Dmitry touched her wrist.
She turned.
He looked at her for a long time.
Then he said, "If I don't come back—"
"You will," she said.
His voice remained steady. "If I don't—"
"Then I'll come for him myself."
A flicker of pain crossed Dmitry's face.
He let her go.
She walked away without turning back.
The car door shut.
And he drove.
The Kuznetsov compound had not changed.
The same guards stood outside. The same gates. The same stone walls soaked in years of blood and secrets. But tonight, Dmitry walked in without permission. He wore no mask. He carried no weapon. Only the weight of what had to be done.
They let him in.
The hallway smelled of cold smoke and dust. Paintings lined the walls. All of Aleksandr's ancestors stared down, their faces proud and pale, like old gods waiting for the next sacrifice.
He stepped into the family room.
Everyone was there.
All the men in black coats. The silent ones. The sons of violence. The killers, the brothers, the businessmen who had sold their conscience long ago. They stood in a circle. Waiting.
Aleksandr Kuznetsov sat in the center.
He looked calm. He wore a plain shirt. His hands rested on his knees. His eyes were cold. But not surprised.
"Dmitry," he said. "You finally remembered your last name."
Dmitry did not bow. He stood still. "You sent a message."
Aleksandr smiled faintly. "Yes. Through blood. Through fire. That is how men speak."
Silence.
Aleksandr gestured to a chair. "Sit."
Dmitry did not move.
Aleksandr tilted his head. "Still afraid to look weak?"
Dmitry replied, "Still trying to look wise?"
Some of the men chuckled.
Aleksandr's smile stayed.
Then his tone changed.
"I told you once," Aleksandr said, "that love is a weapon. That it rots men from the inside."
"You told me many things," Dmitry replied.
"Then you remember what I said when your mother died."
Dmitry's voice turned cold. "You said she was weak."
"Yes," Aleksandr said. "Because she believed people could change."
Dmitry stepped forward. "And what do you believe?"
Aleksandr stood now.
He looked taller than before. Stronger. His chest wide. His arms still full of muscle. He did not look like a man in his sixties. He looked like a statue carved to outlive time.
"I believe in pain," Aleksandr said. "Pain is honest. It does not lie. It does not beg. It simply is."
Dmitry walked into the circle. "Then let us speak with it."
The room quieted.
Aleksandr stepped down from the platform.
He stood inches from his son.
Then he said, very softly, "What did you think would happen, Dmitry? You think you could kiss a snake and it would turn into a dove?"
"I thought," Dmitry said, "that maybe I was not like you."
Aleksandr nodded slowly. "That is where you were most like me. I also once thought I could be better."
Silence again.
Then Aleksandr spoke like a priest before a sacrifice.
"You betrayed your blood. You betrayed your name. You betrayed the family."
"No," Dmitry said. "I betrayed you."
Aleksandr moved first.
The punch was fast and brutal.
It hit Dmitry square in the jaw. He staggered. Blood hit the floor. But he stayed up.
Aleksandr punched again. This time in the ribs. Then again. Then again.
Dmitry fought back. He hit his father in the chest, then the side. The sound echoed in the room. But Aleksandr did not slow. He moved like a man possessed. Strong. Quick. Trained.
Dmitry swung. Missed.
Aleksandr hit him in the face again. Blood sprayed.
Then he grabbed Dmitry's shirt and slammed him into the table.
"You are not strong enough," Aleksandr hissed. "You were never strong enough."
Dmitry gasped, blood in his mouth. "Then kill me."
Aleksandr punched again. Hard. The sound of bone breaking.
Ksenia screamed.
She ran forward. "Stop!"
Aleksandr turned.
And slapped her.
The sound was sharp. Her head turned. She fell to her knees.
The room was silent.
No one moved.
Aleksandr looked back at Dmitry, who was now on the floor, coughing blood.
"You let a woman lead you here," Aleksandr said. "Now you both will be dragged through the mud."
Dmitry lifted his head.
His lip was split. His face swollen. Blood ran from his nose. But his eyes were clear.
He looked at Ksenia, who was now crying, shaking on the floor.
Then he looked at his father.
"You are already dead," Dmitry said.
Aleksandr froze.
Dmitry stood, slowly.
"You just don't know it yet."
Aleksandr raised his fist again.
But something stopped him.
The room was not silent anymore.
It was waiting.
And something had shifted.
Aleksandr dropped his hand.
He stepped back.
Then he spoke softly.
"Take him away. Lock him."
The guards moved.
But Dmitry was already walking out.
He walked slowly, bleeding, broken, but tall.
No one touched him.
Not yet.
And behind him, Aleksandr stood still. His hands shaking for the first time in years.
Because something had cracked.
Something inside the room.
Something inside his son.
Something that would not stop.
Not now.
Not ever...
He had been sitting in silence for six hours.
No windows. No sound. Just the pale yellow walls of the holding room, the hum of bad lighting, and the weight of his own thoughts.
His knuckles were swollen. His lip was cracked. His ribs felt broken. But none of that hurt as much as what he saw just before the men dragged him into the car.
Sofia.
Standing outside the gates. Her face calm. Her coat buttoned. Her hair tied.
And her badge in her hand.
He had not said a word.
He had not screamed or begged.
He had only looked at her.
And she had looked back like nothing had happened.
Now, he sat there, waiting. Hands tied. Eyes open. Blood drying on his shirt.
The door opened.
Sofia walked in.
She closed the door gently behind her. She did not sit right away. She stood across the table, staring at him.
He did not look up.
She placed a file on the table. A glass of water beside it. Then she sat.
Still, he said nothing.
"Dmitry," she said softly. He ignored her, as if she didn't exist.
He looked at the wall.
"Say something," she said again.