voice smooth as glass. "I have answers." 

Another pause. Kai's silence wasn't hesitation—it was calculation. "Tell me." 

Victor let the moment stretch just long enough to feel like a noose tightening. Then— "It was Silas." 

A beat. Then— "Silas?" The name left Kai's mouth like an oath, disbelief warring with something colder. "No. That's not possible." 

Victor tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. "And yet, here we are." 

Kai's voice dropped lower, sharpened like the edge of a blade. "That son of a bitch vanished for years. If he's resurfaced, he's not alone." 

Victor smirked, fingers drumming against his desk. "I'd wager he never truly left—just waited for the right moment." 

Silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of what this meant. 

Then, Kai spoke, his tone now sheer ice. "He thinks he can crawl back into our world and walk away unscathed?" A humorless chuckle followed. "He must have forgotten who the fuck he's dealing with." 

Victor's eyes darkened with something ruthless. "Oh, we'll remind him." 

Kai exhaled, slow and steady, but there was a promise in his voice when he finally spoke. "Find him. Whatever it takes. I want him bleeding before he even sees me coming." 

Victor's smirk deepened. "Oh, trust me. That's exactly what I intend to do." 

The call ended, leaving the room steeped in silence, but Victor was already moving. He reached for a nearby file, flipping it open to reveal a face from the past. Silas. 

A ghost. A traitor. A dead man walking. 

The storm had been set in motion. Now, all that was left was to make sure Silas knew—he had just declared war. 

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Perched on the rooftop of a high-rise, cigarette in hand, his gaze was locked on the study below—on Victor. 

His old foe. His greatest mistake. His inevitable enemy. 

A slow smirk pulled at Silas' lips as he exhaled a plume of smoke into the frozen air. He knows now. 

He had counted on it. 

Victor thought he was ahead, thought he had uncovered some great secret. That was his first mistake. The game was already in motion, and Silas had made his move long before Victor had even reached for the board. 

With a final glance, Silas flicked his cigarette to the pavement below and turned, disappearing into the shadows. 

Let's see how well you play when you're the one being hunted, Victor and Kai.  

The game had only just begun.  

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Well, well, well... things are finally heating up. 😈🔥

I had so much fun writing (and rewriting) this chapter, and I hope you all felt the tension, the weight of every word, and the storm brewing beneath the surface. Victor isn't just playing the game anymore—he's in it, and now that Silas has stepped out of the shadows, all bets are off.

This chapter was all about shifting dynamics. Victor thinks he's in control, but Silas? He's been watching, waiting, and he's not just some forgotten rival—he's a problem Victor didn't even realize he had. And Kai? Well, let's just say he's not the type to sit back and let an old ghost waltz back into his world unchallenged.

Now, the real question is... who's actually ahead in this game? 😏

I can't wait for you all to see what's coming next. Things are only going to get darker, bloodier, and a whole lot more personal. Stay tuned, and as always, let me know what you think!

Until next time, keep your knives sharp and your enemies closer. 💀♟️

Ashley