The cellar was quiet. The wild, drunken energy of the night before was gone, leaving behind a stale mix of sweat, smoke, and cheap vodka. The victory that had burned so brightly now lay cold. On the central barrel sat neat stacks of money—orderly, counted, divided. In the dim daylight, it looked smaller. Less magical. Just paper.
Pavel's men lingered in silence, each nursing a hangover and avoiding one another's eyes. The cheers and laughter were gone. What filled the room now was unease. They were thieves, not businessmen. They knew how to steal, but not what to do after. The pile of rubles in front of them felt like a feast they didn't know how to finish.
And all of them kept glancing at Jake.
He was the planner. The man who had turned chaos into gold. They watched him like hungry wolves waiting for another meal.
Pavel finally pushed off the wall and walked over. His swagger was gone; what replaced it was caution, almost respect.
"That was good work, planner," he said quietly. "Better than anything we've pulled off before. But this money won't last. And the gendarmes will tear this district apart looking for us. The heat's already on." He paused. "So… what now?"
Jake had been asking himself the same question all morning.
He looked down at his small sack of money. It felt heavy—too heavy with possibility. Somewhere deep inside, the old Jake Vance screamed at him: Take it. Leave. Find Kamo. Find Kato. Disappear.
It was the voice of love. The voice of survival.
But another voice rose above it, colder, harder. Stalin's voice.
That one didn't see money—it saw investment. It didn't see thugs—it saw soldiers. It didn't see a way out—it saw a foundation.
Jake made his choice. He wasn't running. He was building.
"Another robbery?" he said flatly. "That's stupid."
Pavel frowned. "What do you mean?"
"It's inefficient," Jake replied, tone sharp, like he was scolding a student. "You risk your lives for a single payout. You're thinking like pickpockets."
Pavel's pride flared. "We're not pickpockets. We're thieves."
"Exactly." Jake smiled faintly. "So let's stop being common thieves—and start the most profitable thievery of all."
He picked up his tin cup, took a slow sip, and then began to speak—not like a criminal, but like a teacher in front of a class.
"Power isn't about what you can steal in a day. It's about what you control every day. Tell me, Pavel—what does the owner of the Putilov factory fear most?"
"Us?" Pavel guessed.
"No," Jake said. "He fears his workers. Strikes. Sabotage. The small ways they can ruin him." He let the words hang for a moment. "And the shopkeepers in this district—what do they fear?"
Viktor grunted from the corner. "Thieves like us."
"Exactly," Jake said. "Fear is a resource. More valuable than gold. And we're going to mine it."
He began pacing, each word sharper than the last.
"No more robbing the shopkeepers. We'll protect them—from people like us. For a small weekly fee, their windows stay whole, their deliveries safe. We'll sell them peace."
Pavel snorted. "That's police work."
Jake shot him a look. "The police protect the rich on the main streets. Who protects the poor down here? We do. We'll be their police—and their tax collectors."
He kept pacing, the room shrinking around his words. "Factories lose goods every day—tools, metal, fabric. Workers sell it off cheap, no system, no control. We'll organize it. Set prices. Create a network. We'll buy everything, sell everything, and take a cut of every deal. We won't just be thieves anymore. We'll be the bank for thieves."
As he spoke, the energy in him changed. This wasn't about survival anymore—it was about creation. The guilt, the fear, the longing for Kato—all of it faded behind the thrill of building something from nothing.
They have muscle but no structure, he thought, his mind racing. I can give them a system. A machine. I can build an empire out of rot.
It was monstrous. And he loved it.
He turned back to them for the final blow. "And the most valuable thing of all? Information. We'll have eyes and ears in every factory, every tavern, every alley. We'll know when police patrols change. Which officials need money. Which merchants are cheating their partners. Knowledge will be our weapon."
He stopped pacing. The room seemed to hold its breath.
Pavel and his men just stared, eyes wide. They had lived their whole lives one robbery at a time. Jake had shown them a city ready to be conquered. Not through brute force—but through control.
Pavel looked at him differently now. The rough, one-eyed gang leader saw not a planner, but a king. Slowly, he stepped forward and offered his calloused hand.
"Show us how, planner," he said. His voice was quiet, reverent. "Show us how to build this kingdom. We'll follow you."
The others murmured their agreement.
Jake stared at the hand—dirty, scarred, human. It was his key to power. A kingdom built on fear and blood. A throne of skulls. But a throne, nonetheless.
The revolutionary was gone.
The mob boss had just been born.