The roar of an explosion echoed through the narrow streets of Roanapur, a deafening sound of destruction that sent shockwaves through the night.

Anastasia Marie Petrovna occupied a dimly lit corner in the pub, her table cluttered with crumpled documents. The jovial clinking of glasses and laughter that enveloped her was gradually silenced as the low lives occupying the bar turned their attention to the plumes of smoke billowing in the distance. Her heart suddenly lurched as she realized what had just happened, and a cold, sinking feeling gnawed at her gut.

She had known this day would come, known it for the past week, or why else would THE Volchitsa be sitting at a dimly lit corner table in the grungy pub a couple of streets down her own homely office? But still, it didn't make it any easier to watch her 'family's' headquarters being reduced to rubbles.

 The Falcon.

 That was the name of the pub that had been their sanctuary for the past six months, ever since they fled France. Oh yes, the 'Les Faucons d'Argent' had been a well-known syndicate in Paris, well-known and feared, at least until the LeFevre Family that backed them stayed in power.

After the Soviet Union collapsed, the weapons market went into a riot. Suddenly there was no need for a space-based weapon system, or INFs, or tanks, or artillery pieces, or armored vehicles. The conventional arms industry collapsed under the sudden jolt of downscaling.

The LeFevre family was hit badly by the sudden change and their arsenal of heavy weaponry became a thorn in the Government's side. That's where the Mafias came into play. The Falcons became the last line of defense for the family, and... well, let's just say luxury had made the bird of prey into a fat pig.

Most of the members of the Falcon had become so corrupt that they abandoned the syndicate the moment they smelled trouble. All except for the head of the syndicate who himself was a LeFevre so he didn't have much of a choice.

Anastasia's place in the LeFevre family was unique; she was the illegitimate daughter of the LeFevre matriarch, a product of her secret affair during a business trip to the USSR. Born unexpectedly but endearingly kept, Anastasia Marie Petrovna came into the world with a shock of blond hair and mesmerizing blue eyes.

Despite her status as a bastard child, Anastasia was raised without the typical conflicts such situations might entail. She received the same education as her two brothers and was shielded from insults or plotting against her legitimacy. If she felt any lack in her life, it was a sense of purpose, a yearning that would finally be fulfilled when she turned eighteen.

On that significant day, Anastasia's mother introduced her to her uncle, Dominic LeFevre, who initiated her into the family syndicate. From that moment, she found herself performing mundane tasks for minor criminals. One day, it was a street brawl, the next, an execution, and then delivering a package to the very place where she had committed the murder.

Her seven years on the streets yielded little good, except for the fact that she had risen through the ranks to become a captain. She led a motley crew of approximately a hundred lost and desperate youths wandering the unforgiving streets.

As a bastard, she had the advantage of not being significant enough to appear on the government's hit list, which allowed her to survive the purges. However, she eventually made a costly mistake by attempting to retain control of one of the docks instead of fleeing France.

This led to the loss of the remnants of the syndicate she had saved, along with some of her loyal subordinates. She managed to escape France with only about seventy of her surviving comrades in a harrowing escape. Now freshly out of weapons and with barely enough cash to keep themselves fed, her group managed to reach Roanapur, the end of all sewers where the filth of the world gathered.

They took down one of the weaker occupants of the land and established the 'Vorovich Cartel'.

A cringe name?

Yes, she knows that.

But this was what the other occupants of this cesspool were calling them and soon it became their identity. The takeover crusade sent them down to sixty-five people and with that much manpower, they managed to cease control of one of the Wharfs on the eastern coast of Roanapur.

After that, it was a smooth sail, a street today, another three days later, all the way until they held full control over a block. Soon, they held full sway over a significant territory. Seven bustling Market Streets became their economic stronghold, a tightly-knit resident block their sanctuary, and three thriving brothels their sources of revenue. In addition, five popular pubs added to their influence, and the wharf they seized ensured they had a pivotal point of operation.

With this lucrative combination, they were propelled from the brink of destitution to a life of luxury and power. Once again they made the mistake of getting too comfortable.

For five whole months, they faced no retaliation and had no conflict save for when she bashed in the head of a drunken fiend who dared to violate one of the brothel workers.

Then, as if emerging from the shadows, an unknown Italian Mafia descended upon them with relentless fury. The tranquility that had veiled their operations was shattered almost too suddenly for them to react. One day, one of their thriving pubs was set ablaze, reducing it to smoldering ruins. The next, a lifeless worker from one of the brothels lay sprawled in a desolate alley, victim to an unforgiving execution.

The attacks escalated with brutal precision. A manager met a gruesome end with his brains splattered across the walls of a narrow alley. In another sinister act, a fellow manager's lifeless body was grotesquely nailed to the wharf, a grotesque and horrifying spectacle. The truly terrifying aspect of these attacks was the cloak of anonymity that shrouded the perpetrators.

No one knew for certain who was behind the relentless onslaught, except for one detail—the ethnicity of the assailants. The ominous air of uncertainty and fear hung heavy over them.

Then one day, a piece of shocking news reached Anastasia's ears. Someone had seen the assailants attempting to set fire to one of their stalls but by the time Anastasia and the others reached there, they found the two assailants lying on the ground with holes in their chests.

The stall owner saw what they were trying to do and ended up blowing their hearts out. With the corpses in their hands, unmasking the assailants was a small task. In less than a day she pin-pointed the origin of these dead men to the Salvatore Family, The Salvatore Family, another criminal group that had recently been washed ashore, much like the Vorovich Cartel.

It turns out that they, too, were entangled in the arms dealing trade, facing the same dire circumstances as the LeFevre had in France. However, the Salvatore Family had seized the first opportunity to flee Italy, managing to escape with considerable wealth, manpower, weaponry, and experienced members boasting military training.

Once exposed, the war between the Vorovich Cartel and the Salvatore Family erupted into an open spectacle for all of Roanapur. On the very first day after the revelation, Anastasia sent the severed heads of the two dead assailants to the headquarters of the Salvatore Family in the western heart of Roanapur.

In retaliation, the Salvatore Family set ablaze one of her ecstasy shipments, dealing a crippling blow to their finances. In just one short week, the war between the Vorovich Cartel and the Salvatore Family had escalated to a new, unrestrained level.

It was now clear that open conflicts were inevitable, and Anastasia decided to seize the initiative and make the first move. In a swift operation, her forces descended upon the territory of the Salvatore Family. They razed two of the Salvatore's loan shark offices to the ground, leaving nothing but smoldering ruins.

In the following days, the relentless war between the Vorovich Cartel and the Salvatore Family reached a crescendo of devastation. Both criminal organizations systematically targeted and obliterated each other's primary sources of revenue. For the Vorovich Cartel, their streets were no longer under their control. The brothels had to be shuttered, as half of the workers met a gruesome end. Three of their five pubs lay in ruins, and their wharf was quickly losing business.

Simultaneously, the Salvatore Family reeled under the weight of their losses. They watched as all three of their loan shark offices crumbled, two number houses were burnt, and half of their warehouses stood as empty husks. Three of their prized ships were now sleeping at the bottom of the sea. 

Both 'organizations' found themselves in a precarious situation, where they had to rely on their dwindling stashes to make ends meet. What they were currently earning was a mere trickle compared to their previous revenue streams, and they were forced to tread a perilous line to survive.

With material wealth significantly diminished on both sides, the conflict between the Volchitsa Cartel and the Salvatore Family took a darker turn as they turned their attention to human resources. The Salvatores held an advantage in this arena, boasting a larger and more skilled roster of soldiers, while the Vorovich members were left with few skills beyond arson and the reckless discharge of firearms.

The stakes escalated dramatically when, less than a day ago, an anonymous source provided Anastasia with a grave warning. She was informed of an imminent attempt on her life, orchestrated through the use of high-end military-grade explosives.

At first, she regarded this information with skepticism, but as news of the Salvatore Family's movements and intentions began to surface, she could no longer deny the credibility of the threat.

Faced with the grim reality of a deadly plot against her, Anastasia made a quick, decisive move to ensure her safety. She relocated her office, making a strategic shift from the Falcon to the Nightfall.

Now, she stared at the smoldering ruins in the distance, the place that had been their sanctuary, a place that had been their humble vantage point, they'd ventured into Roanapur's cutthroat world, seeking control, power, and the riches that flowed through the city's illicit veins.

But now, in the blink of an eye, it was all gone, a symbol of their vulnerabilities. Anastasia's thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the blaring sirens of approaching police cars. She cast a wary eye toward the street, where uniformed officers and detectives were already swarming the scene.

This was a peculiar city, where even the law enforcement played by their own rules, and one couldn't be certain whether they were allies or foes. Anastasia knew better than to linger too long in the vicinity.

As Anastasia swiftly downed the last remnants of rum in her glass, she turned her piercing gaze toward the barman, who acknowledged her with a respectful nod. With each step she took towards the stairs leading to the office building perched atop the pub, the world around her seemed to blur, lost in the haze of tension and anticipation.

Just as she was about to make her ascent, her senses were suddenly electrified by a glint of light that pierced the dim ambiance of the pub. Instinctively, she whirled around, her eyes narrowing on the source.

One of the patrons at the nearest table, facing the window, was capturing the aftermath of the explosion on a camera. Yet, it wasn't the scene that seized her attention, but rather the distinct three-leaf red clover tattoo etched on the back of the man's neck. The revelation struck Anastasia like a thunderbolt.

The three-leaf red clover, a symbol she had encountered before, was unmistakably tied to the Salvatore Family. The man capturing the scene on his device must have noticed her piercing glare, prompting him to whirl around to confront her.

Her eyes locked onto his, and she instantly recognized him. It was Vittorio Salvatore, the grandson of the current head of the Salvatore Family and the one responsible for covertly snooping around on behalf of his family. Their gazes locked, and Anastasia could see the weight of recognition dawning in his eyes.