A/N: Another day, another chapter. Okay, it's been a little more than a day, but the wait will be worth it. This chapter sort of just wrote itself and if I may say so, turned out pretty darn good. We get the brothers and some action, what more could anyone ask for. I want to thank everyone who read, reviewed, and favorited after the last chapter. Thanks guys, I hope I'll have another chapter up and ready for you guys soon. Please don't be afraid to write a review or hit that follow button!-Krieg

Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel, Daredevil, or any other characters affiliated with the show. Maxim, however, is mine. This is rated T for violence and language, if you watch the show, you should be just fine! This chapter does have a bit of violence at the end, so keep that in mind. You have been warned! ;)

PART 1

Princes of Moscow

Chapter 2

Vaska had not been gone long before he reemerged from the store room, pushing aside the dilapidated door. Vladimir tracked his movements across the room, weaving through the empty tables and chairs, littered with empty glasses and bottles, cigarette butts and ashtrays. It did not escape his notice that Vaska's eyes flicked to the back corner of the bar, occupied by a small gaggle of what could only be Maxim's men.

The whole group of nine just reeked of organized crime. Even without the pistols strapped to their thighs and peeking out of holsters tucked beneath their coats, Vladimir could identify them as part of the mob easily. Nearly every bit of visible skin; hands, forearms, necks; was covered in mob tattoos, signifying the horrid deeds they had done in and out of prison. Indicating prison stints, men killed, and women conquered, the ink covering these men was a readable book of every heinous act they had performed. Vladimir and his friends had once gotten their own tattoos, small ones on their knuckles that announced their small acts of thievery to the criminal underworld, but compared to the men drowning themselves in vodka, they were practically marks of sainthood.

The men he was currently pouring a pair of glasses for were not convicts. Vladimir could practically smell their police badges. They were either very brave or very stupid to come crawling into the choice bar of countless mafia members, asking dangerous questions.

"So, young man," the larger of the men addressed Vladimir as he capped the bottle and returned it to its place on the shelf. "You must have grown up here, yes? My family has just moved here."

Vladimir ignored the man's attempts at small talk, initiated in order to draw out his father's secrets, to instead focus on his father. Oleg has yet to surface from the basement. Vaska had paled a shade or two in the past couple of minutes; whatever business Oleg had spoken of to him seemed to have shaken him. Vaska normally served as a simple waypoint for all sorts of illegal products. He would pick up shipments of drugs, weapons, and sometimes people and keep them hidden in the basement of the bar he had just returned from. Perhaps Maxim has decided that wasn't enough.

Beads of sweat dribbled down the side of Vaska's face and down into his shirt collar as he leaned against the bar and addressed his son; "Vladimir, go upstairs. Do not come back down unless I tell you to." He kept his voice low, hiding his words from the men sitting at the bar who watched the pair with rapt attention, clearly unbothered by the fact that Vladimir had disregarded their question.

Vladimir frowned. "Why? I don't understand…"

Vaska shook his head, leaning across the bar to grasp Vladimir by the back of the neck and pull his head forward. Leaning in, Vaska breathed into his son's ear, "For once, just do as I say. There is a gun under my mattress. Take it; protect your brother."

Vladimir pulled away from his father, observing him raptly. Hidden in Vaska's chiseled face, his grey eyes, shared by both of his sons, were clouded with worry. This was a man who worked for one of Russia's most dangerous criminals. He was constantly under the threat of being exposed to the police but had never once been afraid of a job to be done.

"What did Oleg say to you?" Vladimir asked, snatching his father's sleeve as he retracted his arm. "Has Maxim threatened Anatoly? What does he want you to do?"

Vaska shook his head. "There isn't time," he whispered, tugging his arm away from Vladimir's grip. "I will explain soon, but you must go. Now."

Vladimir took a tentative step away, in the direction of the staircase. He and his father had never seen eye to eye, but if Anatoly was in trouble, Vaska would never keep it a secret. Not like this. There was a level of trust between the two of them, not matter how thin it was becoming with every new, wild stunt Vladimir decided to pull. If Vaska was keeping something from him, it could only mean danger.

"Go!" Vaska ordered, his voice louder when he saw his son's hesitation, slamming a hand down onto the surface of the bar. Some of Maxim's men turned their heads towards the bar, searching for a fight between the father and son, ready to throw down money in bets on who would win. The two police officers had long since abandoned their drinks, watching the exchange, hands drifting to hidden weapons.

Vladimir gave his father one last dark, analyzing look before turning and striding calmly out from behind the bar. It felt as though every eye in the bar tracked his progress.

Once he was hidden by the walls of the staircase, Vladimir rushed up the stairs, his boots thudding against each wooden step. As soon as the door at the top was flung open, Vladimir's eyes searched the room for his brother. He had left Anatoly at the table, a worn copy of The Brothers Karamazov in his hands and a confused look on his face as he deciphered the text. The kitchen was now empty.

"Anatoly?" Vladimir shouted as soon as he failed to lay eyes on his brother. Could Maxim have sent men into their home in just the short time since he had returned to the bar? Could his brother be gone, abducted by the brutal gang members, dead? He yelled louder. "Ana-!"

Vladimir's younger brother flung himself out of their shared room, a look of panic on his face. Vladimir slumped in relief while Anatoly seemed to stiffen in fear. "What? Vlad, what is it?" Anatoly stuttered as Vladimir crossed the room to him, gripping his shoulders, searching his brother for the smallest sign that someone had laid a hand on him.

Seeing nothing, Vladimir pushed Anatoly aside, looking into their room for potential perpetrators. Once he had ripped the door away from the wall and confirmed that there was no one lurking behind it in the shadows, he did the same with his father's room. It was equally empty. Whatever had his father so spooked wasn't on the upper floor. He only wondered if he should have left Vaska alone with so many of Maxim's men.

Anatoly had not moved from his spot, tracking his brother's movements through the apartment with wide eyes. "Vladimir," he pleaded with his brother. "Tell me, what's wrong?"

"I don't know," Vladimir replied truthfully. He tossed the mattress from his father's bed to the floor. A Makarov pistol lay in wait upon the bed springs. It was an older model, but with three loaded clips it was still a deadly weapon in Vladimir's hands.

His father seemed to have an inkling of Vladimir's criminal exploits. It had started small; shoplifting and muggings with some of the boys that lived down the streets. He'd quickly promoted himself to full-fledged armed robberies with his closest friends, the violent, blood thirsty men who he trusted to have his back. They were responsible for three successful hits within the past four months. Vladimir had killed people; he knew how to use a gun.

None of the crew had been caught but the police were sure to have suspicions. Seeing the police in the bar had sent his friends out of the bar's doors pretty quickly. Vladimir had simply hoped that if the two officers were dumb enough to come to their bar, filled to the brim with Maxim's thugs and murderers, that they wouldn't know who he was.

Vladimir hoped no one in the police force knew who he was. Vaska was right; Vladimir put his family at risk every time he committed a crime. He just hoped that whatever was frightening his father wasn't his fault.

"Something is happening with father and Oleg. I don't know what, but father is afraid," Vladimir told his brother, blunt and to the point. Anatoly was fourteen; he understood what business his family was tangled in.

Vladimir picked up the Makarov, slamming a clip into place and chambering a round. The other two clips he tucked away in the pockets of his pants for later use.

Anatoly nodded. "Then what should we do?" Vladimir did not miss the way Anatoly's eyes drifted to the weapon in his hand, a dark glint in his eye. Vladimir fully expected his younger brother to ask him for a weapon of his own and was ready to interrupt. But he never got the chance.

Because a gunshot interrupted them for him.

For once in his life, Vladimir listened. If Vaska could be thankful for anything, it was that his son was protective of his younger sibling. Some days he would use this love between brothers to his advantage to get the boys to do what he needed, telling a little white lie to keep the pair out of trouble. This time there was no need to lie. If Vaska wasn't careful, all three of them could end up dead by the end of the night.

Vaska knew he had the attention of the whole bar as he watched his son disappear up the stairs. The two cops were skittish and Vaska's yell had sent their hands to concealed weapons. Maxim's men were looking for a good fight.

There was something, however, in the way the men sat this night. On edge, eyes following not only the disguised policemen, strangers who did not belong in the bar, but the bartender himself. Vaska had been a part of Maxim's operations for many years, but he was a simple middle man. He held the drugs and weapons and people that Maxim was selling before they could be passed along to a buyer. His job was to never draw attention to himself and so far he had always been successful at it. Most times the thugs who drank his vodka forgot that he was also one of them.

They noticed him tonight.

The look in their eyes was cold and hungry, the way a wolf would stare at a wounded deer. Eyes of murderers. Eyes of the men who were here to kill him.

Vaska had thought he would have had more time. Oleg had just warned him but a few minutes before. He had wanted to get the boys out of the building, at the least. At the most, he wanted to be out of Russia, this life left behind and a fresh start waiting where his children could grow up to be more than crooks and criminals.

Dread weighed heavily on his shoulders as he slid behind his bar. He knew the bar top and bottles would do nothing to protect him against a bullet, but maybe the AK-47 hidden behind it could.

Vaska had served in the military, just as his father and brother had before him. It had taught him to handle a weapon and to always be prepared. He had hoped that Vladimir might follow in his footsteps and join the military as well. God knows the boy could use the discipline. But instead, he had wanted to stay with his brother and take up a life of crime. In some ways, that could be seen as following in his father's footsteps.

Coming home from the service had left Vaska with no job and no money. Once he got his hands on the bar, he had been able to get off pretty well. He'd been young and stupid, found himself a pretty girl, and, before he knew it, had a son. They were happy. He'd been talking to Vera about finally getting married when they found out she was pregnant again.

Even as the USSR began to be reformed, the bar could suddenly no longer pull in customers. The family couldn't pay their bills or put enough food on the table. Once Anatoly had been born, Vera had left. Vaska didn't know where she went; he didn't care. He raised the boys the best he could and turned to the crime rings for work.

The minute he started getting a paycheck from Maxim, Vaska knew he would end up dead for his work. In his head he knew this, but some part of him clung to the idea that he could live his life out in peace. That dream ended tonight.

Vaska's hand slowly pushed aside stray bottles beneath the bar until his fingers drifted over the barrel of the gun. It had always been there, loaded and ready, since the day he agreed to be a convict's go-between.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Vaska addressed the whole room. He kept his gun low and out of view from the patrons as he drew it close to his body. Any eyes that had not already been following him around trained onto the bar owner. "I'm sorry, but we're closing early tonight."

There were some disgruntled groans and grumbles from some of the men. Maxim's men, the ones out for blood, narrowed their eyes and tossed each other knowing looks. Vaska glared them down.

"Come now," one of the policemen said behind him. Vaska glanced over his shoulder to the far end of the bar. It was the man who had never given a name, the tall one who had taken care of the speaking for the pair. "The night is young, why close?" There was a nervous lilt to his voice. Both police officers had stood. Dima had his hand tucked into his jacket, ready to protect his life if he needed to.

Vaska was ready with a harsh "Otvali!" but was interrupted before he could try and scare the officers away. It was Alexei, a weasel of a man who had served more years in prison than Vladimir had been alive. Weasel was the best word for him; a spindly man whose body seemed to long for his shorter limbs with beady black eyes and short sharp teeth. He wore his vulgar tattoos with pride and killed men with even more.

"Yes, Vaska," Alexei growled, once Vaska had turned his gaze back on the cluster of Maxim's men. "Why close?"

Alexei, along with three other men, had stood up. Holsters that were normally hidden were out in the open, the glint of guns beneath coats and strapped to thighs.

The silence that followed was long, drawn out. Suspenseful. Sweat trickled even more freely down Vaska's forehead and the back of his neck into the collar of his sweater. Floorboards squeaked as men shifted their weight from side to side. Some had fled the bar at the signs of a conflict; others remained in their seats, either hoping for a show or too petrified to move.

The sound of the gunshot was like a clap of thunder in the silent bar as the bullet whizzed from the barrel and hit skull.

Vaska watched the man to Alexei's right collapse with a spurt of blood. It was the cop, Dima, firing from behind him. God damn those trigger happy politsiya, Vaska swore, swinging up his own weapon and firing off half a dozen rounds. Two more men went down as the remaining six dove for cover, overturning tables and ducking into small alcoves.

Vaska ducked down behind the bar as curses and bullets flew at him in return. The wood of the bar splintered and fractured and the bottles above and below the bar exploded, raining glass and alcohol down on top of his head. Vaska covered himself with one arm, cradling the AK to his chest with the other. A bullet grazed Vaska's side, right beneath his armpit, and he gasped in pain.

He could hear Alexei barking out swears, jeers, and orders as the gunfire stopped and fresh clips were loaded. Looking behind him he could just see the top of two heads peeking out from the top of the bar. Damn those politsiya, he thought again, shifting to a more comfortable position, preparing to fire again.

Over the rushing of the blood in his ears, just as Vaska was ready to pop out and pepper the thugs with more rounds, he heard his son. "Dad?!"

It was Anatoly, his voice worried, scared, angry. The stairs creaked in the quiet of changing clips and heavy breathing.

"Stay where you are, Anatoly!" Vaska shouted. "Don't come down here until I-"

The two policemen open fired onto Maxim's men, who fried back in return, drowning out Vaska's words. Pressing a hand against his bleeding wound, Vaska swore. Everything had gone to hell so quickly. He prayed that Vladimir could keep his brother out of the line of fire and that he wouldn't be stupid enough to put himself there instead.

There were some cries of pain from the group of criminals. At least the police learned how to aim. Maybe he shouldn't have judged them so harshly.

Because as he stood to fire again, a bullet slammed into his right shoulder from behind.

The next thing he knew, Vaska was flat on his back, blood mixing with vodka on the floor, the distant echo of gunfire and his son screaming his name ringing in his ears.

Vladimir had snatched his brother by the collar of his jacket and dragged him back away from the doorway of the stairwell. As soon as the gun fire had started on the floor below, Anatoly had slipped past Vladimir and thundered down the stairs. He had yelled for their father as the firefight came to a standstill, but Vladimir had rushed down the staircase after him, grabbed him by the scruff, and yanked him down into a seated position on the staircase. He indicated for his younger brother to be quiet and got a stronger grip on his Makarov.

"Stay where you are, Anatoly!" their father yelled from the other room. "Don't come down here until I-" The gunfire began once again, with ever more fervor.

"Stay here," Vladimir echoed his father, pushing his younger brother back down to sit on the stairs by his shoulder when the boy tried to stand once again. Once he was sure Anatoly was going to obey his order, Vladimir swung around and peered out of the doorway and into the bar.

He chose both the worst and best time to look. A second sooner and he could have stopped the bullet that ripped through his father's shoulder, sending him down to his knees and out of view behind the bar. A second later and he would have missed his opportunity to know just who he needed to kill for putting a hole in his father.

Vladimir knew he screamed, an angry, guttural cry for his father, as he surged out from behind the doorframe. It was one of those idiot policemen who had done it. A bullet straight into Vaska's back.

Paying little mind to the standoff between the police officers and a small cluster of men from the bar, Vladimir fired two quick shots, both impeccably aimed and driving into the knee and thigh of the bastard who had shot his father. The policeman fell with a cry of pain, his whole leg collapsing beneath him. His partner watched him tumble to the ground, crouching down to hide his body from the onslaught of Maxim's men.

Watching his partner thrash on the ground, blubbering and grasping at the gaping wounds in his leg, before turning his gaze to the man responsible, the taller policeman made a quick decision. As the gunfire subsided once again, the turned tail and fled quickly from the bar, disappearing into the snowy darkness. Some of Maxim's men decided to give chase and followed the fleeing policeman out of the bar. A group of three stayed behind.

Once Vladimir was sure that the man writhing around on the ground in a steadily increasing puddle of blood wasn't going anywhere, he turned his wrath onto Maxim's men.

"Get out," Vladimir growled, stalking over to them. The clear leader of the men, a gangly man, held Vladimir's fire-filled gaze, a small smirk on his face as the young man closed in on him. What was this man's name? Abram? Alexei? Vladimir couldn't remember or care, he simply knew the man and his lackeys were bad news. He wanted them out of his home, out of his life. He had to take care of his family now and these drug dealers, traffickers, and assassins were just going to get in his way.

When they made no move to leave the bar, Vladimir jammed his gun under the leader's chin, using enough force to cause the man to twist his head back in discomfort. "I said," Vladimir breathed into the man's ear, "Get. Out."

The man shoved Vladimir's hand and gun away, stared at him for a long couple of seconds, before jerking a hand towards the other two men and stomping around Vladimir and out the door. Each man seemed to glance at where his father had fallen, one making an awkward shuffle towards the bar before he seemed to think better of it and follow his cohorts out into the blizzard.

"Vlad?"

Vladimir turned to see his brother standing in the doorway, eyes sliding from his older brother to the policeman covered in blood. Crossing the room to his brother, Vladimir grasped his brother by the sides of the face and forced the boy to look him in the eye.

"Dad has been shot," he said, keeping his voice level and authoritative. There was no time to coddle his little brother right now. Anatoly was smart; he knew what was going on, now he had to act. "I need you to go to him, behind the bar, and put pressure on his wound. Can you do that, brat moy?"

Anatoly nodded the best he could with his brother's hands upon him, his eyes steely. He slipped away from Vladimir, moving slow and stiff, pieces of shattered bottles cracking under his boots. Vladimir watched him disappear behind the bar, a small, shocked intake of breath escaping from the younger brother as he crouched down.

He left Anatoly to tend to their father. He didn't even know if their father was still alive, but he wanted his brother occupied with something while he dealt with the man who had caused all of this.

The policeman was no longer where he had fallen. His leg unable to support him and sprawled on his stomach, the man had begun to drag himself with his arms across the messy floors towards the entrance. Vladimir watched him make his painstakingly slow way across the floor with a cold, calculating gaze.

Once he had had enough of the man's lackluster escape and pitiful whines, he strode slowly to the officer's side. "And where do you think you're going?" he asked, nudging the toe of his shoe into one of the bullet wounds seeping from the man's injured leg. He was answered with a scream of pain.

Smirking, Vladimir crouched down and grasped the man's shoulder. He flipped the man over so he was lying on his back, his lame leg tucked awkwardly beneath the other. Vladimir was glad to see the pain, the fear that flooded from the wounded policeman's face. "I asked you a question." The man whimpered.

"Vlad?" Anatoly sounded worried.

Vladimir ignored him, leaning over the man before him. "You shot my father," he said, pressing his gun into the man's chest. He dragged the barrel up along the man's neck before letting it settle on his temple. "You and your friend. You came into my home and shot my father." His finger tightened on the trigger of the Makarov.

"P-p-please…" the man stuttered. His whole body was shaking, he was crying. Pitiful, Vladimir thought. This was no way for a man to die, begging for his life. But he had shot Vladimir's father.

"If you see him, you might want to ask God to keep me from going into your house and shooting your family," Vladimir snarled. One final threat. He pulled the trigger.

His face was sprayed with all means of blood and gore, the body before him an unrecognizable mess. Vladimir stood and spat on the remains of the police officer, rubbing his face with the back of his hand to clear away some of the grime.

"Vladimir!"

Finally, he turned his attention to his brother, sliding around the bar to stoop down next to him over their father, who was perched precariously on his side. Anatoly had his hands pressed tightly against the back of Vaska's shoulder, thick blood gushing between his fingers. Anatoly looked up from where his hands were trying to keep his father alive to Vladimir's face. His eyes widened a fraction at the sight. Anatoly couldn't have missed the gunshot but the sight of the blood smeared all over his brother would still come as a shock.

"How is he?" Vladimir asked, turning his younger brother's attention away from his face and instead to their dying father.

"I think he might be coming around," Anatoly answered. Vladimir glanced at his father's face. The man's eyes twitched beneath his eyelids and his mouth began to tighten into a grimace of pain. "The bullet didn't go all the way through, I checked. But he's losing a lot of blood. I don't know what to do."

Vladimir nodded in agreement. "We need to get him somewhere safe. Somewhere with medical supplies or a-"

He stopped speaking quickly at the creak of a footstep on the old floorboards. He shared a look with Anatoly. More police? Vladimir quickly checked the clip of his Makarov, still with five shots. He pulled an extra from his pocket, in preparation for potentially another fire fight.

Vladimir didn't miss the large piece of glass Anatoly picked up from the pile of shards covering the floor as a weapon. He gestured for Anatoly to remain where he was as he rose slowly, peering over the top edge of the bar top. His gun was raised and poised to fire.

It was Oleg.

Vladimir let out a small sigh, fully standing up and tucking his gun away in his waistband, safety on. "And where the hell have you been?" he snapped at the older man.

It was no secret that Oleg wasn't a fan of guns. Even though he worked for one of the biggest mob bosses in western Russia, the man tended to keep away from dirty work. More of a businessman than a gun for hire like most of Maxim's men. Vladimir had not seen the man follow his father up from the basement. He had no doubt Oleg has stayed hidden down in the store room the minute the first shot was fired.

Oleg ignored him. "Did you see what happened?" he asked. "Did Anatoly?"

Vladimir grunted an affirmative, gesturing for the man to come behind the bar and see. "That police ublyudok shot him in the back," he said, nodding towards the mutilated body of the police officer. Oleg frowned at this, as though he wasn't surprised but had been expecting something else none the less.

Oleg's nose crinkled up at the brutal sight of the body before he turned away and took in Vaska, his shoulder being held together by Anatoly.

"He needs help," Anatoly said, looking up at the man who had entertained him so many nights when Vladimir couldn't be there for him, choosing to rob and kill instead. "A hospital or-"

"No!" Oleg exclaimed. "No hospitals."

"But he-"

"No, Anatoly," Oleg continued. "A hospital will not be safe for him. If he shows up with a bullet wound the police will be all over him. That's not good for him and it's certainly not good for your brother," he pointed at Vladimir, "who just killed an officer."

"He's right, Anatoly," Vladimir agreed, running an agitated hand through his cropped hair. "It's not safe." He turned his gaze to Oleg. "What do you suggest we do then?"

Oleg ran a hand over his chin thoughtfully. "I have a house," he said after a short while. "It's old, I don't live there anymore but I still own it. We can take your father there, clean his wound, tend to him, and let him heal. It will be safe, for a while."

Vladimir nodded, no better solution coming to him. "Alright," he mumbled. "But we must move him quickly."

As they were speaking, Vaska had begun to awaken, muttering words too quiet to hear and twisting his head from side to side in pain. Anatoly had moved one of his hands from the gaping wound in his shoulder to rest reassuringly on his father's forearm. Vladimir was proud at how calmly Anatoly was handling the entire situation. So much had changed in but a few short minutes. They were losing their home; they could never return to the bar, the crime scene of a police officer's murder. They would be hunted for his death. They may yet lose their father, the only family the pair of brothers had left.

Oleg patted him encouragingly on the shoulder. "I will get my car; bring your father out front." With one more glance at the corpse of the policeman and some mumbled words which Vladimir assumed was a prayer for the dead man, Oleg whisked his jacket off of its hook and rushed out of the bar.

"Help me with him," Vladimir breathed to Anatoly as he bent down and scooped his father into his arms. With aid from his younger brother he was able to pack some towels from the bar against Vaska's wound as bandages and sling the man over his shoulder.

The brother's left everything behind, owning no objects of true sentimentality to bring with them. Anatoly ripped the picture of their father and his navy buddies down from the mirror behind the bar, folded it, and tucked it away in a hidden pocket of his jacket. He tossed Vladimir a look. Just in case.

Together, Anatoly and Vladimir left the bar, leaving the life they once knew behind, the whole time listening to the apologies their father whispered, as if he was confessing his sins one last time.