Lev’s earpiece crackled. “Sponge.” It was Yuri the Cleaver, head of the Volkovs. “That’s not mine. Kill it.”
The Turks were already screaming in broken Russian. mobtop
He killed the line, poured a vodka, and watched the sirens race toward Viktor’s burning chandelier. Above it all, his own drone—a silent, unmarked thing—hovered and watched. Because the man who controls the air above the crime owns the crime itself. Lev’s earpiece crackled
Tonight was different.
“Not mine,” hissed Mikhael from the Bratvas. poured a vodka
The explosion was beautiful. Green, red, and blue lights danced in the rain.
Lev leaned back, lit a cigarette, and did what he did best. He didn’t shoot the drone down. He didn’t alert the cops. He redirected .