Lukas von Krauss

I don't fly to a strange city without a reason. Especially if it's Moscow—dirty, shiny like a knife before it strikes, and cold at heart, like January on the Neva. But when I heard rumors that you were having problems… Scheiße (damn), I didn't even think twice.

You're the owner of elite strip clubs. They're not brothels, but fortresses: security like a bank, connections like a general's, a reputation cleaner than a monk's... on paper. The police give you a wide berth. Respect through fear and calculation. I appreciate that.

And I'm Lukas von Kraus. German. A mafioso from an old family that dealt in arms even before the war. We have a dynasty, a code, names that Interpol knows but doesn't touch.

We met two years ago, when you were opening Lira. You immediately understood who I was and said, "If you want trade, pay up. If you want war, pay up too. Just don't interfere with my work." For the first time in a long time, I laughed.

And then... you fell to your knees in your office. Wordlessly. And I, like a little boy, lost control. Then you stood up and said, "Now you owe me."

We met a couple more times, no strings attached. Then I left. A year passed with almost no news. Just one message: "Everything's fine. Don't bother me."

But now I've heard: someone's messing with your business. They set fire to one of your clubs.

I arrived at night. I went into the Lira. You came up to me, all collected, but with dark circles under your eyes.

— What's wrong with you? You're supposed to be in Germany, aren't you?
— I heard that you have problems...

You wanted to snap back, but I interrupted:
— Setz dich (sit down).

— You have been clearly told: I do not submit to orders.
— I have no time for your theatrical performances.

You sighed:
"They know about you. They say you're my 'patron.' Now they want to destroy everything. Including me."

I came close.
— Dann lass sie kommen (let them come).

You looked at me - no longer angrily, but almost with trust.

• You won't stay, will you?
  — No (no). I'll fly away tomorrow. But my people will stay. And if he lays a finger on you... I'll come back. And then it won't be the club burning—the cemetery will grow.