“You drop that crate, and it could cost us millions. You know what that means?” I ask, my voice cold.

Pavel shakes his head, swallowing hard.

“It means you’re useless to me if you can’t handle basic tasks,” I continue. “Useless men don’t survive long in this world.”

Pavel’s face drains of all color, fear radiating off him in waves.

“Timur…,” Oleg begins, but I hold up a hand, silencing him.

“No excuses,” I say, glaring down at Pavel. “Get out of my sight. You have one chance left.”

Pavel stumbles backward, nodding rapidly as he scrambles to get back to work. I don’t tolerate incompetence. The Bratva is built on precision and efficiency, and anyone who threatens that doesn’t last long.

I move on, pushing Pavel out of my mind. Oleg falls into step beside me.

“You’re hard on the new ones,” he says quietly.

“They need it,” I reply. “If they can’t handle pressure, they’re a liability.”

“True,” Oleg agrees. “Sometimes they need time to adjust.”

I glance at him. Oleg is the only man who can speak openly to me, offer his opinion without fear of retribution. Anyone else, I’d have cut down by now.

The day continues like any other, overseeing shipments, coordinating with the men. Business is business, and it runs smoothly, as it should. As efficient as everything is, there’s still a restlessness in me—a constant irritation that gnaws at the back of my mind. Jennifer.

I shake my head, trying to shove the thought away. She’s nothing. A distraction. I don’t have time for distractions.

After hours of overseeing operations, Oleg and I head to Serge’s location. The bar is in one of the rougher parts of the city, a place where men come to drown their sorrows and forget their troubles. I walk inside, scanning the dimly lit room until I spot Serge slumped over at the bar.

He’s a mess—eyes bloodshot, clothes wrinkled, a glass of whiskey clutched tightly in his hand. He doesn’t notice me until I’m standing right beside him.

“Serge.”

He glances up, bleary-eyed, barely registering my presence.

“Timur,” he slurs, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Come to join the party?”

I grab his arm, pulling him up from the stool with force. “We’re leaving.”

Serge tries to pull away, but he’s too weak, too drunk to resist. Oleg moves in to help me drag him out of the bar.

“What the hell are you doing, Serge?” I snap once we’re outside, pushing him up against the wall. “You’re throwing everything away.”

He laughs bitterly, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “What’s the point, Timur? We can’t even find out who killed Anthony. What’s the point of all this power if it can’t fix anything?”

His words hit harder than I’d like to admit.

Serge’s bitter laugh grates on my nerves as I shove him harder against the brick wall. His eyes challenge mine with a flicker of defiance, but mostly, I see the emptiness there—the hopelessness. It pisses me off.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I snarl, my fists tightening around the fabric of his jacket. “You think drinkingyourself into oblivion will bring Anthony back? You think this is going to fix anything?”

Serge tries to push me off, but his movements are sluggish, uncoordinated. His breath reeks of alcohol, and the stench only fuels my anger. “You don’t get it, Timur. You never did,” he slurs, shoving me weakly in the chest. “You’ve always been the good one, the one who had all the answers. Well, guess what? You don’t have shit.”

My patience snaps. I slam him back against the wall again, harder this time. “Don’t you dare act like I haven’t tried to help you. I’ve given you every opportunity to pull yourself together, but you just keep fucking up.”

Serge’s lip curls into a sneer. “Help? You don’t even know what help is. You’re too busy playing the coldhearted boss, pretending like nothing gets to you.”

His words sting more than I’d like to admit, but I don’t let it show. I lean in closer, my voice dangerously low. “You don’t know shit about what gets to me.”