Mikhail paced the length of the room, his steps sharp and restless. Word had spread fast, too fast. Nikolai had been shot.
His chest tightened. The walls felt too close.
Before anyone could stop him, he shoved open the door to his father's office.
"If Nikolai doesn't come back alive," Mikhail said, his voice cutting through the room, "I'll leave this mafia either dead or alive, your choice."
The air froze.
Viktor's head snapped up. "What are you saying?"
Mikhail swallowed, forcing his voice steady, careful with his words "If Nikolai doesn't return today, alive, then you'll have to adopt someone else as your heir."
Silence.
Then Viktor picked up the phone.
One call. He ended it and placed the phone down with deliberate calm.
"He'll be fine," Viktor said. "They'll bring him back."
Mikhail barely had time to breathe before Viktor stood.
The punch came fast.
Pain exploded in Mikhail's gut, stealing the air from his lungs. He doubled over as Viktor twisted his arm behind his back, just enough to make his vision blur.
"Don't ever threaten me," Viktor said coldly. "I am perfectly fine with an adopted heir. Do you understand?"
"Yes—yes, sir," Mikhail gasped, nodding frantically. "I understand."
Viktor released him.
Mikhail staggered back, clutching his stomach, struggling to breathe.
"Now get out," Viktor said.
Mikhail didn't hesitate. He turned and left instantly.
Mikhail stopped just outside the door.
His hand hovered in the air, knuckles trembling. His stomach still burned where Viktor's fist had landed, his arm aching from the twist but none of it hurt as much as the thought drilling into his head.
I still need to talk to him.
He told himself it was about Nikolai, that it was about duty. About control, but it wasn't.
He turned back, taking a breath that barely reached his lungs, and knocked once.
No answer.
"Father," Mikhail said through the door, his voice low. Steady. "I wasn't threatening you."
Silence.
"I just-" His jaw tightened. "I need you to understand."
Still nothing.
The door didn't open. Viktor didn't respond. Not with words. Not with anger. Not with another blow.
That was worse.
Mikhail let his hand fall to his side. Whatever he had wanted to say, whatever he needed to say stayed trapped in his chest.
He walked away slowly this time.
Because wanting to talk didn't mean being allowed to.
The heavy door slammed open, and two of Viktor's men dragged Nikolai's limp body inside. His clothes were torn, and dark blood stained his sleeve. His face was pale, lips slightly parted, breathing shallow and uneven.
Mikhail's heart stopped.
"Is he alive?" he demanded, rushing forward, panic clawing at his chest.
One of the men nodded grimly. "Barely. They found him near the docks; he was shot in the arm."
Mikhail knelt beside his brother, gripping his cold hand tightly. "Stay with me, Koyla. You hear me? Stay awake."
But Nikolai's eyes fluttered weakly before closing again.
The room felt unbearably silent except for the ragged rise and fall of Nikolai's chest.
Mikhail swallowed hard, fighting the fear threatening to drown him.
"Call Dr. Ivanov. Now."
Minutes later, the door creaked open and Dr. Alexei Ivanov stepped inside, his expression calm but focused. His gray eyes scanned Nikolai's pale, unconscious form.
"A gunshot wound to the left arm," Mikhail said quietly as Dr. Ivanov sat beside Nikolai. "Blood loss is significant. We need to stop the bleeding immediately."
Mikhail hovered nearby, his breath shallow. "Will he be okay?"
Ivanov's hands moved with practiced efficiency as he cleaned and bandaged the wound. "He's lucky to be alive. But this isn't over yet. We need to keep him stable."
The room fell silent except for the faint sounds of Nikolai's uneven breathing and Ivanov's steady work.
Dr. Ivanov finished stabilizing Nikolai's arm and pulled out his phone, his expression grave.
"This is beyond a simple dressing," he muttered. "We'll need to perform surgery right here. I'll call Dr. Petrov and Malik'' he said to his assistant, he looked up at Mikhail ''they are my most trusted colleagues, I can't do this surgery alone."
Mikhail's eyes widened. "Surgery? Here? At home?"
Ivanov didn't look up. "There's no time to move him. Infection will set in if we delay. These men are the best. They'll be here soon."
Not long after, the door opened again. Two more men entered, Dr. Petrov, a calm and methodical surgeon, and Dr. Malik, known for his precision and steady hands.
Without wasting a moment, the three doctors prepared the room for the makeshift operation. Surgical kits, sterilized instruments, and anesthesia were brought out from hidden cabinets.
Mikhail stepped back, heart pounding, as the doctors worked swiftly and silently to save his brother's life
The room was thick with the sterile scent of antiseptics and the faint metallic tang of blood. The doctors worked swiftly, hands steady. Mikhail stood just outside the immediate circle, his breath shallow.
Dr. Ivanov wiped his brow and glanced up. "The bullet missed the major artery, but it was dangerously close. We managed to remove most fragments and stop the bleeding. Nikolai's arm will recover, but he'll need weeks of rest and physical therapy."
Mikhail let out a shaky breath, relief washing over him but tempered by exhaustion.
Dr. Petrov packed away the last instruments. "The risk of infection remains high. We'll be back daily to monitor the wound and change the dressings."
Dr. Malik looked over at Mikhail. "He's lost a lot of blood, so he needs lots of fluid."
Mikhail nodded, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "Thank you… for saving him."
The doctors exchanged quiet nods and packed up, leaving the room heavy with unspoken words.
As the men left, Mikhail sat beside Nikolai's bed, eyes fixed on his brother's pale face.
The next day, the heavy silence in the house pressed down on Mikhail. He hadn't slept all night, and the dark circles under his eyes made him look older than his years.
A knock at the door startled him. He hurried to open it.
Markov stood there, eyes sharp and calm. He immediately noticed the exhaustion written all over Mikhail's face.
"Mikhail, you look like you haven't slept," Markov said quietly as he stepped inside. "Are you okay? You didn't come to the office today, so I thought I'd check on you."
Mikhail managed a tired laugh. "What happened to 'we'll see when we're supposed to see'?"
Markov's gaze softened, reading the fatigue beneath the words.
"How's Nikolai?"
"He's okay, but he hasn't woken up yet. All I want is to just hold him," Mikhail replied, voice heavy.
Markov reached into his bag and pulled out fruits and food. "I know you probably haven't eaten. So, I brought this."
Mikhail shook his head weakly. "You didn't have to. The maid already prepared something."
Markov smirked slightly. "We both know you don't like her. Ever since Katya-"
Mikhail's eyes flickered briefly, but he nodded. "It's fine. Thank you."
Markov stepped forward and gave him a firm, brief hug. "I'll be on my way, Misha. Take care."
After Markov left, Mikhail closed the door and set the bags gently on the table, the weight of the day pressing down on him.
In the shadowed corners of the Sokolov empire, power was a game played in whispers and threats. Loyalty was currency, and betrayal was the cost of survival.
Anton sat on a worn wooden chair, the quiet hum of the room pressing down on him. Markov stood nearby, as he sized him up.
"You know why you're here," Markov said, his voice low and steady.
Anton swallowed hard. "I don't want trouble, Markov."
Markov stepped closer, letting the weight of his presence fill the space. "Trouble's already coming. I've got everything on you including the transfers and the offshore accounts. You think Viktor won't be interested?"
Anton's jaw tightened. "What do you want?"
"A favor. A simple one." Markov's lips curled into a cold smile. "Advise Viktor to send Nikolai away."
Anton's eyes widened. "Nikolai? Why him?"
Markov's gaze hardened. "None of your business."
Anton looked away, torn. The weight of the choice was crushing.
Markov's voice dropped to a whisper, deadly serious. "Remember, Anton. I'm not the one who decides if you live or die."
The soft rustle of sheets and the faint creak of the door pulled Mikhail from his restless thoughts. He looked up sharply as Nikolai's eyelids fluttered, revealing hazel eyes clouded but opening.
"Nikolai!" Mikhail whispered, heart pounding as he reached out, gently gripping his brother's hand.
Nikolai's gaze searched Mikhail's face, confusion and pain flickering through his eyes. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry and voice hoarse.
"Hey, it's me," Mikhail said softly, brushing a strand of hair from Nikolai's forehead. "You're safe. You're going to be okay."
A weak smile tugged at Nikolai's lips, a fragile sign of life.
"Stay with me," Mikhail pleaded, tears threatening to fall. "Please."
Nikolai's fingers twitched in response, a quiet promise that he was still fighting
Nikolai's eyes slowly focused, taking in the dim room and the worried face hovering over him. For a moment, confusion clouded his gaze, but then recognition flickered, and something soft stirred inside him.
"Misha..." His voice was barely more than a whisper, rough and weak.
Mikhail's breath hitched. "I'm here, Koyla. You're safe now. Just rest."
Nikolai tried to lift his hand, but the pain in his arm stopped him halfway. He winced, brow furrowing.
"I'm sorry..." he murmured, voice strained. "For everything. For leaving…"
Mikhail shook his head fiercely, tears brimming. "Don't say that. You didn't leave. You survived. That's all that matters."
A shaky laugh escaped Nikolai, bittersweet and raw. "I thought I wouldn't make it. Thought… I was done."
"You're not done," Mikhail said firmly, squeezing his brother's hand. "We still have a long way to go."
For a moment, silence hung between them, filled with everything left unsaid, pain, hope, and the bond that had kept them alive.
Weeks had passed since Nikolai's surgery. His arm was healing, but an unspoken tension lingered in the air. The house felt colder, heavier.
A sharp knock echoed through the house. Mikhail opened the door to find Viktor standing there, expression unreadable.
"Let's have dinner," Viktor said simply.
The last time they had all eaten together, none of them wanted to remember what had happened.
At the dinner table, a new maid quietly served the food. Neither Nikolai nor Mikhail bothered to ask her name.
Viktor began, eyes on Nikolai. "How are you?"
"I'm fine, sir," Nikolai lied, forcing a small smile.
Viktor's gaze didn't waver. "Anyways, you're travelling this week to Canada. How does that sound?"
Neither Nikolai nor Mikhail had ever left Russia, so at first, the news sparked excitement.
"Why are we going?" Mikhail asked, hopeful.
"Just you, Nikolai," Viktor said, munching on his pirozhki.
"What?" Mikhail and Nikolai said in unison, stunned.
Viktor ignored their confusion and finished his meal, knowing full well they had heard him.
"You're leaving in two days. You'll get your flight tickets and a new identity. You'll have to find a way to make money because you're not leaving with a dime. I'm only giving you enough for a hotel for three days."
Viktor stood up, ready to leave.
"Dad, I'm still in pain. I don't think I can go," Nikolai said weakly.
Viktor didn't respond. He simply walked away.
Fury flared in Nikolai's eyes as he turned to Mikhail. "This is all your fault!" he shouted.
Mikhail took a deep breath. "Let's just find a way to fix this, Koyla. This fighting won't help."
"No! Don't help me. Don't act like the nice brother anyone would want. You're a monster!" Nikolai spat.
"Where is this coming from, Koyla? What's wrong?" Mikhail asked, concern cracking his voice.
Nikolai's voice cracked with pain. "I heard you, talking with someone about sending me away, about how useless I am."
Mikhail was stunned, speechless.
"I'm exiled," Nikolai said bitterly. "Maybe that's for the best. I don't need you or Dad-or the Don. Because he sure as hell isn't my dad. And you're not my brother."
He stormed upstairs and slammed the door, locking it behind him, anger blinding him completely.
Mikhail stood in the empty kitchen, heart heavy. He'd never seen Nikolai so angry. Maybe, for now, giving him space was the only thing he could do.
Nikolai sat on his bed, the pain in his arm still sharp but his mind made up. He pulled out his phone and dialed his dad's number, fingers trembling slightly.
"Dad," he said when the call connected, voice steady despite the nerves. "I want to leave tomorrow. Not in two days."
There was a pause, then his dad's cold voice came through. "Tomorrow it is. The sooner, the better."
Nikolai swallowed hard. "Thank you, sir."
After hanging up, he began packing quietly. He knew Mikhail would be at work and wouldn't find out until it was too late.
While Mikhail was at work, unaware of the storm brewing, Viktor made his plans. He intended to speak to Nikolai the moment he returned, to smooth things over or so he thought.
But when Mikhail finally got home, the house was eerily silent. Panic surged through him as he called out for his brother. No answer.
Rushing to Nikolai's room, Mikhail found it empty, bedsheets untouched, belongings packed and gone.
"How could he just leave? Without telling me the whole story?" Mikhail's voice cracked with disbelief and fear.
The weight of uncertainty pressed down on him. Nikolai was gone, and with him, the fragile thread holding their family together.