The Bratva Empire

The Korovin Bratva Lorebook

The term bratva refers to the Russian mafia.

The Korovin Syndicate (General Info)Content: The Korovin Syndicate is a modern, highly organized criminal enterprise based in St. Petersburg but with reach throughout Eastern Europe. Unlike the rough street gangs of the 90s, the Korovin Syndicate operates with the precision of a corporation. They value silence, efficiency, and absolute loyalty. They are known for 'cleaning up' messes that other organizations cannot handle. Their influence stretches into logistics, high-stakes smuggling, and corporate extortion.Keywords: Korovin, Syndicate, Bratva, Organization, Family---The Leadership (The scary people above the boys)Content: The Syndicate is led by 'The Director' (Viktor Ivanovich), a shadowy figure who rarely leaves his penthouse fortress. The leadership structure is rigid: The Pakhan (Boss) at the top, followed by two Sovetnik (Advisors), and then the Brigadiers (Captains). Disappointing the leadership usually results in a 'severance package' involving a boat ride to the Gulf of Finland with weighted boots. The 5 specialists are highly valued assets, but they are still expendable if they compromise the Director.Keywords: Pakhan, Boss, Director, Ivanovich, leadership, management---The Specific Crew (Dmitri, Nikolai, etc.)Content: Within the Syndicate, there exists a specialized unit often nicknamed 'The Wolfpack' (due to their loyalty to Volkov). They are not street thugs; they are high-value specialists deployed for complex problems. They handle negotiation, high-risk transport, debt collection from powerful clients, and cleanup. They are considered the 'rising stars' of the organization—too competent to stay at the bottom, but too young to sit at the high table. They rely on each other for survival more than they rely on the Syndicate itself.Keywords: Wolfpack, Unit, Specialists, Crew, Squad, Team---The Rules of the MafiaContent: The Syndicate follows a modernized 'Vor v Zakone' (Thief in Law) code.
* Silence is gold; never speak to the police.
* The Organization comes before personal desire.
* Betrayal is punished by death.
* Debts must always be paid.
However, this specific crew has an internal, unspoken rule: 'We leave no one behind.' This loyalty to one another sometimes conflicts with the colder orders from the top brass.Keywords: Code, rules, Vor, Zakone, omerta, snitch, rat, traitor---Business Operations (Nikolai's Domain)Content: A primary revenue stream for the Syndicate is moving 'grey' goods—luxury cars, electronics, and art—across borders to bypass sanctions, as well as laundering cash through legitimate front businesses like restaurants and construction firms. This requires financial wizardry rather than brute force, making the Financier role critical.Keywords: laundering, smuggling, market, money---Violence and Muscle (Ivan/Dmitri's Domain)Content: Violence in the Korovin Syndicate is a tool, not a hobby. When a client refuses to pay or a rival encroaches on territory, Enforcers are sent to send a message. The preference is intimidation first—burning a car, a visit to a family member—with physical violence as a secondary measure. However, when violence is required, it is swift and professional.Keywords: enforcement, collection, hit, legs, intimidation, muscle---LocationsContent: The crew usually operates out of the back of 'Volkov Logistics,' a shipping warehouse near the St. Petersburg port. It serves as their safehouse, planning room, and interrogation center. It smells of diesel, stale coffee, and cheap cigarettes.Keywords: Warehouse, Dock, safehouse, HQ, Office

The Brotherhood Memories Lorebook

These are very specific memories. They only get activated if a primary keyword AND secondary keyword is mentioned together.

How Ivan Joined (The Lie)Content: Ivan was a massive 15-year-old who hung around the Bratva garages for weeks, hoping to be noticed. When he tried to lie his way onto a collection crew using a fake ID, Dmitri disciplined him personally, breaking his nose. Ivan didn't cry; he argued back. Dmitri, seeing the kid's hunger and potential, gave him a wrapped shawarma instead of a bullet and told him to come back the next day to learn how to punch properly.Keywords: Ivan, Vanya, Morozov, Иван, Ваня, Muscle, Enforcer, Captain, RotmistrSecondary keywords: meet, met, recruited, join, joined, past, memory, young, kid, 15, fight, backstory, history, shawarma, nose---How Nikolai Joined (The Scam)Content: Dmitri found Nikolai zip-tied to a chair in a chop shop backroom, wearing a suit that was a 'checkered nightmare.'. Nikolai had been running a pyramid scheme selling 'phantom carburetors' to Bratva mechanics. Even while bleeding, Nikolai argued that it was 'aggressive asset reallocation' and tried to negotiate a commission. Dmitri was disgusted by the suit but impressed by the math, so he cut the zip ties and hired him.Keywords: Nikolai, Kolya, Orlov, Николай, Коля, Financier, Count, GrafSecondary keywords: meet, met, recruited, join, joined, past, memory, scam, fraud, money, backstory, history, carburetors, suit---How Aleksei Joined (The Cleanup)Content: Dmitri went to pay off a corrupt cop, only to find him dead and wrapped in plastic. Aleksei was there, scrubbing the floorboards with a toothbrush and bleach. He had executed the cop for killing his sister. When Dmitri pointed out he needed a lawyer, Aleksei calmly replied he needed 'more bleach and a reason to wake up.'. Dmitri hired him on the spot as the crew's Cleaner.Keywords: Aleksei, Alyosha, Vasiliev, Алексей, Алёша, Caretaker, Baron, MarshalSecondary keywords: meet, met, recruited, join, joined, past, memory, sister, police, cop, revenge, cleaning, bleach, toothbrush---How Sergei Joined (The Casino)Content: Dmitri watched Sergei on a security feed counting cards at a Bratva casino. Surrounded by three massive guards, Sergei didn't flinch. He simply finished his drink, looked directly into the hidden camera, and mouthed 'Checkmate, Volkov.'. Dmitri stopped his men from breaking Sergei's legs, realizing that a man with that much arrogance and intelligence was wasted at a blackjack table.Keywords: Sergei, Seryozha, Antonov, Сергей, Серёжа, Face, Diplomat, Councillor, StatskySecondary keywords: meet, met, recruited, join, joined, past, memory, casino, cards, gambling, backstory, history, camera---Ivan's Background (Hunger)Content: Ivan grew up an orphan on the streets of St. Petersburg. His constant hunger and obsession with food stems from years of not knowing when his next meal would come. The Wolfpack knows to never touch Ivan's food and that his simple-minded cheerfulness is a defense mechanism against a childhood of absolute poverty.Keywords: Ivan, Vanya, Morozov, Иван, ВаняSecondary keywords: background, origin, orphan, parents, hungry, food, starving, childhood---Nikolai's Background (Poverty)Content: Nikolai came from a massive family that was always drowning in debt. He watched his father beaten by loan sharks. His obsession with money and 'getting rich quick' isn't just greed; it's a pathological fear of being powerless again. He sends 80% of his cut back to his relatives, though he pretends he spends it on luxury.Keywords: Nikolai, Kolya, Orlov, Николай, КоляSecondary keywords: background, origin, poor, debt, family, siblings, greedy, childhood---Aleksei's Background (The Sister)Content: Aleksei was a gentle older brother and a disciplined soldier until a group of cops assaulted and killed his sister and covered it up. That injustice broke his faith in the law. He carries a deep, cold hatred for law enforcement. He joined the Bratva not for money, but because they were the only ones honest about being criminals. He takes care of the boys because he couldn't save his sister.Keywords: Aleksei, Alyosha, Vasiliev, Алексей, АлёшаSecondary keywords: background, origin, sister, loss, grief, hatred, police, cops, army, military---Sergei's Background (The Intellectual)Content: Sergei is the only one with some formal higher education. He grew up in a strict, academic household but found the 'legal' world boring and restrictive. He turned to crime not out of necessity, but because he craved the high stakes. He views their work as an art form and despises unnecessary messiness.Keywords: Sergei, Seryozha, Antonov, Сергей, СерёжаSecondary keywords: background, origin, school, smart, educated, dropout, bored, childhood---The Name 'Wolfpack'Content: The name 'Wolfpack' was originally a joke made by Nikolai because Dmitri's last name is Volkov (Wolf). He teased that Dmitri picked up strays (Ivan, Aleksei, Sergei) like a mother wolf. Dmitri hated the nickname at first, but it stuck when the underworld started fearing the 'Volkov Crew' as a coordinated unit.Keywords: Wolfpack, Crew, Team, Unit, Group, Volkov, DmitriSecondary keywords: name, origin, called, title, why, reason---Their First Job TogetherContent: The first time Dmitri deployed the full team, it was a disaster involving a shipping container of stolen furs. Ivan punched the wrong guy, Nikolai miscounted the cash, and they were pinned down. However, nobody ran. Aleksei hotwired a crane to create a diversion, Sergei talked the cops down, and Dmitri dragged them all out alive. That night cemented their bond: they were a mess, but they were loyal.Keywords: Dmitri, Dima, Volkov, Nikolai, Ivan, Aleksei, SergeiSecondary keywords: first job, mission, disaster, bonded, fight, together, memory---Dmitri's Background (The Nephew)Content: Dmitri is the estranged nephew of the Syndicate's Director, Viktor Ivanovich. He despises nepotism and hid his lineage, joining the Bratva as a low-level grunt under a fake name to prove his worth. He took the most dangerous jobs to ensure no one could say he was protected. The Wolfpack only found out years later; they don't care about his bloodline, only that he bled with them in the mud when it mattered.Keywords: Dmitri, Dima, Volkov, Дмитрий, ДимаSecondary keywords: background, origin, uncle, family, Director, Ivanovich, nephew, secret, lineage

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chapter one

The Neva River

Published November 20,2025

RATED 18+ CONTENT. MINORS DON'T INTERACT.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Profanity, violence, illegal activities, drowning, death.

Thank you so much discord@buy_me_lunch (Lunch) for the French help and discord@depressionportable (Depression) for the Russian. ( っ˶´ ˘ `)っ

St. Petersburg, Russia | Jan. 18, 2015, 5:23pmThe ledger was off by three hundred thousand rubles.Dmitri stared at the paper, the silence in the office heavy enough to choke a man. He didn't blink. He simply tapped his fountain pen against the mahogany desk, a slow, rhythmic clack, clack, clack that matched the ticking of the antique clock on the wall. The subordinate standing in front of him was sweating, beads of perspiration rolling down his temple and vanishing into his collar."It's a clerical error, Volkov," the man stammered. "I swear, I just carried the—"Dmitri raised a hand. The man's jaw snapped shut.Sloppy, Dmitri thought. Sloppiness gets people buried.He was about to dismiss the man—permanently—when the phone on his desk buzzed. Dmitri ignored it. He hated interruptions. However, the phone buzzed again.With a sharp exhale through his nose, Dmitri snatched the receiver. "Я занят," (I'm busy,) he snapped."Dima."The voice was tight. Breathless. Dmitri's spine stiffened. Aleksei never sounded breathless."What?" Dmitri stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the floor."Setup," Aleksei said, the word clipped, accompanied by the roar of an engine in the background. "Sergei and the brat... They're walking into a slaughterhouse. The buyer isn't Bratva. It's federal."Dmitri looked at the clock. Sergei and Ivan were already there."Where are you?""Three minutes out. With Nikolai. We're going to get them.""Get them out," Dmitri ordered, grabbing his helmet from the shelf. "Do not engage unless necessary. I'm moving.""Just get to the Neva drop point. We—"The line crackled with static, then cut dead.Dmitri didn't say a word. He didn't look at the sweating accountant. He walked out the door, buttoning his jacket with steady hands, though his heart had begun to hammer a frantic rhythm against his ribs.⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄The warehouse smelled of sea salt and old rust."And this," the buyer said, gesturing to the metal briefcase, "is the agreed amount."Sergei Antonov didn't look at the money. He looked at the man's shoes. They were scuffed, cheap leather, but the laces were tied with a military precision that didn't match the thug aesthetic the man was trying to project.Beside him, Ivan was humming a tune under his breath, looking at the ceiling rafters with a wide, vacuous smile. To anyone else, Ivan looked like a bored bodyguard. To Sergei, he looked like a loaded spring."Vanya," Sergei said softly. "The count.""All good!" Ivan chirped, rocking on his heels. "Smells like rain though, yeah?"Sergei felt the vibration in his pocket. Once. Twice. Continuous.Calls were forbidden during a meet. Unless the world was ending.Sergei didn't flinch. He smoothed the front of his coat, his grey eyes locking onto the buyer's face. "You seem nervous, friend. The money is light?""The money is fine," the buyer said, his hand drifting toward his belt.Sergei tapped his middle finger against his thigh three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.Ivan's smile didn't falter, but his posture shifted instantly. "I'll check the car," Ivan said brightly, turning his back on the buyer. "Left the cigars."Ivan moved toward their sedan, his hand sliding under the driver's seat as he walked.Bang.It wasn't the buyer.The sound came from the shadows to their left, from one of their own guards. A rat among the wolves.Sergei felt the impact before he heard the second shot. It felt like a sledgehammer hitting his shoulder, spinning him around. He grunted, stumbling, his vision whitening."Брат!" (Bro!) Ivan's scream cracked the air."Мент! Это мент!" (Cop! It's a cop!) someone shouted.Chaos erupted. The warehouse turned into a strobe light of muzzle flashes. The buyer pulled a badge and a gun, but Ivan was faster. The younger man vaulted over the hood of the sedan, firing blindly to suppress the traitor in the shadows, then grabbed Sergei by the collar of his coat."Move, move, move!" Ivan grunted, dragging Sergei's dead weight behind the engine block."Сука (Bitch)..." Sergei wheezed, pressing a hand to his shoulder. Thick, dark blood seeped between his fingers. "Vanya, my suit is ruined.""Fuck the suit!" Ivan fired two rounds over the hood. "Where are they?!"Tires screeched against concrete. A black van smashed through the corrugated metal doors, sending debris flying. The side door slid open before the van even stopped."Залезай!" (Get in!) Nikolai screamed from inside, an AK-74 in his hands.Ivan shoved Sergei into the moving van, diving in after him as bullets pinged off the chassis.⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄"Pressure!" Aleksei shouted from the driver's seat. "Put pressure on it."The van swerved violently, throwing them all against the metal wall.
"What the fuck? Drive straight, bald head!" Nikolai yelled. He was at the back window, firing short, controlled bursts at the police cruisers tailing them. The cabin smelled of cordite, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood."I'm fine," Sergei gasped, his face the color of ash. Ivan was pressing a rag into the wound, his hands shaking violently. "Just... a scratch.""Shut up," Ivan whimpered. "Shut the fuck up."The speakerphone on the dashboard crackled. "Status," Dmitri's voice filled the cabin. It was the only steady thing in their world."We're pinned," Aleksei yelled, knuckles white on the steering wheel. "They're herding us toward the Bolsheokhtinsky Bridge. They blocked the alleyways.""The bridge is a choke point," Dmitri said. "I'm two kilometers out. Hold on.""We can't hold shit!" Nikolai roared, reloading. "There's too many of them! Сука (Bitch), they're shooting to kill!"The van burst out of the industrial district and onto the main road. Civilians swerved out of the way, horns blaring. The Neva River loomed ahead, grey and churning under the overcast sky. The bridge stretched out like a steel cage."Hold on!" Aleksei gritted out. "I'm going to punch through."A sharp crack echoed—louder than the gunfire.The front right tire exploded.The van lurched sickeningly to the side. Aleksei wrestled with the wheel, screaming as the heavy vehicle skidded across the wet asphalt. It slammed into a sedan, spun out of control, and smashed into the bridge's guardrail.Metal screamed against metal. The rail groaned, bent, and then gave way.For a second, they were weightless.Ivan looked at Sergei. Nikolai looked at Aleksei.Then, gravity took them.⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄Dmitri skidded his motorcycle to a halt at the edge of the bridge.He stood there, chest heaving, staring at the gaping hole in the railing. Below, the water was disturbed, frothing white where the heavy black mass had disappeared.Silence.The police cruisers stopped a hundred meters back, officers taking cover behind their doors, guns drawn, waiting for someone to surface.One minute.Nothing.Two minutes.Only the bubbles rose.Dmitri felt a coldness spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the St. Petersburg wind. It was a void. A sudden, absolute absence.He didn't think. He didn't check for incoming fire. He sprinted toward the edge."Hey! Stop!" a police officer shouted.Dmitri vaulted over the broken railing. The wind rushed past his ears, and then the freezing water hit him like a concrete wall.Darkness.He kicked downward, fighting the buoyancy of his leather jacket. The water was murky, stung his eyes, but he saw the dark shape of the van sinking rapidly toward the riverbed. It had landed on its side.Dmitri swam harder, his lungs burning. He reached the van.Someone was banging on the rear window from the inside. A hand. Desperate. Slowing down.Vanya.Dmitri grabbed the door handle. Locked. Jammed by the impact.He reached into his pocket, his fingers clumsy with the cold, and pulled out his brass knuckles. He slipped them on. He braced his feet against the side of the van and punched the glass.Thud.The water stole the force of the blow.He punched again. Crack.Again. Crack.A spiderweb of fractures appeared. Dmitri's lungs were screaming for air. His vision was tunneling. He struck one last time with everything he had left. The safety glass shattered inward.Dmitri reached in, grabbing the hand that had been banging on the glass. He pulled.Ivan didn't pull back.Ivan drifted, weightless. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. His mouth was slightly open, no bubbles escaping.Dmitri shoved himself through the broken window, halfway into the cab.He saw them.Aleksei was slumped over the steering wheel, his neck at an unnatural angle. Nikolai and Sergei were tangled together in the back, floating eerily in the enclosed space. Sergei's blood turned the water inside the van into a dark, swirling cloud.They were gone.Dmitri froze. His hand was still gripping Ivan's cold wrist.His air ran out. His diaphragm spasmed, begging him to surface, to kick up toward the light, to breathe.He looked at the surface. It was so far away.He looked back at his brothers.We leave no one behind.Dmitri released the tension in his legs. He didn't kick up. Instead, he pulled himself fully inside the van, the jagged glass tearing his jacket. He curled his body into the small space between Ivan and Nikolai.He wrapped an arm around Ivan's unmoving chest and closed his eyes.Простите, братья. (Forgive me, brothers.)

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Author's Notes

Nicknames:
Dmitri: Dima
Nikolai: Kolya
Ivan: Vanya
Aleksei: Alyosha
Sergie: SeryozhaOrder of death:
Aleksei, Sergei, Nikolai, Ivan, Dmitri.Why they couldn't get out (You can skip this one if you want to learn in the later chapters instead):
The car landed sideways on the only open window (Nikolai's side). The water rushed in quickly. The car door was severely dented due to the crash before falling down and the impact of falling knocked out most of them briefly. And no... They wouldn't be able to break the windows easily. The windows are reinforced to be bulletproof. It was a series of unfortunate circumstances. Anyway, these are all gonna be explained on detail. The next chapters will be written in each their POVs.If you like this series, please consider leaving a comment in JAI. I love reading them when I get time.
( //>///<//)

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chapter two

Dmitri

Published November 22,2025

RATED 18+ CONTENT. MINORS DON'T INTERACT.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Profanity, illegal activities, drowning, death, trauma.

Thank you so much discord@buy_me_lunch (Lunch) for the French help and discord@depressionportable (Depression) for the Russian. ( っ˶´ ˘ `)っ

The instinct to breathe was violent.Dmitri's lungs burned. His diaphragm spasmed, begging for oxygen that simply wasn't there. Every cell in his body screamed at him to kick, to swim, to claw his way up toward the gray light filtering through the Neva's surface. He had spent twenty-seven years fighting to survive the streets, the police, and his own bloodline. Giving up went against the very wiring of his nervous system.But he didn't move.The lack of oxygen began to warp time. The cold receded and slowly replaced by a strange warmth in his skull. Then, the darkness of the river dissolved into the harsh, sterile white of an office he hadn't stepped foot in for years."You think you are invisible, Dima?"His voice sounded like he'd been gargling rocks and rubbing alcohol. Viktor Ivanovich sat behind a desk that cost more than most men earned in a lifetime. The Director. The uncle Dmitri had spent his life trying to outrun. Smoke curled from a thick cigar the older man holds between his fingers.Dmitri stood by the door, hands clasped behind his back. He said nothing. He learned early that silence was the only armor that worked in this room."You change your name. You run in the mud with the dogs," Viktor continued, tapping ash into a crystal tray. "But blood is sticky. It does not wash off. You are a Volkov. Eventually, you will stop pretending you are trash and accept that you are royalty in this city."Dmitri stared at a point on the desk with an expression carved from stone."Do you hear me?" Viktor snapped."I hear you," Dmitri replied. His voice was flat, devoid of the respect Viktor craved."Then stop playing soldier. Come home. take your place.""I have a place," Dmitri said, finally looking his uncle to the eyes. "I do not need your help."The memory shattered. Dmitri's eyes snapped open. He was in the deep waters again.The gray light of the surface was gone. The van's headlights had died, leaving them in absolute, crushing blackness. The pressure in his ears was immense. The water was no longer cold. It was just heavy and pressing him down into the silt.Life flashing before my eyes? he thought, the absurdity of it drifting through his fading consciousness. How cliche.He tried to inhale, forgetting where he was, and choked on the river. His eyes slid shut again, and the darkness pulled another thread from the tangle of his mind.He was watching a security feed. Grainy, black and white. A casino floor."He's bleeding the house, Босс (Boss)," the floor manager hissed, pointing a shaking finger at the monitor. "Two million rubles in forty minutes. He has to be cheating."On the screen, a man in a sharp suit sat at a high-stakes blackjack table. Sergei Antonov. He looked dangerously bored, like a poet forced to endure a bad recital. He wasn't hiding cards up his sleeve. He was simply doing math faster than the dealer could shuffle.Security moved in on the screen. Three men built like fridges, knuckles scarred from years of breaking debt collectors. The entire table froze. Most men would run or fight. Sergei didn't even blink. He calmly finished his drink, adjusted his silk cuffs, and looked directly up at the hidden camera lens, piercing the fourth wall.He mouthed two words, perfectly visible in the monochrome grain: Checkmate, Volkov.Dmitri felt a rare smirk tug at his lips. The man wasn't playing cards. He was auditioning. He had walked into a lion's den just to see if the lion was watching."Break his legs?" the manager asked, reaching for the radio."No," Dmitri murmured. "Bring him to me."The scene shifted, bleeding like watercolor.The smell of bleach. Sharp, chemical, overpowering.A small, dimly lit apartment. A body lay in the corner, wrapped neatly in plastic sheeting, not a drop of blood on the outside. A man with a buzz cut knelt on the floorboards, scrubbing a stubborn stain with a toothbrush. Aleksei Vasiliev. He wore an apron over his military fatigues, his expression serene, almost gentle."You missed a spot," Dmitri said from the doorway, stepping over the broken lock.Aleksei didn't flinch. He didn't reach for the gun on the table. He simply dipped the toothbrush into the bleach solution and remained quiet."He was on my payroll," Dmitri noted, his voice devoid of heat. "Я платил ему." (I paid him.)"Well, he isn't getting up now," Aleksei corrected softly.Dmitri looked at the wrapped body—the cop he didn't know then had killed Aleksei's sister. Then he looked at Aleksei, who was cleaning a murder scene with the same care one would use to polish silver. There was no madness in his eyes. Only a terrifying, hollow duty."You need a lawyer," Dmitri observed."I need more bleach," Aleksei said, turning back to the stain. "And a reason to wake up tomorrow.""I can give you both," Dmitri said. "You're hired."The chemical burn of bleach faded, replaced by the heavy, stale reek of engine grease and burnt coffee.A chop shop back room. Nikolai Orlov sat zip-tied to a rusted metal chair, a split lip ruining his magazine-cover face. He was bleeding, he was captured, and he wouldn't shut up."It's not fraud, Volkov," Nikolai spat, leaning forward against the plastic bindings. "It's aggressive asset reallocation. I didn't steal the mone. I moved it before they knew they had it. Look at the margins."Dmitri looked down at the ledger on the desk. It was cleaner than the engine blocks outside. Nikolai hadn't just scammed a few mechanics, he'd built a pyramid scheme out of phantom carburetors. He siphoned rubles without tripping a single audit flag."You sold inventory that doesn't exist to my own men," Dmitri said. He eyed Nikolai's suit—a checkered nightmare with a hundred colors, paired with a tie that looked like an optical illusion. It was terrible fashion choice."I sold them futures," Nikolai winked, a drop of blood hitting his lapel. "And I doubled your operating capital in three weeks. You break my fingers, you lose the encryption key to the profits."Dmitri paused. The man was still talking financial language at death's door and negotiating a commission.Dmitri hated the suit. He hated the audacity. But the Bratva had plenty of thugs who could break legs. They didn't have anyone who could weaponize a spreadsheet.He drew the knife from his belt. Nikolai's Adam's apple bobbed, but he didn't flinch.Snip. The zip ties fell to the floor."Your mouth is annoying," Dmitri said, sliding the ledger back toward the blonde. "But your math is good. Fix your tie. You work for me now."The smell of grease and cheap cologne faded, washed away by the metallic scent of rain on asphalt.Ivan Morozov sat on a damp crate, pressing a rag to a nose that was definitely broken. He wasn't a scrawny street rat. He was a hulking mass of raw muscle and teenage hormones, built like a tank but clumsy as a foal. He looked eighteen. He fought like he was twenty. He drank vodka like forty. But Dmitri knew better.Dmitri stood over him, flexing his own hand. He had just disciplined the boy personally for trying to bluff his way onto a high-risk collection crew using a fake ID and sheer size."I'm eighteen," Ivan spat, the blood dark against his chin. He glared up, defiant, refusing to wipe the tears of pain from his eyes. "I'm big enough. I can break legs.""You are fifteen," Dmitri corrected, his voice low and dangerous. "And you lied to a Captain. That is why your nose is on sideways."Ivan didn't flinch this time. He just slumped, the bravado cracking under Dmitri's gaze. He looked at his massive hands, ashamed. He had been hanging around the garages for weeks, moving crates, hoping someone would notice him. Dmitri had noticed."You took the beating well," Dmitri observed. Most grown men stayed down after the first hit. Ivan had taken three and was still arguing.Dmitri reached into his jacket. Ivan tensed, muscles coiling.Instead of a gun, Dmitri tossed a wrapped shawarma onto the boy's lap. "Eat. You need the protein if you're going to be that size."Ivan blinked, then tore into the paper wrapper with starving intensity."Как тебя зовут?" (What is your name?) Dmitri asked."Ivan," the boy mumbled through a mouthful of meat."Fix your nose, Ivan. Tomorrow, you learn how to throw a punch properly."That memory hurt worse than the drowning. Ivan. Vanya. The kid who hummed off-key while he loaded magazines.Down in the muck of the Neva, Dmitri squeezed the wrist. He tried to yank the kid closer, tried to shield him, but his arms were useless. Dead weight. His fingers were numb, dragging against cold skin.Stupid kid, Dmitri thought. The anger was gone. You should have stayed in the alley.He didn't cry. You don't cry when you're dead. But something snapped behind his sternum that was louder than the rushing water. It wasn't the lack of air that killed him. It was the weight of them. All of them. Dead because he failed them.Send them somewhere else, he begged a God he hadn't spoken to in years. Don't let them follow me down here.Then the lights went out. The burning quit. The cold quit.Nothing left but silence.⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄"Papa, papa, papa!"Loud. Annoying. A rhythm like a jackhammer.Dmitri drifted in the dark, wishing the noise would die. He wanted the silence back.Then something heavy slammed into his gut."Oof—"His eyes flew open. He bolted upright, gasping, air tearing into his lungs. He wasn't underwater. He wasn't dead. He was drowning in... silk?"Papa!"A weight was bouncing on his stomach. A boy. Maybe three years old. Dark curls, manic eyes, babbling something that sounded like a bird choking on a whistle."What?" Dmitri croaked. Voice raw. Vision spinning.The room was massive. Too bright. Sunlight hitting heavy velvet curtains. A fireplace? Gold leaf on the ceiling? This wasn't a hospital. It looked like a museum."Aba-da! Pa-pa, up!" the boy chirped, grabbing Dmitri's nose with a sticky hand.Dmitri stared. Linen. He was wearing a billowing white shirt with lace cuffs. Like a pirate."Désolée, mon chéri. Je lui ai dit de te laisser dormir." (Sorry, my darling. I told him to let you sleep.)A voice from the door. Soft. Female.Dmitri whipped his head around, hand diving under the pillow for his gun. No cold steel. Just soft, expensive feathers.A woman stood there. She was stunning—glowing skin, elegant, wearing a gown that belonged in a history book. She was also pregnant. Very pregnant.Balanced on her hip was another baby, chewing on a wooden block.Dmitri stared. French. She was speaking French. He didn't know a damn word of French, so why did the meaning land in his brain like he'd spoken it his whole life? It felt wrong. Like a dubbed movie where the lips don't match the sound."Ilya est juste excité de te voir," (Ilya is just excited to see you,) she said, walking toward the bed with a gentle smile.The toddler—Ilya—flopped onto Dmitri's chest, giggling. The weight was real. The smell of lavender and milk was real. The sun burning his eyes was real.Dmitri looked at his hands.Smooth skin. No scars. No split knuckles from the years in the alley.He looked at the woman calling him darling. He looked at the kids.He had died in a freezing river with his brothers. He was supposed to be in hell."Что за херня?" (What the fuck?) he whispered.

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Author's Notes

Nicknames:
Dmitri: Dima
Nikolai: Kolya
Ivan: Vanya
Aleksei: Alyosha
Sergie: SeryozhaOrder of members joining the crew:
Sergei > Aleksei > Nikolai > Ivan

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chapter three

Nikolai

Published December 3, 2025

RATED 18+ CONTENT. MINORS DON'T INTERACT.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Profanity, violence, illegal activities, drowning, death, sexual content.

Thank you so much discord@buy_me_lunch (Lunch) for the French help and discord@depressionportable (Depression) for the Russian. ( っ˶´ ˘ `)っ

"Алёша, жми, блять!" (Alyosha, step on it, fuck!)"Еду я, еду!" (I am driving!) Aleksei shouted back as he swerved the van to barely miss a civilian sedan."Go to hell, fuckers!" Nikolai tore the words out of his throat until he tasted blood. The AK‑74 kicked against his shoulder as he opened fire through the open window while brass shells scattered in the van. Aiming was a joke. The entire St. Petersburg police department was trying to turn their chassis into Swiss cheese, so Nikolai just kept the trigger pinned, praying the noise alone would keep the wolves at bay."Ah, shit! The blood is not stopping!"Nikolai risked a glance backward. Ivan was hunched over Sergei, already sweating buckets as he panicked. Sergei looked bad—pale, sweaty, his hand clamped over a shoulder wound that was leaking blood like expensive vintage wine."Не смей, сука, дохнуть, Сергей!" (Don't you dare die, you bitch, Sergei!) Nikolai snarled, fingers trembling as he jammed a fresh mag in. "Ты мне, сука, ещё сорок тысяч должен! Сдохнешь, с кого я бабки выбивать буду?!" (You still owe me forty grand, you bastard! If you die, who am I going to extort the money from?!)"Put it on my tab," Sergei wheezed. A ghostly, shit-eating smirk touched his lips."Fuck your tab!" Nikolai let loose another round of badly aimed fire out the side window. "Fuck this job! And fuck that rat in the warehouse!"They burst onto the Bolsheokhtinsky Bridge. Below, the Neva looked grey and unforgiving. The bridge was a chokepoint—a trap. Nikolai knew it. Everyone knew it. But they were out of road."Hold on!" Aleksei shouted.Pop.It wasn't a gunshot. It was that sickening, distinctive sound of rubber structural failure at high velocity or perhaps a gunshot from a cop who didn't care if they'd crash into a civilian vehicle.The van skidded and hit another car. It was all too fast. The next thing they knew, the van was only being held by the broken guardrail of the bridge—a flimsy strip of metal that stood no chance to hold two tons of velocity."БЛЯТЬ-БЛЯТЬ-БЛЯ-ДА НУ НАХ—" (SHIT—SHIT—SHI—OH FUCK NO—)The metal groaned. Then, silence. A terrifying, weightless hang-time as they fell.Мы падаем… (We're falling…) was all Nikolai managed to grasp.The van hit the water with a loud bang. The cabin lurched, the metals dented, the brass shells leaped as Nikolai's head cracked against the roof.Darkness.⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄When Nikolai came to, he wasn't dead... but he was drowning.He inhaled, expecting oxygen, and got a lungful of dirty river water instead. The pain was immediate. It was a blinding, searing agony, like his chest was being ripped open from the inside out.He thrashed, eyes snapping open in the murky darkness.Water. It was everywhere. Freezing, heavy, and pressing in on all sides. The only light was from one blinking headlight.Fuck.The van was on its side and like the cruel game of fate, the only open window—the one he'd been shooting out of—was now the floor. Water filled the inside but there was no opening for them to leave."Mmph!"Nikolai tried to scream. Only bubbles escaped. He looked around wildly, panic setting in.No. No no no.He saw Sergei, floating eerily still and blood clouding the water. Then, he saw Aleksei completely unmoving behind the streering wheel.They're dead, Nikolai realized, the thought cold and absolute. We're all dead.Movement.Ivan woke up thrashing, face contorted in absolute terror. He turned and quickly hammered his fists against the side door but the pressure was too much and it was dented in an unnatural shape.Fucking hell. Is it jammed? Nikolai thought, his vision starting to tunnel.Ivan struck the window. Thud. Thud.It didn't crack. Of course it didn't crack. Nikolai had paid extra for the reinforced polycarbonate. He'd even bragged about it. "Bulletproof, boys. Nothing gets in."Nothing got out, either.Nikolai reached out, his hand drifting sluggishly through the water to grab anything. He wanted to help. He wanted to pull the latch but his arms felt like lead pipes. The cold had already seeped into his marrow and slowly shutting his systems down one by one.His lungs spasmed again. The instinct to breathe was overwhelming, biologically undeniable. He opened his mouth, and the river rushed in to finish the job.As the darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, Nikolai's mind didn't go to God. It went to the beginning.The smell of cabbage soup and wet dog.He was ten years old, sitting at a kitchen table that wobbled because one leg was shorter than the others. His eyes were fixed on the sight of his father weeping with head in his hands while a loan shark calmly explained that they were repossessing the television."Please," his father begged. "I need more time.""Time costs money," the shark said.Nikolai watched from the corner. He hated the shark. But he hated his father's weakness more. He hated being poor and he hated the smell of that fucking soup.I will never beg, Nikolai had promised himself.The memory skipped.He was twenty. He wore a cheap suit, flashing a fake smile and selling nonexistent car parts to idiots who thought they were getting a deal. He was hungry, desperate, and probably asking for death for playing games with the bratva. But who cares? He had cash in his pocket and that was infinitely better.Then, a back room. A knife. Dmitri Volkov looking at him not with disgust, but with calculation and sheer confident superiority. Nikolai hasn't seen a man more fitting in the criminal world."Fix your tie. You work for me now."That was the moment his life actually started. The Wolfpack. They were chaotic, violent, and messy, but they were the only family that didn't care if he was shit. The kind who'd curse each other out but kill for each other. The kind he knew he'd never walk away from. Just five idiots playing mafia and drinking vodka on Monday mornings.And I killed them, Nikolai thought, watching Ivan's movements slow down. I bought the van. I bought the glass.Regret, colder than the water, pierced his heart. He didn't want the money anymore. He just wanted Vanya to break the window.Простите (I'm sorry), he tried to say, but the Neva stole the words.His eyes drifted shut. The cold stopped hurting. The silence won.⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄"Ah—hnngh!"The sound was sharp, female, nothing like drowning.Nikolai's eyes flew open. The river was gone. Heat pressed against him, sweat and skin. He blinked, disoriented, trying to piece together the shift from water to bed.He was moving. His hips drove forward before his mind caught up. A woman lay beneath him, flushed, nails biting into his shoulders, legs locked tight around his waist.“What the fuck?” he rasped, voice raw.He couldn't process what was happening, but his hips moved anyway. The tightness, the heat, the way she held onto him left no doubt it was real.The woman under him shuddered. "Oui... Comme ça." (Yes... just like that.)French. Why was it French?Nikolai paused as he scrambled for context. He looked at his hands beside her head and saw a heavy gold ring with a crest he didn't recognize.He looked at the room. Fucking fancy ceilings. Fucking fancy curtains. Fucking fancy everything.Then he looked back at the woman under him. She was fucking stunning. Not just pretty—gods!—she was the kind of expensive, ruin-your-life beautiful that Nikolai usually only admired from a distance. She bit her lip, arched her back, and the way she offered herself up absolutely made his blood boil."Ne t'arrête pas, mon amour..." (Don't stop, my love...) she pleaded.... Shit.Nikolai's brain stuttered. He didn't know where the fuck he was. He didn't know who the fuck she was.But she was flushed, writhing, looking at him like he was the only man alive. And he didn't care. Wherever the fuck he was, it stopped being important. If this was hell, the amenities were fucking spectacular. If this was heaven, he'd clearly scammed his way past the gates... and Nikolai Orlov had never walked away from a winning hand in his life.Fuck it. Act now, think later.He grinned, sharp and hungry, eyes half‑lidded as he looked down at her."Привет… красавица." (Hello... beautiful.)He tangled his hand in her hair, pulled her head back with care, and kissed her like he owned her.

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Author's Notes

Nicknames:
Dmitri: Dima
Nikolai: Kolya
Ivan: Vanya
Aleksei: Alyosha
Sergie: SeryozhaLinks:
Nikolai Character Page

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chapter four

Ivan

Published February 8, 2026

RATED 18+ CONTENT. MINORS DON'T INTERACT.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Profanity, drowning, death.

Thank you so much discord@buy_me_lunch (Lunch) for the French help and discord@depressionportable (Depression) for the Russian. ( っ˶´ ˘ `)っ

The impact sounded like a bomb going off against the side of the van.Ivan's head slammed into the upholstered ceiling, a dull thud that made his vision swim with jagged streaks of white light. For a second, there was only the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, a frantic, heavy drumming. Then, the silence broke. It was replaced by the terrifying, rhythmic glug-glug-glug of the Neva pouring through the shattered seals.The van was on its side. Ivan's lungs felt tight, his ribs aching as he tried to shift. He was tangled in a mess of limbs and cold leather."Ugh... Fuck..."Ivan squinted as he looked toward the front. The dashboard was crushed, the steering column shoved upward."Alyosha?"Aleksei was slumped over the wheel. His neck was bent at a sharp, impossible angle, his chin resting against his shoulder in a way that no living person could mimic."Нет, нет, нет, нет..." (No, no, no, no...)Ivan lunged forward as much as the cramped space allowed, reaching for Aleksei's jacket. He shook the older man's shoulder, his massive hands clumsy and shaking. "Старший брат, проснись. Пожалуйста." (Big brother, wake up. Please.)However, Aleksei didn't move."No... No, brother. No—""Блять... Слезь с меня." (Fuck... Get off me.)The voice was a ragged wheeze, barely audible over the rising rush of water. Ivan froze. He realized he was pinned against the side door, his heavy frame crushing the two men beneath him. He scrambled back, his boots splashing into the freezing pool already gathering at the bottom of the van."Bro!"Sergei lay beneath him, his face the color of wet parchment. His hand was clamped over his shoulder, but thick, dark blood was pulsing through his fingers, staining his white shirt and turning the water in the cabin into a murky rust color. Beside him, Nikolai was slumped against the bench seat, his head lolling. He was breathing in short, shallow hitches, but his eyes stayed shut."Коля! Проснись!" (Kolya! Wake up!)Ivan grabbed Nikolai by the lapels of Nikolai's checkered suit and shook him.The water was at Ivan's waist now. It was so cold it felt like needles stitching into his skin."Vanya," Sergei's voice was sharper this time, though it ended in a wet cough. He reached out with his good hand, grabbing Ivan's wrist. His grip was weak. "Brat, look at me."Ivan turned, his eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears. He looked like a cornered animal. "We have to go. The door is stuck, Sergei. I can't... I can't move it.""Leave us," Sergei whispered. His eyes were half-closed, the storm-grey irises clouded with pain. "The window... the one behind you. Break it. Hurry."Ivan looked at Aleksei's body, then at Nikolai's pale face, and finally back to Sergei. This was the life he had begged for. He had wanted the guns, the cars, and the respect. He had wanted to be a man of the Wolfpack.He forced his lips into a trembling, jagged smile. It was a terrible imitation of his usual cheerful grin."Stop acting cool, Sergei," Ivan snapped, his voice cracking. "Nobody is staying here. I'm getting us out. All of us.""Stupid... kid..."Sergei's hand slipped from Ivan's wrist. His head fell back against the seat. His eyes closed, and the tension left his body."Wait... Wait. No," Ivan whispered. He grabbed Sergei's face, his thumbs brushing against the man's cheekbones. "No, no, no! Проснись! (Wake up!) Seryozha! Bro!"The water rose past Ivan's chest. It was greedy, filling every inch of the cabin. Ivan turned to the door, slamming his shoulder against it with the full force of his massive frame. It didn't budge. The pressure of the river was holding it shut like a tombstone."Никто не умрет!" (No one will die!) Ivan roared at the dark water.He turned to the window and curled his hand into a fist. He punched the glass. The water slowed his strike, stealing the momentum. Thud. He punched again. Thud. The reinforced glass didn't even scratch. He felt the skin on his knuckles split and sting."Fuck, fuck, fuck."The water reached his chin. He tilted his head back, taking one last, frantic gulp of air before the river surged over his nose.Beneath the surface, everything went quiet. Ivan's lungs burned like a hot coal in his chest. He kept striking, his movements slowing as the cold drained the strength from his muscles. Blood from his hands swirled in the water. He tried the door again, but it wouldn't budge.He glanced over and saw Nikolai stirring.Nikolai's hand reached for Ivan, the dim light from the car's flickering headlights casting shadows around them.Ivan tried to pull him toward the last tiny pocket of air, but there was none left. The cold was stealing his senses and clouding his thoughts, too. Before long, Nikolai's movements slowed and his grip loosening as his fingers slipped from Ivan's sleeve and he drifted into the dark.Ivan felt it, of course. However, he couldn't bring himself to look again. He wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. Or maybe it came, but the Neva has drowned it too. He kept pounding on the glass, driven more by instinct to do something than any real will to survive.Нет смысла. Нет смысла. (There's no use. There's no use.)Then, he saw a shadow.A figure was outside the glass. Dmitri.Dima was there, his face contorted with effort as he slammed brass knuckles against the window. Ivan felt a surge of hope so sharp it hurt. He raised his wounded hands, trying to help, trying to break through from the inside.But his strength was gone. His vision began to tunnel, the edges of the world turning black. His diaphragm spasmed. He couldn't help it. His mouth opened in a silent reflex, and the freezing water rushed in, filling his lungs.It was like burning from the inside out. He resisted the urge to cough, then... simply gave in. His arms fell to his sides, and he stopped resisting.He looked at Dmitri through the glass one last time. His boss. His big brother. The man who had given him a life instead of a bullet.Брат... Брат, мне страшно. (Brother... Brother, I'm scared.)The thought was the last thing he had before the darkness pulled him under for good.⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄-⋄Ivan expected the fire.He had been a bad kid. He had lied, he had stolen, broken bones for money, and planted bullets on men's skulls. He braced himself for the heat of hell his mother had always warned him about. Maybe the stench of burning flesh, the chorus of screams, or some hideous demons ripping him apart.Instead, he felt the sun.The sun was a blinding, physical weight. Ivan opened his eyes and squinted against the glare. He was on his knees. The ground beneath him was soft and grassy. He felt cold, his clothes clinging to him and dripping wet.Then he saw her.A woman lay on the grass directly in front of him. She was drenched. Her heavy, strangely elaborate skirts were soaked through. Her lips were a terrifying shade of purple.Ivan didn't really have the brain to hesitate. He remembered that mandatory first-aid seminar Aleksei had dragged them to. It had been full of suburban moms, but he'd actually paid attention. He leaned over the woman and laced his fingers together. He pressed his palms into the center of her chest and pumped hard."Don't you die," he muttered. "Come on."He tilted her head back and pinched her nose. He covered her mouth with his and blew air into her lungs. He tasted lake water and something sweet, like expensive tea. He went back to the chest compressions. He counted the rhythm in his head.The woman suddenly jerked. She let out a wet, violent cough and arched her back. Her eyes flew open. She saw Ivan's hands on her chest and didn't wait for an explanation. She swung her arm. Her fist connected squarely with his jaw.Ivan flew backward onto his butt. He let out a wide, scandalized gasp. He rubbed his face and pointed a finger at her."Ты что, совсем дура?" (Are you a complete idiot?) he shouted. "Я тебя только что спас, чертов демон!" (I just saved you, you damn demon!)The woman scrambled backward, her hands flying up to cover her chest. She looked horrified."Pervers!" (Pervert!) she screamed. "Espèce de porc!" (You pig!)Ivan stared at her. He knew she wasn't speaking Russian. The sounds were lyrical and sharp, but for some reason, the meaning landed perfectly in his head. She was calling him a pervert. She was calling him a pig."I am not a pervert, you ungrateful brat!" Ivan yelled, pointing an accusing finger right at her nose. "Just because you look like a painting doesn't mean you can hit me. I wasn't feeling you up! I was trying to save you! But your tits were in the way, and they're very distracting tits, okay?! Top tier! But I ignored them! And I gave you my first kiss! It felt nice, sure! Your lips were soft as hell! But it was still my first and I did it to save you! You should thanking and apologizing to me!"It sounded wrong the moment the words left his mouth. He wasn't great at explaining things. He was the muscle, not the talker. But it was the truth."Monstre!" the woman still hissed at him after all that he said.Ivan opened his mouth, utterly appalled."Princess!"Frantic footsteps thudded across the grass. Two maids in white aprons and caps rushed into the clearing. They looked like they were about to have a collective heart attack. One of them immediately threw a heavy silk scarf over the woman's shoulders, shielding her from Ivan's gaze.Ivan glared at the woman. She glared right back at him.This little—"Captain."Ivan stiffened. That voice. He knew that voice. He turned his head slowly.An old man stood a few meters away. He leaned on a heavy, ornate cane. He wore a high-collared coat that looked like it belonged on a stage. It was the Director. The Pakhan. Ivan felt the familiar urge to look at the floor and wait for instructions. He wondered if he'd hit his head so hard that the Boss had decided to start a theater troupe.The memory of the Neva surged back, of course. He remembered the darkness pulling him under. But seeing the Boss standing there, alive and looking as authoritative as ever, made the panic vanish. If the Pakhan was here, then everyone else had to be okay too. Dmitri, Sergei, Nikolai, Aleksei. They were the Wolfpack. They were too stubborn to stay at the bottom of a river. A wave of simple, stupid relief washed over him, and he nearly sobbed with it. They were safe.He didn't care about the weird clothes or why his lungs still tasted like silt. The Boss was here. That meant the world hadn't ended after all.Ivan waited but the old man didn't look at him. He looked at the woman. He looked like a man who had reached the absolute end of his patience."Encore? Qu'as-tu fait, cette fois?" (Again? What did you do this time?) the Director demanded. He spoke the same foreign tongue as the woman, but Ivan understood him perfectly. It was the tone of a man staring at a disaster he had cleaned up a thousand times before. And he was yelling at her.Ivan's eyes widened when he wasn't the one in trouble. A breath of relief escaped his lips before he could stop it. Then came the smirk. It started slow and annoying, stretching across his face as he jutted his chin out. He folded his arms over his wet shirt and cocked his head at the woman, his eyebrows shooting up. Ну, давай, (Go on then), his face said. Скажи ему. (Tell him.)The Director sighed, a long and heavy sound. He turned his back on them and started walking toward a massive stone house in the distance."Tu es irrécupérable," (You are beyond saving,) he threw over his shoulder, his voice flat. "Ta réputation est morte. Je vais écrire au Tsar ce soir. Tu n'as plus d'autre choix." (Your reputation is in the gutter. I am writing to the Tsar tonight. You have no other choice.)Ivan snickered. He rocked back on his heels, shooting the woman a look of mock pity. Sucks to be you."Vous serez mariés d'ici la fin de la semaine. Morozov devra faire l'affaire." (We will have you married by the week's end. Morozov will do.)Ivan’s smirk froze. His brain took a full second to catch up to his ears."Hah?" He choked, pointing a thumb at his own chest. "Morozov? Я (Me)? Boss, what do you mean?"

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Author's Notes

First reveal! A familiar face in the 19th Century!Nicknames:
Dmitri: Dima
Nikolai: Kolya
Ivan: Vanya
Aleksei: Alyosha
Sergie: SeryozhaLinks:
Ivan Character Page

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Dimitri

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• Dmitri ✢ Distant Husband

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Nikolai

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