"Today," he began, his voice gravelled with age and bitterness, "marks the first time we gather after a year and a half of silence since the genocide in Russia—particularly one led by the Volkovs."
His words hung in the air like smoke after a gunshot.
He locked eyes with Tyric in a long, piercing stare before easing back into his chair. The statement wasn't a question, nor an accusation—it was a wound opened wide for all to see.
Tyric didn't flinch. He held the old man's stare, expression unreadable—cold, calm like the barrel of a gun. There was no apology in his eyes. No remorse. Just the quiet fire of a man who knew exactly what he did… and would do it all over again.
One of the mafia bosses, a stocky man with a scar running down his temple and a voice like gravel, remained seated, speaking up with scorn in his glare.
"What's with the addressing, old man?" he barked, his tone venom-laced. "We both know this foe…" —his finger jabbed toward Tyric without hesitation— "this motherfucker doesn't care about any of it!"
The room tensed instantly.
"He's not haunted by what he did. He sleeps fine at night while the rest of us bury men and rebuild what he tore apart. Talking about it won't change a damn thing."
His voice echoed across the room like gunfire, shaking the surface of every drink on the table.
Tyric didn't move. He didn't need to. The fury in the room only fed the power he sat in. His smirk barely curved, just enough to show—he'd already won something long before they arrived.
Tyric scoffed, the sound low and mocking as he leaned back in his chair, one arm lazily draped over the armrest. His cold gaze settled on the man across the table, his tone sharp as broken glass.
"Until you understand, foe," he said with deliberate weight, "that this ain't a game of love… but one of power—I'm sure you'll stop whining like a small boy."
The room went still, the insult cutting deep. Tyric's eyes didn't flinch, his expression unreadable, but his presence alone grew heavier—as if daring anyone else to speak out of line.
Tesmee sat quietly, observing the heated exchange, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. This world, though dark and familiar, had a hierarchy she was still learning. But it didn't take long to grasp who held the reins of power here, and she couldn't help but be impressed.
One of the older mafia bosses finally spoke up, his voice thick with disdain. "You may be capable," he said, staring directly at Tyric, "but many voices don't sound the same as one. You're alone in your game—and it's all of us against you."
Tesmee lowered her gaze briefly, crossing her one leg over the other, a soft scoff slipping through her lips.
The man leaned forward, eyes locked on Tesmee with venom. "Something funny, bietch?" he sneered in thick Russian-accented English, the insult dripping off his tongue like poison. The room tensed instantly, like a wire pulled too tight.
Tesmee didn't flinch. Her legs crossed slowly, deliberately, as she looked up with calm steel in her eyes. "Weakness in a man," she said coolly, her voice cutting like a knife, "...perhaps that's what."
The man narrowed his eyes, but before he could speak, she leaned forward slightly, her tone sharp as glass. "He's not alone. And I suppose your weakness... is associated with stupidity."
The room went still again. The insult echoed louder than a scream. Tyric smirked faintly without looking at her—his respect deepening in silence—while the other mafias exchanged looks, some impressed, others seething.
No one had expected that venom to come laced in elegance.
The man scoffed, leaning back in his chair with a bitter smirk. "Let's see how long you manage to play the game," he said, his voice laced with menace and mockery, eyes locking with Tesmee's as if challenging her presence and alliance.
She sighed softly, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her lips as her eyes drifted upward—scanning the ceiling like she was trying to comprehend the absurdity of his words. Then, without shifting her cold gaze back to him, she spoke in a low, piercing tone:
"Let's see how long you manage to stay alive… you may start counting now."
He exhaled slowly, leaning back with a smug glint in his eyes. "That's a threat not to be taken lightly," he said, voice thick with mockery. "But people with meat between their legs don't exactly make me shiv—"
The sharp sound of shattering glass cut him off.
Tyric had calmly pushed the glass nearest to him off the table, the crash against the floor sending a chilling silence across the room. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes burned with a quiet, deadly warning.
Tyric smirked, unfazed, his voice low but cutting like a blade.
"Watch your words, boy," he said, leaning forward just slightly—enough to remind the man that there were lines even in a room full of criminals. Lines he wouldn't mind crossing.
Tyric's tone dropped to a deadly calm, the room freezing under the weight of his words.
"Your life is in my hands," he said coldly, his eyes sharp as steel. "Say that again… and I'll gladly reunite you with your creator right now."
He leaned forward slightly, voice like ice. "Go on. Finish your shit—so I can finish you."
The man sneered, unyielding. "Don't bring your bietches in here and expect me to hold my tongue, boy—"
He never finished.
A single bullet silenced him, tearing through his skull and painting the wall behind him in a spray of crimson. His body slumped lifelessly in his chair, his brains scattered across the table. Tyric held the smoking gun, calm as ever, not a flicker of regret in his gaze.
The room fell deathly silent—but not from shock. The dead man's guards remained still, knowing better than to retaliate. A few silently moved to carry the body away. No one dared speak out.
The meeting resumed as if nothing had happened.
Tyric's dominance filled the room like smoke—undeniable, unquestionable. Every boss knew exactly where they stood in this world of power.
As for Tesmee, she sat unshaken, watching it all unfold. That level of fear-based respect… she knew she might never match it in presence. But when it came to war, blood, and pure destruction—she was unmatched. Her name echoed in the streets not for fear—but for chaos. And that too, was power.
"I guess he didn't just hold his tongue," Tyric muttered sarcastically, sliding his gun smoothly back to his waist holster, "but also his life." He leaned back in his chair, the same deadly calm settling over him as if he hadn't just ended a life seconds ago.
The old man who had started the meeting cleared his throat, voice weary but steady. "As the meeting was… I suppose it's safe to say we're done addressing the genocide issue." He paused, letting the reality of the situation settle. There was no room left to push that matter—not when the blood was still fresh on the table. "So I suggest we move on."
He shifted in his seat, his face grim. "There's something else. A far bigger problem. Territories across Russia—owned by powerful mafia groups—are being targeted. Not by law enforcement… but by a secret force. A hidden hand within the underworld."
The room stiffened.
"This isn't just another rival gang. They're strategic. Lethal. Entire operations wiped clean without a trace. And so far…" he looked around, making eye contact with each boss, "the Volkovs, and the rest of you in this room, are excused. You are not suspects. But make no mistake…"
He leaned forward, his voice dropping.
"…whatever or whoever this is, they're coming. And if they're not stopped, it won't matter how powerful we are. They'll come for us all."
Another man at the table—lean-faced with a deep scar running across his temple—spoke up, his voice rough and suspicious.
"What makes you think this so-called force isn't law enforcement? Maybe they're just playing the game smarter. Undercover. Making us believe they're not cops, when in fact they could be government ghosts trained to infiltrate and dismantle from within."
He paused, scanning the room before leaning in slightly.
"I've seen one of their bases," he said gravely. "It's not like anything I've seen before. Built underground—deep, well hidden. Security levels off the charts. No cameras breach that perimeter. No bugs work. It's like they're ghosts. And the shipments… I saw weapons, marked with military codes—fresh, top-grade stock. That's not something you steal from a cartel."
He sat back, voice dropping lower.
"Whatever they are… they're organized, funded, and more dangerous than any lawman I've known. Which makes me wonder… are we really dealing with a rogue faction—or is this something bigger? Something… sanctioned?"
The room fell silent again, tension thickening. Even Tyric tapped his fingers once against the table, the only sign that his mind had begun to turn with thought.
Tyric leaned forward, brows slightly furrowed, the weight of the conversation dragging in his tone. "Maybe he's right… it could be law enforcement, deep undercover. Or maybe a private organization—funded by the government but not trained by them. Detectives, assassins, specialists… all meant to track us down or maybe—"
He was mid-sentence when Tesmee cut in.
"It's not government. It's not law enforcement," she said firmly, her voice slicing through the room.
Tyric turned his head slowly to look at her, surprised but listening. She continued, unwavering, "And it's not just in Russia. It's global—Italy, France, all across Africa, the U.S., even hidden islands. This isn't a local problem. It's not a theory. It's real, and it's spreading."
All heads turned toward Tesmee the moment she spoke—her voice sharp, steady, and laced with certainty. Tyric's eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued more than anything else as he leaned back, giving her the floor.
She continued, her posture relaxed yet commanding.
"It's not government," she repeated. "And it's not law enforcement either. This thing… it's deeper. Older. Strategic. It's been moving for years quietly while you focused on each other."
She paused, letting the weight of her words fall.
"It doesn't operate in one country, not even one continent. Same pattern. Silence… then elimination. Entire factions wiped with no trace. No survivors. No leads."
The room remained tense, eyes locked on her.
"And the worst part? They don't take territory—they erase it. Burn names, bury bloodlines. They don't want control. They want removal."
Tyric leaned forward, his fingers steepled now, his eyes dark with interest.
"How long have you known?"
She looked at him calmly. "Long enough to know… this isn't war. It's extermination."
Tyric's eyes narrowed as he stared at her, the gears in his mind clearly turning. There was something he knew—something he wasn't ready to share. His expression stayed unreadable, cold yet calculating. Then, almost too calmly, he cut the matter short.
"An exterminator… you say they are?" he muttered, his voice low and laced with an edge, as if testing the weight of the word on his tongue.
Tesmee narrowed her eyes, her gaze fixed sharply on Tyric. There was something in the way he said it—too detached, too knowing. Her voice was low, but carried the weight of demand beneath its calm surface.
"What are you thinking?" she asked coldly, as if trying to pierce through his silence and reach whatever secret sat buried in the depths of his mind.
Tyric scoffed, the edge of a smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned back lazily in his chair. His eyes locked onto hers—calm but piercing, like he was reading her just as much as she was reading him.
"Nothing, mama," he said, voice smooth but distant, the kind of "nothing" that meant everything was buried behind it.
Tesmee cleared her throat softly, her gaze still lingering on Tyric for a moment longer—trying to dig beneath the surface, to peel back whatever he was hiding. But the wall in his eyes held strong, unreadable.
Realizing her attempt was slipping into silence, she turned her head, shifting her focus back to the others in the room, her expression sharp and composed once more.
Two hours had slipped by like shadows at dusk since the meeting began. The room had grown heavier with tension and the weight of unresolved truths, but the time had come—closure had to be met.
The old man who had initiated the gathering adjusted his coat and rose from his seat, his voice cutting through the thick air. "We've said what needed to be said. Blood spilled, truths shared, warnings given. Now, we close this chapter… until the next war writes itself."
The others nodded, murmurs rising as chairs scraped the floor and alliances lingered in the silence.
As the last of the mafia bosses and their guards filed out, the room fell into a heavy silence. Tesmee and Tyric remained, the weight of their shared presence hanging in the air. Tyric's hand rested thoughtfully on his chin, his gaze fixed upward, but his eyes never left Tesmee as he let out a quiet scoff.
With a smooth motion, he stood up, the chair scraping against the floor. He didn't need to say anything for a moment; his body language spoke volumes. He looked like a man on the verge of something, but whether it was frustration or calculation, Tesmee couldn't tell.
"Let's get out of here," he said finally, his tone cool but laced with something more—perhaps a deep undercurrent of plans yet to unfold.