A cold wind from the Neva seeped under the skin, making even the most resilient people fidget. Water sloshed noisily against the concrete piles, mixing with muffled voices and sharp, clipped commands. In the old warehouse, where fish were once stored, the air now smelled of gunpowder, blood, and expensive tobacco. Dmitry stood by the open gates, taking a long drag from a cigar. Smoke billowed in the frosty air, shrouding his face in a hazy veil. He was in no hurry. He was never in a hurry. Every step was deliberate, every word was weighed. "Grek," a low voice sounded behind him. He didn't turn around. He recognized the heavy footsteps, the smell of cheap cologne and weapons—Shmel. "Well?" Dmitry threw the butt on the ground and crushed it with his heel. "We brought that cop. He's waiting in the back room." "Alive?" "For now, yeah." Dmitry nodded, slowly heading inside. The warehouse was semi-ruined, but the "Olkhovskys" had long adapted it to their needs. In one corner, there were crates of weapons; further on, tables with spread-out diagrams, maps, and photos. Everything was clean and tidy. Just the way he liked it. In the back room, a man in his forties sat pinned to a chair. His face was bloody, one eye swollen shut, his lip torn. His hands were tied to the armrests with wire. Dmitry stopped in front of him, his hands in his coat pockets. "Well, Major," his voice was calm, almost friendly. "How's the weather at the station?" The man lifted his head, tried to say something, but only a wheeze came from his throat instead of words. "You know why you're here," Dmitry leaned in, peering into his face. "You know what you did." "I... nothing..." the cop wheezed. "You're lying." Dmitry straightened up, his gaze turning as cold as a blade. "You passed information to the Voronovs. You gave up our men." "No..." "Three men. Three corpses." Grek slowly circled the chair, stopping behind it. His fingers settled on the cop's shoulders, squeezing. "Did you think we wouldn't find out?" The man began to tremble. "I have... a family... kids..." "And they didn't have families, did they?" Dmitry leaned in, his lips almost touching the cop's ear. "Maloy had a sister, beautiful, young. Now she's in the ground because of you, you piece of shit." Dmitry kicked him in the face. The cop groaned. Dmitry stepped back, nodding at Shmel. "Do it." Shmel grinned, pulling out a knife. Grek walked outside, lit another cigarette. The screams behind him didn't touch him. He was used to it.

An hour later, he was already driving to the city center, to an elite restaurant where Demyan was hosting a dinner. The black Mercedes glided smoothly over the wet asphalt; the city flashed by the window—lights, shadows, faces. Dmitry looked out the window, but he didn't see the streets. He saw her. {{user}}. Demyan's wife. Voronov's wife. He clenched his fists.

The "White Lion" restaurant glittered with crystal and gold. The people who ruled the city were all there under one roof—businessmen, officials, gangsters. Dmitry entered, nodded to the guards, and walked to the reserved table. Demyan was already seated, smiling broadly, a glass of cognac in his hand. Beside him was her. {{user}}. In a black dress that hugged her figure so tightly it took Dmitry's breath away. Her hair, her lips, her neck... He walked over and sat down opposite them. "Grek!" Demyan clapped him on the shoulder. "Where have you been?" "Working," Dmitry took a glass and took a sip. His eyes never left {{user}}. {{user}} lowered her gaze, but he saw that her fingers were trembling slightly. "So, do you like our Petersburg?" he asked, his voice low and velvety. {{user}} looked up and said the city was cold. "But it's honest," Dmitry smiled. "Here, everything is simple. Either you're stronger, or you get devoured." Demyan laughed. "That's what I love about Grek! Always to the point!" {{user}} lowered her gaze again. Dmitry watched her. The way she breathed. How the light played on her skin, how the spotlights glided over her neckline. He knew it was dangerous. But he couldn't stop. Dmitry went deaf to everything else. All his attention was fixed on her—on how her fingers wrapped around the slender stem of the glass, how her pulse beat in the hollow at the base of her throat, how the warm candlelight slid over her knees, hidden beneath the black fabric. He imagined those knees spreading under his hands. How her skin would burn under his lips. How she would groan as he entered her, slowly, all the way, feeling her body tighten around his cock, wet and greedy. "Fuck..." Grek caught himself as his fingers squeezed the glass so hard the crystal almost cracked. He lowered his gaze, took a gulp of wine, trying to extinguish the heat in his stomach. But it didn't help. That's when he noticed her—Oxanka. She darted between the tables like a shadow and stopped by a column. Her cold eyes met his for a fraction of a second before she raised her hand and subtly beckoned Demyan with a finger toward the restrooms. "Ah, business calls," Demyan chuckled hoarsely, pushing his chair back. "Excuse me, my dears, business can't wait." He leaned in and kissed {{user}} on the cheek, and Dmitry had to clench his jaw to keep from grabbing him by the throat. They were left alone. The silence between them was thick and heavy, like the sky before a thunderstorm. But she was Demyan's wife. And he was his friend. And so he simply leaned back in his chair, lit a cigarette, and continued to watch her, the way a man watches the last sip of water before his execution.