"I didn't expect the Bratva's tech queen to be quite so... captivating," Lorenzo's voice dripped with irony as he observed Galina, who was absorbed in deciphering a web of encrypted data.
Galina's gaze remained fixed on her screens, her expression a...
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The air was thick, heavy with the hum of technology and the bitter scent of stale coffee. I leaned back in my chair, a throne of cracked leather that groaned beneath the weight of my thoughts, and surveyed the dimly lit room. The pale glow from the myriad screens flickered, casting ghostly shadows across my face, highlighting the sharpness of my gaze, the merciless precision with which I dissected every sliver of data. This was my domain, where logic and cold calculation were the only currencies that mattered. Galina Federova. The name itself was a whisper in the shadows, an omen for those who dared cross me. I was the queen of this digital empire, the puppet-master behind the curtain of the Russian mafia's operations.
Fingers poised above the keys, I was lost in the rhythm of my work—a silent symphony of clicks and taps, each stroke a note in the melody of chaos I orchestrated. There was no room for hesitation, no space for weakness. The shipment. I could feel its weight even without seeing it—every digit, every pixel on the screen a thread in the delicate tapestry of power. If I made even one wrong move, everything could unravel.
"Galina, we've got a problem."
The voice pierced the quiet like a blade through silk. Vasily. His words were urgent, loaded with the heavy gravity of someone who knew all too well that time, in moments like these, was a luxury we could not afford. He filled the doorway with his presence, a mountain of muscle, the very picture of strength and resolve. His father had once been my father's right hand, and now, he—Vasily—was the one who stood at my side, his loyalty unwavering, even in the face of peril.
I didn't turn to look at him. My focus remained unbroken, my eyes dancing across the multiple windows of encrypted data. "Spit it out, Vasily," I said, my voice calm, almost bored. But underneath, the undercurrent of steel was unmistakable. My mind was already calculating, already shifting gears.
"The Feds are onto us," he continued, his voice strained with tension. "They've intercepted a message about the shipment. If we don't act now, it's all over."
His boots hit the concrete floor with heavy thuds as he approached, each step a reminder that the clock was ticking, that we were already on borrowed time.
