He had sent a blacked-out car. The driver was the size of a small mountain and wasn’t particularly chatty. A slow drive into the city, and then down into a private level of an underground car park that didn’t exist on any map.
Thane stepped inside and paused.
The meeting was held in an office that felt like a remnant from another century. Polished oak floorboards squeaked slightly under their shoes. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed with leather spines and fading paper. A large stone fireplace occupiedone end, its mantle carved with griffins and curling vines. The stable-style door they’d just entered looked like it had belonged to a hunting lodge in the 1500s.
The furniture was weighty and built to last—dark wood with brass accents and worn leather that whispered of old money and older secrets.
And standing beside the hearth, like a gentleman welcoming guests to his country estate, was Anatoly.
A handsome man in his mid-fifties, immaculately groomed with a full head of silver hair. He wore a charcoal three-piece suit tailored within an inch of its life. Pocket square. Silver cufflinks. Not a tattoo in sight.
He looked more like a retired judge than a Bratva boss.
He offered them water. Sat with the perfect posture of a king surveying his subjects. His voice was smooth, like someone who’d studied poetry in halls with ancient stone walls.
Beside him stood Leukov—a slab of muscle in a dark wool coat—his arms folded, his eyes dark and blank. The sovietnik. His right-hand man was a silent one with watchful eyes.
Anatoly steepled his fingers as he spoke. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said with the soft, clipped enunciation of an Oxford education. “Do come in. I dislike raising my voice.”
A log cracked softly in the fireplace. Somewhere, a grandfather clock ticked—its rhythm measured and patient.
Above the stone mantle hung a single painting.
A young ballerina sat by a window, her back slightly curved, legs folded beneath her. Her blonde hair was twisted into a knot with a few loose strands escaping. Her profile caught the light—soft, sad and distant. Her gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the glass, out of reach.
Thane’s eyes involuntarily lingered on it longer than he meant to.
And Anatoly noticed his interest.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” he said, voice quiet. “That’s my granddaughter. Dimitri’s daughter.”
He didn’t elaborate. He was very protective of his family. Dimitri was his adopted son, first in line for Pakhan.
“There’s a situation,” he said. “An infestation, of sorts. A group we call otverzhennyye, the rejects—bottom feeders who were once ours before they were cast out.”
Thane didn’t speak. Zel stared, giving nothing away.
“They’re running a sideline in a synthetic drug called Haze. No quality control. Cheap and dirty. A couple of teenagers overdosed last week at one of our clubs. We are tracing the suppliers” Anatoly’s jaw tightened only slightly.
“But that’s not the worst of it.” He paused. Looked up, pinning both men with his icy blue gaze. “They’re dealing in children in the name of the Bratva. Touching things that sully our name.”
He tapped a single finger against the glass tabletop. “Mr. Donovan, understand this: the Bratva has always dealt in shadows, and we are not saints. But there are lines we don’t cross,” he said, his eyes laser-focused on Thane.
Thane returned the regard, not blinking. Despite his disguise as a distinguished businessman and the cut glass British accent, the Pakhan was a shark—he could sense blood in the water.
Thane gave a short nod of acknowledgement. Lirian glanced sideways but said nothing.
“I want the operation brought down,” Anatoly said in a deliberate tone that brooked no refusal “from the inside.”
He nodded to Leukov, who slid a folder across the table.
Inside was a grainy photo of a man hunched near a car.
“One of the smaller fish,” Anatoly explained. “He’s been sniffing around. Got into a little bit of trouble with one of ours. He’s alive and one of the underbosses from the ring wants him back. We’re giving you the green light to use him. Follow his scent.”
Thane flipped to the next photo.
A girl. Pale and frightened with huge brown eyes in an emaciated face. Maybe eleven.
