The bass from the main floor pulsed faintly through the walls.
It was distant up here—muted, like a heartbeat. Aleksander preferred it that way.
The VIP level of the club was insulated from chaos, wrapped in velvet and glass and gold trim. Downstairs was indulgence. Up here was business.
The VIP room door shut with a soft click.
Inside, the lighting was low—amber lamps casting long shadows across marble floors and dark leather furniture.
The air smelled of expensive cologne, cigar smoke, and something sharper underneath. Metallic.
Aleksander sat in a high-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, suit jacket immaculate, cuffs spotless. A thin streak of red marked his cheek, barely noticeable against his pale skin.
In front of him, bound to a reinforced chair, sat Minister Viktor Sokolov—a well-known political figure. Publicly untouchable.
Privately terrified.
His tie had been removed. His collar hung open. Sweat soaked through the fine fabric of his shirt.
"I don't understand what you think I can give you," Sokolov rasped.
Aleksander tilted his head slightly, as if examining an art piece.
"You understand perfectly," he said, voice smooth and conversational. "The storage locations. The contingency stockpiles. The old Soviet bunkers that were never officially decommissioned."
Sokolov swallowed hard.
"I don't have access to that."
Aleksander smiled faintly.
A lie.
He gestured lazily with two fingers.
One of the men stepped forward—silent, efficient. A reminder, not yet an escalation. Sokolov flinched before anything even happened.
Aleksander studied him.
Fear fascinated him. The way it peeled layers off a person. Titles, power, influence—none of it survived when stripped down to the animal instinct to survive.
"I don't want to destroy the country,"
Aleksander said calmly. "I want to reshape it."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Certain regions," he continued, voice softening. "Certain industrial sectors. Certain loyalists who believe they are untouchable."
His eyes darkened.
"They are not."
Sokolov's breathing grew uneven.
"You're insane," the politician whispered.
Aleksander chuckled.
"No," he corrected gently. "I am patient."
He stood slowly, circling the restrained man. His polished shoes made almost no sound against the marble.
"You've signed off on military redistribution bills," Aleksander continued. "You've approved sealed transport routes. You've personally visited at least two restricted depots."
He stopped in front of him.
"You know where the heavy artillery is stored. The mobile missile platforms. The underground reserves that don't appear on public record."
Sokolov squeezed his eyes shut.
"I can't tell you."
Aleksander sighed.
Disappointment, not anger.
He nodded once.
The room shifted.
What followed wasn't loud. There were no dramatic screams echoing down the hallway—this was a controlled environment.
Professional. Calculated.
Aleksander didn't dirty his hands immediately. He watched.
Watched as his men ripped out Viktor's figernails only to bash the vulnerable flesh with a hammer.
Watched Viktor's blood drown out his screams as his front tooth was roughly yet slowly pulled.
Time stretched. The music from below continued its distant rhythm. Ice clinked in a glass somewhere in the club.
Eventually, Sokolov broke.
The information came in fragments at first—coordinates half-spoken, facility names muttered through choked gasps, references to decommissioned Cold War silos still functioning beneath rural territories.
Aleksander listened carefully.
Damien, standing at his side, recorded everything on a secure device.
Damien Laurent.
Tall. Dark-haired. Impeccable posture. His right hand in every sense of the word. Where Aleksander was theatrical calm, Damien was quiet precision. He spoke rarely, but when he did, the room listened.
"Cross-reference that with the Arkhangelsk manifests," Damien murmured.
Aleksander nodded faintly.
Sokolov's head hung forward now, voice hoarse.
"There's a reserve outside Kursk… underground rail access… controlled through a shell corporation—"
Aleksander crouched slightly to meet his gaze.
"There we are," he said softly.
But something shifted in Sokolov's expression.
Regret.
Or defiance.
Perhaps both.
"You'll never get out with it," Sokolov whispered weakly. "You think you can move artillery without the state noticing? You think you can strike internal targets and not start a civil war?"
Aleksander's smile faded.
"Civil war," he repeated thoughtfully. "Is sometimes necessary."
He stood again.
"Is that everything?" Damien asked quietly.
Aleksander considered.
Sokolov had given enough to begin verification. Enough to act.
But loose ends were dangerous.
Aleksander stepped forward one final time.
"History will not remember you kindly," the politician muttered.
Aleksander paused.
"History rarely remembers the frightened at all."
What followed was swift.
Controlled.
Decisive.
No theatrics. No spectacle.
When it was over, silence filled the VIP room.
The music downstairs felt impossibly distant now.
Aleksander remained seated for a moment, breathing steady. A thin smear of blood marked his cheekbone and the edge of his jaw.
He wiped at it absentmindedly with his thumb, studying the red against his skin.
Damien approached.
"It will be cleaned," he said calmly.
"Of course it will," Aleksander replied.
He leaned back into the leather chair, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
Kursk. Arkhangelsk. Underground rails.
It would take weeks to move pieces into place. Shell companies. Diversions. Quiet acquisitions. But it was possible.
Very possible.
And then—
For reasons he did not fully examine—
His thoughts shifted.
Matteo.
The image surfaced uninvited.
Dark hair. Defiant eyes. The sharp line of his jaw when he was angry.
Aleksander exhaled softly.
Strange.
In a room still heavy with violence, his mind wandered.
He smiled.
Not the cold one he wore for enemies.
A different one.
Damien noticed.
"Something amusing?" he asked carefully.
Aleksander stood, straightening his cuffs.
"Yes," he replied. "Something… interesting."
He stepped over the polished floor toward the exit. His men fell into place behind him automatically.
"Prepare verification teams," Aleksander instructed. "Quietly. If the coordinates check out, we begin phase one."
Damien inclined his head. "Understood."
Aleksander paused at the door, glancing back once at the dimly lit room.
Then he turned away.
The door closed.
Downstairs, the club roared with life—laughter, music, bodies moving beneath flashing lights.
Upstairs, the air remained heavy.
Aleksander adjusted his jacket as he walked, blood drying faintly against his skin.