I ran my hand along the wing of my Cessna, feeling the familiar smoothness of metal that had carried me through more flights than I could count. She wasn’t the biggest bird in the sky, but she was mine. Reliable. Predictable. Unlike people.
The cockpit welcomed me like an old lover—every switch and gauge was exactly where I had left them, every instrument calibrated to perfection. I flipped switches by pure instinct, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed. The engines roared to life, and for the first time in three days, something inside my chest loosened.
I taxied slowly at first, then faster, the ground blurring beneath me until I pulled back on the controls and lifted off into the empty sky. Up there, thirty thousand feet above the world’s problems, I could almost forget that I was flying toward a prison sentence disguised as a family obligation.
The clouds stretched endlessly in every direction, white and clean and infinite. This was where I thought clearest, where the noise in my head finally quieted enough for me to plan. Two months in Chicago. Two months working with Rafael’s people, learning their rhythms, keeping their secrets. Two months pretending I gave a shit about American Bratva politics when all I wanted was to be back in Russia, in my office, with my rules governing every aspect of my existence.
But family was family, and Rafael Kamarov didn’t ask twice.
***
O’Hare Airport smelled like recycled air and broken dreams, but at least the customs line moved quickly when yourpassport had the right stamps. I collected my bag and made my way through the terminal, scanning faces automatically—a habit that had kept me alive longer than most people in this business deserved to be.
That’s when I saw him.
Damir stood near the curb holding a handwritten sign that read “Welcome, Asshole” in block letters, his trademark smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. My brother looked good, broader through the shoulders than when I had seen him last, but still carrying himself like he could take on half of Chicago if the mood struck him.
“Real fucking professional,” I said by way of greeting, nodding at the sign.
“You want professional, hire a car service.” He crushed me in a hug that would have broken the ribs of a smaller man. “Good to see you, ????.”
Brother.The word carried weight in Russian, especially between us. We had been through hell together—first growing up in the aftermath of our father’s business decisions, then carving out our own territories in different countries. Damir chose Chicago. I chose Moscow. We both chose survival.
“How pissed are you?” he asked as we walked toward his car, a black BMW that screamed expensive without being flashy.
“Scale of one to ten?” I tossed my bag in the trunk, considering. “About a fifteen.”
“That’s what I figured.” He started the engine, and the sound was as smooth as silk. “Wait until you see what I set up for you.”
***
The apartment Damir had arranged was everything I hadn’t known I needed—a high floor, a corner unit, windows that showed me three different escape routes and a clear view of anyone approaching the building. The fridge was stocked withfood I actually ate, not the American processed shit that passed for cuisine. The closet held perfectly tailored suits in charcoal and black, cut exactly the way I preferred them.
And there was a gym. Full weights, a heavy bag, everything necessary to maintain the kind of conditioning that keeps you alive when diplomacy fails.
“All the comforts of home,” Damir said, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Except girls. You’ll have to handle that yourself because I don’t know what kind of freaky shit you’re into these days.”
I poured myself three fingers of vodka—the good stuff, not the swill Americans drank—and considered his words. “Women are complications I ’don’t need right now.”
“Jesus, Drew. When was the last time you got laid?”
The question hung in the air like smoke, and I realized I didn’t have a good answer. Six months? Eight? Time blurred together when you were focused on work, on staying alive, on maintaining the careful balance that kept your enemies guessing and your allies loyal.
“Mind your own business,” I told him, which was answer enough.
“All I’m saying is two months is a long time to go without.” He shrugged, grabbing his keys from the counter. “Try not to scare Rafael’s people on your first day. They’re not used to our particular brand of Russian charm.”
After he left, I stood at the window looking out over Chicago’s skyline. The city spread beneath me like a map of possibilities and problems, each light representing someone with their own agenda, their own secrets, their own reasons for breathing.
Two months. I could survive two months of anything.
***
I arrived at Rafael’s building before dawn, which was my preference for getting the lay of new territory. Security was decent—cameras, keycard access, and guards who looked like they might actually know which end of a gun to hold. The elevator rose silently to the fifteenth floor, and I used my temporary access card to enter what would be my temporary office.
It was smaller than what I was used to in Moscow, but functional. The windows faced east, giving me morning light and a view of anyone approaching the building. The desk was solid wood, expensive but not flashy. Rafael understood that in our business, you never wanted to appear too successful to the wrong people.
I was setting up my laptop when I heard footsteps in the hallway—quick, efficient steps that suggested someone who knew exactly where they were going and didn’t have time for delays. The door opened without a knock, which immediately put me on alert.
