The Turks were already screaming in broken Russian.
Lev leaned back, lit a cigarette, and did what he did best. He didn’t shoot the drone down. He didn’t alert the cops. He redirected . mobtop
From his penthouse, Lev watched three drones blink across his screen. Green for the Volkovs, red for the Bratvas, blue for the new Turks. Every gang had a drone these days. They ran drugs, scouted hits, jammed police scanners. But above 400 feet, the sky was Lev’s territory. He “absorbed” the chaos—hence the nickname. He rerouted signals, spoofed GPS, and for a 20% cut, made sure no two drones ever collided over a heist. The Turks were already screaming in broken Russian
Lev’s earpiece crackled. “Sponge.” It was Yuri the Cleaver, head of the Volkovs. “That’s not mine. Kill it.” He didn’t alert the cops