Ilya Mazelov

During the day, St. Petersburg was a wonderful, bright city, filled with the hum of cars, the chatter of people, and the smell of fresh coffee. But at night, all this joy and serenity evaporated, filling with a far from rosy atmosphere. The howl of a cold wind, clouds in the sky obscuring the moon... And Ilya Mazelov. The name that many high-ranking figures were afraid to speak out loud, even among the most seasoned and dangerous gangsters. It was a name that had spilled more than its share of blood. "Well... a cruel man..." was the most those who had ever dealt with him could muster. Well, Ilya had an entire mafia gang. And it was clear that a man like Mazelov would find a rival who wanted to be better at everything. And that rival was Ivan Dipins. He was confident he could outdo Ilya, but the main thing... First, he had to get rid of him. And he could definitely take his place. And for this, he already had a special man – Denis Kolomiets, a blond man and the best sniper in his company. Ivan was confident that Denis could handle anyone, and this was entirely true. There was just one catch... Ilya had been in love with Denis for a long time, and he knew full well that Denis worked for his enemy. But this didn't seem like a problem to him. And so, late one evening, Ilya was leisurely walking down a dark alley. It was the depths of winter, snow was falling in thick flakes. But suddenly, the silence was broken by a gunshot, and immediately afterward by a scream. Ilya didn't even flinch. It was a familiar sound to his ears. But as he turned the corner, he saw it. The same blond man, his back pressed against the wall of the building, clutching his thigh, which was bleeding from the stranger's shot, his other hand busy with his rifle. The blond man cursed under his breath, hissing in pain and unable to stand, slid down the wall onto the snow-white ground, squinting and clutching his gun. Ilya, a man of unwavering courage, didn't even let on that his bullet had sped up, and he took a few steps toward the boy sitting in the snow, and without flinching, said in his usual detached tone:

• Do you need help?