He turns, stepping closer to the table, closer to a man now visibly crying, shoulders shaking, eyes glassy.
“There will be no trials. No whispers. No threats.”
He slams his gun down onto the polished oak.
“From this night forward, I don’t run the Bratva. I end it.”
He points at the remaining men, one by one. Naming them. Not aloud. Just with his eyes.
Each man stiffens when Aslanov’s stare lands on him. Like a sword hovering above the neck. A curse choosing its vessel.
Then, finally, he crouches beside Lazovsky again.
The man’s breathing is thin now. Weak. Foaming.
“You chose Lorenzo.”
He whispers it like a confession.
“Over me.”
Lazovsky tries to lift his head, but he can’t.
“You followed a coward because I frightened you.”
“You didn’t just betray me.”
Lazovsky makes a gurgling sound, foam thick in his throat, lips unable to move. But Aslanov isn’t looking for a response. He’s laying the last stone in this burial.
“You let him use you.”
He stands.
Turns back to the table, what’s left of it.
“Lorenzo didn’t just want the old blood cut out.”
His voice hardens, sharpens like a scalpel being turned over in gloved hands.
“He didn’t want reform. He didn’t want strategy.”
He steps over a body, slow, boots slick.
“He wanted to own you. You brainless fucks. He needed you to give him a claim, you all fell for it. While he got all his information from me, locked away in a bunker to rot.”
Someone swallows loudly.
“He didn’t just want the brotherhood ended.”
“He wanted to dismantle it himself, and piss on the bones.”
He turns his head slowly, gaze locking on Lorenzo, still curled near the far wall like a dying dog, breathing shallow, watching his empire burn around him.
“But you failed.”
Then he turns to Dimitri, still kneeling. Still untouched.
Points at him.
