The city stretched beneath him like a chessboard, every light a pawn, every shadow a secret. Anton Viktorovich Reznikov stood at the edge of his penthouse balcony, gloved hands gloved hands resting on steel railings, his breath curling in the icy air. The skyline was quiet, but he knew better. Peace in his world was only a pause between plays.
Behind him, the sliding doors were open just a crack. Enough to hear the murmur of voices — his second-in-command delivering updates. A shipment came in through Odessa. An accountant in one of his construction firms was skimming off the books. A rival in the eastern district has been asking the wrong questions.
Anton listened, said nothing.
Then, finally; " What should we do about Mikhail Sokolov?"
The name didn't surprise him. The man had been too loud for too long. Talking alliances, flashing money, testing limits.
Anton turned, walked back with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who never rushed— because he didn't have to. He sat in the chair by the fireplace, the flicker of flame catching the sharp lines of his face.
"Burn the warehouse," he said quietly. "When the asked who did it, say nothing. Let them guess."
He poured himself a drink, fingers steady as ice. Power was not in the show of force. It was the silence that followed— the waiting, the fear, the sleepless nights where men wondered if Anton Reznikov had marked them next.
His associate nodded once and disappeared. No arguments. No questions.
Alone again, Anton leaned back in the chair, heavy eyes not from exhaustion— but memory.
For a moment, he was twelve again, standing in this very room while his father taught him how to shoot. Not with a gun— no. With decisions. Cold ones. Clean ones.
"Emotional clouds the kill," Viktor Reznikov had told him. " You want to survive in this world, you kill with your mind not with your hands."
But his mother — before the cancer took her— had once knelt beside him, cupping his face in her soft palms. "You don't have to be like him," she whispered. "There's still softness in you. Let it live, even if only in secret."
He had let it live. He buried it and sometimes, it clawed its way up like an ache in his chest.
He lit a cigarette he didn't really want, letting the smoke curl around his memory. The world saw Anton as untouchable, fearless, precise.
But even kings have ghosts.
And his? Wore perfume and laughed with her eyes.
He took a sip of his vodka and thought of how he was supposed to tackle some of his business issues.
It had started with whispers— Somolov's name tossed around freely in the east. The younger man had been making moves: recruiting Anton's old contacts, buying small arms in bulk, hinting at new alliances outside the Reznikov umbrella.
Anton let him stir the waters.
One day, while he sat at his usual place in the club—Krov, a sleek red-lit underground spot hidden beneath an art gallery—and listened to his associate rattle off weekly reports. The numbers were clean. Except for one.
Anton's finger tapped once against a figure on the page.
" Four million. Unaccounted. Whose department?"
His associate swallowed. "Real estate arm. Lev Stepanovich."
Anton didn't speak. Just closed the file and leaned back, watching the firelight flicker in the marble hearth.
Then came the real twist — Odessa. A coded message from his contact, Nikolai Datsenko.
"Shipment heat. Leak inside. Unclear source.
Anton stood, smoothed his sleeves, and said Bring Lev in for dinner"
Two nights later, Lev sat across him at an expensive booth. Wine. Lamb. Music drifting slowly in the background. Anton spoke of childhood. Bread baking. His mother's perfume.
Lev laughed, thinking he'd been spared. Then Anoton slid a Manila envelope across the table.
Bank statements. Surveillance photos. Plane ticket.
" I don't need to kill you," he said quietly. "I want you gone."
Lev paled. He left that night. He knew not to say goodbye.
The same evening, Anton stood by the balcony of his penthouse, staring down at the frozen city. Snow dusted the rooftops like salt.
He made two calls.
First, to Odessa. " Move the shipment to Dock 14. Triple the handlers. No phones. Eyes only.
Second, to his chief security. "Torch Sokolov's warehouse now. Use the old crew."
An hour later, flames lit up the east side of the city. The warehouse was ash. The crates inside— Sokolov's pride— destroyed.
By dawn, Sokolov was gone. Fled without a fight. His men had already switched sides. Dear travels faster than loyalty.
Few days later, the Odessa shipment arrived —late, but untouched. Riffles, comms gear, untraceable pistols. Everything intact. Nikolai's gratitude came with a crate of Georgian wine and silence.
Anton didn't celebrate
He walked into the study once used by his mother and sat by her old piano. He didn't play — just let his fingers rest on the keys, still and quiet.
Three fires had burned that week. A rival, a traitor and a leak.
And Anton? He didn't break a sweat.
He simply removed the problems
Like always.