Page 41 of Obsessive Vows

My voice barely rises above a whisper, but the four men positioned around me respond with imperceptible nods. We've been in position for three hours, watching the abandoned Soviet-era factory on Moscow's eastern outskirts where the Chechen smugglers are scheduled to make the exchange. Intelligence suggests twelve men, heavily armed—a formidable force for a standard Bratva crew.

But this isn't a standard crew. These are Markov's elite enforcers, now under my command after months of advancement through the ranks. The irony doesn't escape me—my father's killer entrusting me with his most valuable operations.

The black SUV we've been waiting for approaches, headlights cutting through the pre-dawn gloom. I press the communication device in my ear. "Vehicle approaching from the east. Standby."

Through high-powered binoculars, I watch three men exit the vehicle, followed by a fourth escorting a blindfolded figure—our primary objective. Alexei Petrov, nephew of Defense Minister Petrov, whose gambling debts and cocaine habit led him to sell military intelligence to Chechen separatists. The young fool thought he was untouchable due to his uncle's position. Now he learns the limits of such protection.

Markov wants him alive—partly to extract information, mostly to hold leverage over the Defense Minister for future operations. The Chechens' lives are negotiable.

"Breaching positions," I murmur into the comm. "Remember, Petrov exits breathing. The rest are combat zone."

Military terminology comes naturally—remnants of my former life that blend seamlessly into my Bratva cover. Viktor Baranov, ex-special forces operator who found more lucrative employment in the criminal underworld after dishonorable discharge. Only Anton knows this biography is partially true—I did serve in special operations before my family's murder, before revenge became my only mission.

The exchange begins exactly as intelligence predicted. Money transfers hands, Petrov stumbles forward. The perfect moment to strike.

"Execute."

The operation unfolds without hesitation. Two snipers eliminate the perimeter guards simultaneously. Smoke grenades create tactical confusion. My entry team breaches from three positions, creating crossfire that leaves the Chechens with no viable cover.

I move through the chaos quickly, not firing unnecessarily, every movement economical. This isn't about bloodlust—it's about control, about demonstrating leadership that will further cement my position in Markov's inner circle.

When a Chechen fighter breaks from cover, raising his weapon toward Dmitri, I put two rounds through his chest without breaking stride. Protecting Markov's men builds loyalty, creates debts to be collected later.

Eighty-seven seconds after breach, the gunfire ceases. Nine Chechens dead, two wounded but subdued, and Petrov secured—still blindfolded and whimpering in the center of the warehouse.

"Perimeter secured," reports Dmitri, the massive enforcer now looking at me with unmistakable respect. "Clean execution, Viktor Alexandrovich."

I nod acknowledgment while surveying the scene, calculating the most efficient extraction. "Prepare transport. We move in five minutes."

As my men secure the survivors and collect weapons, I approach Petrov, removing his blindfold. The young man blinks in the harsh tactical lights, confusion giving way to terror as he processes the bodies surrounding him.

"Who—what is happening?" he stammers, educated accent betraying his privileged upbringing.

"Your debt has been transferred," I inform him coldly. "Mikhail Alexeyevich Markov now holds your markers."

The blood drains from his face. "Markov? The Bratva? My uncle will?—"

"Your uncle," I interrupt, "arranged this transaction."

A lie, but a useful one. Breaking family bonds creates isolation, makes assets more malleable. This entitled boy needs to understand how thoroughly abandoned he is before Markov extracts what he needs.

"That's impossible," he whispers, but doubt has already taken root.

I turn away, gesturing for Dmitri to secure him. "Transport leaves in three minutes. Anyone not aboard gets left behind."

The extraction proceeds with the same determination as the breach. Twenty minutes later, we're navigating Moscow's pre-dawn streets in unmarked vehicles, cargo secured, casualties minimal. A textbook operation that will undoubtedly please Markov—another step toward the inner circle where my true objective waits.

Yet as I deliver my verbal report via secure phone, the familiar satisfaction of successful execution is tainted by an uncomfortable awareness. I've become too proficient at this—violence in service to a criminal empire, the same empire that destroyed my family. The line between playing a role and becoming that role grows dangerously thin.

"Excellent work, Viktor," Markov's voice holds rare approval. "Bring Petrov directly to Lubyanka house. I'll handle him personally."

"Understood, pakhan." The title—Russian criminal equivalent of “godfather”—still tastes like ash in my mouth.

"Your team performed well under your leadership," he continues. "We'll discuss your advancement when I return from Switzerland next week."

The mention of Switzerland triggers an involuntary tightening in my chest. Anastasia has been there for months now, pursuing some diplomatic program according to intelligence Anton has gathered. Away from Moscow, away from my carefully constructed path to her father.

Away from me.

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