VAUGHN

I closed my eyes beneath the shower as the warm water washed my thoughts away. I ran my hands through my hair, setting them back against the pressure of the water. Droplets trickled down my chest, washing away the remains of blood and dirt. I dropped my head, placing one palm on the wall to support myself. Every day was a step forward in my investigation, yet I felt stagnant. Bratva had countless enemies — and enemies of enemies often made allies.

The web of connections was so deeply rooted, it was impossible to break it all down within a few weeks. The incidents of the past six months played over and over in my mind.

I turned off the water and walked into my bedroom — the mansion's bedroom, which was also my workplace now — with a towel wrapped around my waist.

Three computer screens were placed in one corner of the large area, near the window overlooking the coastline of the island. A number of hard drives, decrypted files, maps, and other documents were scattered across the tables. Dozens of programs were running on one screen, another decrypting the code of the hard disk attached to it — the same hard disk I had retrieved from the man I killed today.

A member of the Serpents — our long-time, bloody rivals — an enemy to us and a traitor to them. It was only now that I realized I'd done them a favor.

Six months ago, while I was still in New York with my father handling underground operations, we discovered a breach. At first, we assumed it was a false alarm. After all, Bratva's defenses had been unbreakable for the past two decades. But my father, meticulous as ever, commanded a thorough search.

That was when we noted the discrepancy — a small one. Half a million dollars missing from a transaction of a hundred million.

When I took over the diagnostics, I discovered small amounts of money had been laundered through every transaction, disappearing into thin air. Their movement untraceable — no signs, no marks, no loopholes. Micro-thefts, designed to look like human error.

The Bratva controlled a labyrinth of offshore accounts, dummy corporations, crypto wallets, and black-market investments — all protected by layers of encryption, coded by me.

Seven years ago, I had built my self-improving security system. It acted as a shield for all Bratva operations and as a trap for anyone who might try to break in. It was impossible to crack — or so I thought.

This wasn't just a hack.

It was a well-planned, deliberate attack — on Bratva, and on me.

Dad, being the Pakhan, had to face backlash from the council. They demanded answers we didn't have. In his reign, this kind of threat against Bratva had never existed — which made it even more crucial to find the attacker.

I walked toward the closet, pulling out a pair of trousers. As I put them on, I rubbed the towel through my damp hair, then seated myself in front of the computers.

Over six months, I had traced, tracked, and interrogated every single member of Bratva.

The documents in front of me were proof of that.

When the money first started disappearing, it was subtle — tiny percentages shaved off clean transactions. No flashy withdrawals. No big alarms.

Whoever did this knew our systems — inside and out. It made me believe strongly that it was indeed an inside job. A traitor among us.

Then there were the footprints — logins that matched internal clearance codes, devices that passed two-factor authentication.

If it were an outsider, they would've tripped alarms trying to breach Bratva firewalls. We're not amateurs.

But then, it got sloppy.

I sifted through the pictures of former, retired Bratva associates and their bank statements, dropping them to the floor one after another.

The first true indication that it was an outside job came when I discovered a crack in my personal security setup.

It looked like a minor issue — until I tried to fix it.

An error flashed bold and unmissable across the screen.

A threat, directed at me:

'Your empire is built on code, and a code can be rewritten.'

They didn't just want money. They wanted me to see it — to know they were inside. To watch. To mock.

Inside jobs don't taunt you. They don't play games. They bleed you dry without leaving fingerprints.

Whoever this was — they weren't after Bratva.

They were after me.

Finding the attacker was my second priority. First was securing the Bratva servers again.

Within a fortnight, I turned the Bratva's fortune into a ghost.

I set up a false financial structure — a mirror network — that looked identical to the real Bratva accounts.

To anyone on the outside — even someone this skilled — the liquid money would appear transparent.

I had outsmarted whoever this was, considering no money had been lost over the past six months.

But that wasn't enough.

It didn't give me comfort.

It didn't wipe the mocking laughter from the back of my mind.

When I presented the idea of following a lead to Brighton Island, Father supported it. He also extended any internal help I might need.

My first target had been the Serpents. They had attacked us previously, leading to bloodshed. Though the Heathens had won, it was possible they were planning a different kind of hit.

But I knew the Serpents' network like the back of my hand.

They were street hackers and smugglers — not the elite coders who could break into a system as complex as mine.

Still, it was the only lead I had.

Things shifted when information reached us that one of the Serpents was dealing under the table with an anonymous supplier.

We carefully tracked him — his IP, his movements — and ultimately ambushed him.

He didn't prove to be of any real use, so I discarded him the way I had discarded many others.

However, he carried something useful — a hard drive showing the transfer of small portions of Bratva's stolen money into his own accounts.

Not only was he stealing from us — he was betraying the Serpents too.

Through his devices, I discovered a thread of texts exchanged with an anonymous employer under the name "Mr. eXecute" — a mockery of my own alias, "Mr. X."

Progress had been slow.

But I was getting closer.

Sooner or later, I'd find whoever was behind this.

And I would give them exactly what they came looking for — wrath.

A knock pulled my attention toward the door.

"Come in," I called.

Lev walked in, drenched from the rain. I hadn't even realized it had started storming outside.

He dripped all over the rug without a second thought.

"We've captured him. He's being kept at the abandoned factory," he said, huffing between breaths, making me wonder if he had been running.

I got up from the chair, pulling a shirt from the corner of my bed.

"Did he open his mouth yet?" I asked.

Lev shook his head.

"He will," I answered coldly.

"Are you sure you don't want to involve the other Heathens in this?" Lev asked cautiously.

He had been questioning me a lot lately. I didn't have any real reason to doubt his loyalty — yet — but he had certainly been making me question some things.

"Do you think we should?" I asked, calm, eager to hear his real opinion.

"I—I just think Jeremy Volkov has been working in the field for a few years... he could be of help," he stammered, almost afraid to speak aloud.

"Jeremy is aware of my steps. The other Heathens don't have much of a role here. Are you suggesting that I am not calculative enough to handle this alone, Lev?"

My voice sharpened like a blade.

He remained silent — answering my question better than words could.

"Stay here. Guard the mansion. I'll handle him alone," I ordered, and walked out.

Outside, the rain hammered the asphalt like war drums.

I stood under the overhang of the warehouse, the thin concrete canopy shielding me from the worst of it.

The storm mocked me.

I gritted my teeth.

I stared at my car — a matte black Audi, parked crookedly in the lot — the keys dangling loosely in my bare hand.

It would be the easy choice.

But nothing about tonight was easy.

The back of my mind buzzed with static — a thousand threads of suspicion pulling me in opposite directions.

Serpents.

Double agents.

Inside jobs.

Vendettas.

Who the fuck do you trust when everyone you know is a liar in some way?

When even loyalty comes soaked in bloodstains and loopholes?

I closed my eyes for a second, listening — not to the rain, but to the silence beneath it.

There were no answers here.

Only instincts.

When I opened my eyes, I didn't move toward the car.

Instead, I turned sharply and strode across the lot toward the motorcycle chained at the side.

I unclipped the helmet, swinging it onto my head with a snap of the visor.

The engine growled to life beneath me — deep, snarling, alive.

Stay standing.

Stay dangerous.

Stay sharp.

My father's words echoed in my mind.

I would find out the truth — and claw the heart out of anyone who tried to betray me and the empire destined to be mine, with my bare hands.

I was going to set an example.

Pure.

Unforgiving.

Controlling.

-x-x-x-x-

This is the end of Chapter 6. I must say, when I began writing this story, I had doubts in my mind about plot and how it would be explained to the readers. But after writing this chapter, I felt satisfied. This is just the beginning, stay tuned. Also, don't forget to vote and leave a comment for me! Follow me on my Instagram (: authornephthys and paperhearts.x) for more updates.

Thank you for reading!

Nephthys.