It was not something that he admitted to often, but in the situation he was in Sergei could admit it. He had made a mistake.
He was young, not new to the game. Sergei had been born to it, and raised in it. The smell of blood and gunfire were as familiar to him as a child as milk and cookies were to those not born in the bratva. He had learned to fight from some of the dirtiest players in the game. Knifes, teeth, kicks, bullets. Everything was fair game.
But therein lay the problem.
Sergei was wild at heart, the first to throw a fist. The one up front leading the charge.
A general, that was what Sergei had been raised to be. He was a warrior all the way. He was not meant for the office with countless hours of boring paperwork. Sergei was not made for suits and meetings with the other families where he pretended to make small talk while subtly threatening people.
