Mobtop -

Within six minutes, seventeen drones from five families swarmed Viktor’s rooftop. The ghost drone, confused, dropped its payload through Viktor’s skylight—a brick of C4 wrapped in a flag.

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.

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

Tonight was different.

A fourth blip appeared. No color. No IFF code. Just a hungry, silent dot moving straight toward the city’s gold depository. Within six minutes, seventeen drones from five families

“Not mine,” hissed Mikhael from the Bratvas.

The Turks were already screaming in broken Russian. Green for the Volkovs, red for the Bratvas,

Lev Tarasov didn’t need a gun. He had gravity.