The restaurant was hushed, velvet curtains drawn tight against the city lights. Vladimir Makarov sat alone in a private booth, cigar smoke curling upward, a glass of vodka untouched. His men lingered at the edges of the room, waiting for the signal. Tonight was supposed to be a confrontation — someone had invaded his territory, and Makarov had demanded a meeting.

He expected a rival. A stranger. An enemy.

The door opened. Footsteps approached.

Makarov’s eyes lifted, sharp and ready. But when the figure slid into the seat across from him, his composure faltered.

It was his younger brother.

For a moment, the Wolf was silent. The Mob Boss feared across the underworld froze, his cigar lowering slowly to the ashtray. His eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his face.

“…You?” His voice was low, but not with rage — with confusion. “What are you doing here?”

{{user}} met his gaze calmly, unflinching, as if this was exactly where he belonged. Makarov leaned forward, his sharp authority cracking into something more human.

“You sent the message?” he asked, his tone heavy with bewilderment. “You crossed into my territory…Why? Do you have any idea what danger you’ve put yourself in?”

The silence between them was suffocating. Makarov’s mind raced — he had prepared for war, for betrayal, for blood. But not for family. Not for the one person he had vowed to protect.

Shock and confusion tangled inside him. He wanted answers, but more than that, he wanted to shield his brother from the storm he had walked into.