The hallway that leads to the employee exit takes me away from whatever chaos is unfolding near the main entrance. But I can still hear the commotion through the walls—voices, radios, the organized bustle of officials taking control.
The employee parking lot sits behind the main building, separated from the incident by concrete walls and distance. I start my engine and drive toward the back exit, taking the route that avoids the front entrance entirely. The security guard waves me through without question, his attention focused elsewhere.
The drive across Moscow to Damir's apartment takes forty minutes through streets slick with evening rain. I grip the steering wheel and replay his messages, their urgent tone echoing in my mind. He knew something would happen at the track tonight. He warned me not to ask questions and to come immediately.
Damir's building squats on a corner in Sokolniki, its gray façade scarred by years of weather and neglect. I park on thestreet and take the elevator to the seventh floor, each chime counting down to whatever crisis waits behind his door.
I knock twice, pause, then knock once more—our childhood code from the years when we needed to identify ourselves before our mother would unlock the door.
The door opens immediately. Damir's eyes dart past me to scan the hallway before grabbing my arm. He looks terrible. His dark hair hangs limp across his forehead, and stubble shadows his usually clean-shaven jaw. He pulls me inside and locks the door behind us, his movements sharp with barely controlled energy.
"You weren't followed?" His voice carries an edge I haven't heard since we were children.
"No." I drop my coat on the chair beside the door and study his face. "What happened at the track?"
"Someone died." He walks to the window and peers through the blinds at the street below. "Bad death. Public death. The kind that brings investigations."
My stomach clenches. "Who?"
"Bratva soldier. Alexei Petrov." Damir turns from the window and begins pacing his living room. His apartment reflects his need for control—everything clean, organized, placed with intention. "They found him convulsing near the entrance around ten thirty. Dead before the ambulance arrived."
The name means nothing to me, but the implications are clear. A Bratva soldier dying at the track where I work creates problems for everyone connected to the place.
"How do you know all this?"
"Because I was supposed to meet him tonight." Damir stops pacing and fixes me with a stare that makes my blood run cold. "Business meeting. He never showed."
Business. The word carries weight between us. Damir's business operates in the shadows of legitimate enterprise,providing services and products that management pretends not to notice.
"What kind of business?"
"The kind that's now evidence in a murder investigation." His voice turns flat. "One of our shipments went bad, Zoya. Someone died from product I supplied."
The room tilts around me. I sink onto his couch, legs suddenly unsteady. "You sold him drugs?"
"I've been selling to track customers for years. You know this. It's part of how we survive." Damir resumes pacing, his movements agitated. "But this wasn't my fault. Someone tainted the batch. Someone cut it with poison."
"How do you know?"
"Because I test everything before distribution. Always. The product was clean when it left my hands." He stops and turns to face me. "Someone wanted Petrov dead, or they wanted me framed for killing him. Either way, I'm the one who's going to take the blame."
The words land with cold certainty. The Bratva doesn't investigate crimes—they assign blame and exact punishment. If they believe Damir supplied tainted drugs that killed one of their soldiers, they'll hunt him until they find him.
"Are you sure it was deliberate?"
"Pure cocaine doesn't accidentally get mixed with fentanyl. Someone did this on purpose." His laugh holds no humor. "Question is whether they wanted Petrov dead or me destroyed. Could be both."
"Who would want either?"
"Too many possibilities. Competitors who want my territory. Bratva families who think I'm getting too independent. Cops who want to flip me into an informant." Damir shrugs. "The list is long and the motives are all solid."
I process this information while watching him pace. My brother has always operated on the edges of dangerous territory, but he's been careful, smart, cautious about the risks he takes. For someone to successfully set him up means they know his methods, his suppliers, his routines.
"What are you going to do?"
"Run. Hide. Try to figure out who did this before they finish destroying me." He moves to the closet and pulls out a canvas bag, already packed. "Could take days. Could take weeks."
The reality crashes over me. Damir—my only family, my protector since our father disappeared—is about to vanish into whatever underground network shelters people who've crossed the Bratva.
