The office door didn't creak when Matteo pushed it open.
That alone unsettled him.
He'd expected something—resistance, noise, some sign that he wasn't supposed to be there. But the door moved smoothly, silently, like it had been waiting.
Matteo stepped inside.
The room was massive, but not in the flashy way the rest of the penthouse was. No pointless luxury. No unnecessary decoration.
Everything here had a purpose.
Dark wood shelves lined the walls, packed tight with folders, books, and binders labeled in neat, precise handwriting. Maps were mounted behind glass—Moscow, Russia, Eastern Europe—marked with fine red and black lines that branched and intersected like veins.
A long table dominated the center of the room, its surface cluttered with documents weighed down by metal paperweights.
Matteo swallowed.
"This doesn't look like no damn office," he murmured under his breath. "Looks more like some fucking war room."
He stepped further in, the door closing softly behind him.
The air felt different here. Heavier. Charged. Like the room itself was holding its breath.
On one wall, a large digital screen was dark—but not off. Matteo could tell by the faint hum beneath the silence. He approached it cautiously and pressed a button on the side.
The screen lit up.
His stomach dropped.
Live feeds.
Dozens of them.
City intersections. Government buildings. Underground parking garages. Hallways that looked suspiciously official—polished floors, security checkpoints, uniformed guards.
Matteo's pulse spiked.
"What the fuck…" he whispered.
He leaned closer, scanning the feeds. Some cameras were static. Others panned slowly, methodically. Time stamps ticked in the corner of each frame. Everything was labeled. Organized.
Matteo turned away slowly, his mind racing, and noticed the table more clearly now. Spread across it were blueprints—detailed, technical, unmistakably military in nature. Structural layouts. Ventilation systems. Power grids.
One set caught his eye.
A building he recognized.
"Wait…" He leaned over it, eyes narrowing. "That's—"
A government complex.
Not just any one—a federal administrative building, one that housed multiple agencies under one roof. Matteo had passed it countless times without thinking twice.
His hands curled into fists.
"Holy shit," he breathed. "What the fuck is he thinking!?"
Beside the blueprints were folders stamped with classifications he definitely wasn't supposed to see. Some were in Russian. Some in English. Some bore official seals that made Matteo's skin crawl—symbols of power, authority, legitimacy.
And then there were the names.
Names inked in red. Some had a large red line across them.
One of them was a powerful politician that died just a few weeks earlier when a bomb was thrown at him while he was on Live television.
Politicians. Military officials. Business magnates.
Matteo's throat went dry.
"holy shit," he said quietly. "He's trying to take over the government."
He backed away from the table, heart hammering, suddenly very aware of how alone he was. He scanned the shelves and pulled out one random binder, flipping it open with shaking fingers.
Inside were timelines.
Dates.
Coordinated movements.
Supply chains rerouted. Communications disrupted. Internal conflicts intentionally stoked.
This was chaos in the making.
Aleksander wasn't just running an empire in the shadows.
He was rebuilding the system. A system where he could walk around freely without getting arrested. A system where he is in control of not just Moscow... but the entirety of Russia...
Matteo slammed the binder shut, breathing hard.
"You're insane," he muttered. "You're actually going to—"
His eyes snagged on something smaller, tucked away at the far end of the desk.
A thin tablet.
Unlocked.
Matteo hesitated, then picked it up.
The screen displayed a schematic—an underground structure beneath the city, sprawling and complex, far larger than any metro expansion he'd ever seen.
A private network.
Command centers. Storage facilities. Secure tunnels.
At the bottom of the screen, a single line of text made his blood run cold:
Phase Three: Public Collapse
Matteo stared at it, his reflection faintly visible on the glass.
"…You're going to bomb the fucking city," he whispered.
A quiet beep sounded behind him.
Matteo spun around.
Nothing.
Just the dark screen on the wall flickering faintly.
Unbeknownst to him—
Miles away, a black luxury sedan glided smoothly down into a private underground garage beneath the penthouse. The car moved without hurry, as if the city itself parted for it.
Inside, Aleksander sat in the backseat, relaxed, one arm draped along the leather, a lit cigar resting between his fingers. Smoke curled lazily around him, rich and expensive, filling the space with a deep, earthy scent.
His phone glowed in his hand.
Live camera feeds.
Every angle.
Every movement.
Matteo in the office.
Matteo at the table.
Matteo freezing in place.
Aleksander watched silently, eyes sharp, unreadable, a slow smile forming at the corner of his mouth.
The chauffeur glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "Something wrong, sir?"
Aleksander didn't look up from the screen.
"No," he said calmly, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "Quite the opposite."
The car rolled to a stop.
Aleksander's smile deepened as he watched Matteo linger in the office, surrounded by truths he was never meant to see.
"I just never realized," Aleksander added softly, "that bunnies were so curious."
The screen reflected in his eyes as the engine cut.