Chapter 2

Bankhead in the evening—the air thick and greasy, like a layer of lard you couldn't wipe off.

The setting sun stretched long shadows from the trash cans lining the broken street. Somewhere in the distance, muffled gunshots—some crew testing their pieces—mixed with the stench of cheap weed and bottom-shelf fried chicken, drifting through the torn screen door of the Morti house.

When Viktor came down the creaking wooden stairs, the situation outside was seconds from exploding.

"I'm asking you one last goddamn time—where's the real chain?!"

Through the gap in the busted door, Viktor saw Rico. A thick-bodied Latino enforcer in an oversized Adidas tracksuit, fake gold chain hanging around his neck like a joke, screaming like a rabid dog.

Behind Rico stood two Black kids. One chewing gum, tapping an aluminum baseball bat against his palm with lazy menace. The other had both hands shoved deep in baggy jeans, swaying slightly, eyes locked on the Morti house with cold intent—Viktor could tell from fifty feet the kid had a cheap Lorcin .25 pressing against the fabric.

Right now, thirteen-year-old Jack was lifted off the ground by his collar, Rico's fist bunched in the fabric. Half the kid's face was swollen, blood threading from the corner of his mouth, eyes wet with terrified tears.

"No! I swear!"

Maria, his sister, had both hands locked around Rico's thick forearm, nails digging into flesh, trying to pull her brother free. Her voice cracked with fear, tears streaming, but she stayed between them: "Jack brought back the chain! We didn't even touch it! Please, Rico—he's just a kid!"

"A kid? This little shit stole from Santos!"

Rico shoved Maria hard. She slammed into the rotting porch railing.

Rico held up his palm, thumb scraping roughly across the chain in his hand, then spat: "Brass. Gold-plated garbage. You bottom-feeding white trash steal Santos's real merchandise, then try to pay me off with two-dollar flea market shit?! You think just because Morti's dead ass is in the ground, I won't spill blood on this porch?!"

He yanked a sawed-off Remington from his waistband. The cold barrel pressed directly against Jack's forehead.

Jack convulsed. His pants darkened instantly.

"Before sundown, I don't see the real thing, I blow this kid's brains all over the yard. Then I sell Maria to a whorehouse downtown to cover the debt."

"Rico."

A flat, bone-cold voice cut through the air from behind the screen door.

The door creaked open. Viktor tugged at his worn leather jacket, hands in his pockets, and stepped outside.

Rico blinked. Then his face twisted into cruel, mocking amusement: "Oh, look. Morti's genius woke up. What, done playing dead in bed? You wanna play hero now?"

In Bankhead, eighteen-year-old Viktor had always been the "smart one." He read books. Didn't brawl with street thugs. To someone like Rico—someone who lived with a knife between his teeth—Viktor was soft. Easy to push around.

Viktor ignored the mockery. Those dark, unreadable eyes had already dissected the entire situation in point-one seconds.

Rico—right hand holding the shotgun against Jack, weight shifted right, reaction time roughly 0.8 seconds.

Left side—kid with the bat, loose stance, no real threat.

Right side—kid with the gun in his pocket, experienced, eyes locked on Viktor's hands.

In American street warfare, talking was poison. Viktor had spent twenty years in his previous life learning one truth: when someone shows up at your door with a gun, negotiation is just giving them time to pull the trigger.

You deal with mad dogs with bullets.

"Rico. Jack did take the chain." Viktor spoke slowly, pulling his hands from his jacket pockets, palms up—the most common street gesture of surrender. "But the real one's not in the house. Jack, you hid it under the trash can in the back alley, right?"

Jack, with the gun still pressed to his head, froze. He hadn't hidden anything. The chain was right there—

But before Jack could cry out, Viktor moved.

Not the clumsy movement of an eighteen-year-old kid from the bottom.

The moment he showed his palms—the moment everyone relaxed—Viktor's right hand flashed to the small of his back.

Click.

The rough grip of a Brazilian Taurus PT92 slid into his palm. No warning. No eye contact. Viktor didn't even shift his feet. The moment his hand came up, the barrel locked dead center on the Black kid with the gun in his pocket.

He was the real threat.

BANG!

The sharp crack shattered the evening silence.

The nine-millimeter round tore through the air, exploding in a brief mist of red, punching clean through the kid's throat. He never even got his hand out of his pocket. He dropped like a felled tree, hitting the dirt hard, throat gurgling blood and foam. Two twitches. Then nothing.

"Shit!!"

Every hair on Rico's body stood up. He never imagined this quiet bookworm would fire first—no hesitation—and drop his best shooter with one round.

Pure shock made Rico instinctively try to swing the Remington toward Viktor.

But Viktor was faster.

Muscle memory forged in countless firefights kicked in. Viktor used the recoil from the first shot to step hard left-forward. The angle was vicious—right into Rico's blind spot.

Before Rico's wrist finished turning, Viktor was already inside his reach. His left hand clamped down like a vice on Rico's gun hand, wrenching it upward.

BOOM!

The Remington discharged wildly. Lead shot sprayed into the sky, blowing apart a rotting section of the Morti house roof.

"Die, you son of a bitch!" Rico roared, trying to use his weight to crush Viktor.

But Viktor's eyes stayed flat. Cold. Using Rico's forward momentum, he shoved the Taurus forward without hesitation—and jammed the barrel straight into Rico's open, screaming mouth.

Metal met teeth. The sickening crunch of enamel shattering.

Rico's roar choked off instantly. His eyes bulged with pure terror, like they might burst from the sockets. The cold steel barrel, still hot from firing, pressed against the back of his tongue. For the first time, this street thug smelled death.

"Move, and I paint the sidewalk with your brain."

Viktor's voice was a low rasp—calm as discussing tomorrow's weather in Atlanta. But the absolute cold in it made Rico's entire body shake violently. The shotgun slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground.

The kid with the baseball bat had already lost it. He stared at his dead friend in the pool of blood, then at Rico with a gun shoved in his mouth. The aluminum bat hit the dirt with a dull clang. He raised both hands, face pale, backing away step by step.

"Vik… Viktor…"

Maria sat collapsed on the ground, gasping for air, hands clamped over Jack's eyes. She stared at her younger brother—possessed by something dark—and felt nothing but relief mixed with deep, bone-chilling fear.

This wasn't the kid who buried his nose in books. Who got pushed around by neighborhood thugs.

Viktor held the gun one-handed, tilting his head slightly, looking down at Rico—mouth full of blood, body trembling like a leaf.

"Rico. Let's talk." Viktor smiled faintly. His eyes glittered with something cruel. Something that made the streets shudder. "Where's Santos's stash house? Tell me, and you get to live."