Page 4 of Obsessive Vows

"It'll be us someday, Vitya," he'd said the night before he died, his breath fogging in the cold Moscow air as we shared a cigarette on the dacha's porch. "When the old men finish killing each other off, it'll be our generation that rebuilds something worth having."

Naive. Hopeful. Dead twelve hours later with three bullets in his chest, Markov himself delivering the kill shot while I watched, hidden, from the tree line. Forced to remain silent as my brother's blood stained the pristine snow crimson, knowing intervention meant joining him in death without achieving justice.

Five years of planning, of rebuilding from ashes, of infiltrating the very organization that destroyed everything I loved. Five years of becoming Viktor Baranov, rising Bratva enforcer with no known connections to the Sokolov family that once rivaled Markov's power.

Five years of patience, leading to this moment, this city, this operation.

"Movement at the service entrance," I report, forcing myself back to the present, watching a sleek black Mercedes pull into the hotel's side alley. "Not Sokolov. Likely Kovalev's transportation for tonight's meeting."

"Confirmed," Anton replies. "Our source says they're meeting at Le Cinq. Private dining room reserved for ten."

I check my watch again. "Plenty of time to sweep their suite before they return."

"Negative," Anton says firmly. "Stick to surveillance. We need confirmation of the shipping routes before we move."

I don't answer immediately. Anton knows me too well—knows the rage simmering beneath my calm exterior, the desire to accelerate our timetable.

"Viktor." His voice hardens. "We have a plan. Deviation risks everything."

"Understood." I force the word out, though every instinct screams to act now, to strike while Markov's key lieutenants are within reach.

But Anton is right. Vengeance requires accuracy. One misstep, and I lose my only chance to destroy Mikhail Markov completely.

"Petrov men approaching from the north," Anton warns suddenly. "Two operatives, armed. Take cover."

I melt deeper into the shadows, becoming part of the architecture as two men in tailored suits pass within meters of my position. Their movements carry the unmistakable cadence of trained killers—the measured stride, the constant environmental scanning, the subtle bulge of shoulder holsters beneath expensive fabric.

"Passing now," I murmur, remaining perfectly still as they survey the hotel entrance.

"I count four more scattered across the boulevard," Anton reports through my earpiece. "They're setting up a perimeter. This isn't random patrol."

My mind processes this development with cold efficiency. The Petrov faction wouldn't commit this level of manpower to routine surveillance. They're hunting something specific.

"Check Kovalev's guest list," I instruct Anton. "Someone important is either at the Bristol or expected soon."

A brief pause as Anton accesses our intelligence network. "Nothing unusual on Kovalev's schedule. Wait—there's a new arrival registered under Ivanova. Single occupant, diplomatic-adjacent processing, arrived today."

"Send the details."

My phone vibrates silently with an incoming file. I scan the information while maintaining surveillance on the Petrov operatives now taking positions around the hotel's perimeter.

The data is sparse—deliberate obfuscation suggesting someone with resources and connections. No surveillance images attached. Male or female, Anton marks as unknown. But one detail catches my eye: payment traced to a shell corporation with tertiary connections to Moscow holdings.

"Could be Bratva-affiliated," Anton suggests. "Maybe internal conflict? Petrov making a move against Kovalev's operation?"

Before I can respond, movement at the hotel's main entrance draws my attention. Not Kovalev or his associates, but a solitary figure descending the steps—female, tall, dark hair falling loose around her shoulders, dressed in a simple but elegant black dress that speaks of understated wealth.

Something about her immediately triggers my professional assessment. Not her beauty, though that's undeniable even from this distance. Not her confident stride or the way she carries herself with natural grace.

It's her awareness.

Most civilians move through the world in a bubble of obliviousness, attention focused inward or on their digital devices. Most wealthy tourists notice only what interests them—boutique displays, restaurant offerings, the occasional landmark.

This woman is different. She pauses at the bottom of the steps, her gaze sweeping the street in a methodical pattern that I recognize instantly. Not random. Not casual. Not civilian. She's scanning for threats, assessing escape routes, cataloging environmental details.

Like someone trained to survive in a dangerous world.

"New player on the field," I murmur into my comm. "Female, mid-twenties, exiting the Bristol main entrance."

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