“They’re not stupid enough to cross over,” I say. “Not yet. We’re fortified here, and Sidorov is still an ally.”
“Perhaps,” Lev says enigmatically. “But he wasn’t happy with how the wedding went down. And we already knew the Danilos would be pushing. Testing the waters.”
Testingme,Lev doesn’t say.
But I hear it anyway. The Danilos smell Gubarev blood in the water—the same goddamn blood they spilled themselves—and they’re not the types to let a good opportunity go to waste. Not when they’ve done everything in their goddamn power to bring about that opportunity in the first place.
This power vacuum is their doing.
If Anatoli manages to take over Boris’s territory, it’ll give him a foothold in my turf. Once he’s dug in, getting him out will be twice as hard and twice as bloody as keeping him away. Ican already see the way it’ll unfold—alliances, betrayals, deals that won’t hold up in the face of their ruthlessness.
So I need to be the ruthless one.
But my throne still isn’t secure. Making bold moves requires having your back covered, and I don’t have that, not yet. Not when half myvoryare waiting on the sidelines to see where the chips will fall.
Some of them have been there since Uncle Grigoriy’s time—they never wanted to see me in charge. Vladimir, they could tolerate. Dimitri, perhaps. But I was never raised for it, and Mikhael has an old birthright to support him. To them, he’s the legitimate heir.
And Mikhael knows that.
“Keep me posted,” I tell Lev. “And don’t let up on the shipment.”
“Yes,pakhan.”
By the time I’m behind the wheel heading home, I’ve got a headache pounding at my temples. My jaw’s so tight it feels like my teeth might crack. I pull into the driveway with both hands locked on the wheel, knuckles pale.
The house is quiet as I step in. Too quiet. On a better day, I might take a moment to appreciate it. Tonight, it just feels eerie.
“Sima?” I call out from the entrance.
For a second, no reply comes. My mind starts picturing scenarios: She’s been taken on her way from class, and Luka’s lifeless body is rotting in a gutter somewhere. Or she’s been ambushed here, and someone tied her up to a chair, waiting for me to get home so they could ambushme.
Or—
“In here!” Sima’s voice calls back.
I let my fists unclench.You’re on edge, man.Get a fucking grip.
I step into the living room, and there she is.
She’s curled up on the rug, next to the coffee table. A pile of books and stray papers rests on the glass surface, together with a beaten-up laptop that has definitely seen better days. A half-empty mug sits dangerously close to the edge. She’s scribbling something in a notebook, pen tapping in quick bursts when she pauses to think. A strand of hair falls into her face, and she tucks it behind her ear without looking up.
When she finally notices me, she straightens and gives me a small smile. “I already ate,” she explains apologetically. “But there are leftovers in the fridge. Want me to heat you up a plate?”
“Later,” I say, shrugging off my jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair.
Sima studies me for a second. “Lousy day?” she asks, offering an encouraging smile.
“You could say that.”
I drop into the armchair across from her. The remote is in my hand before I can think. I start flipping through the channels without seeing what’s really on, looking for a halfway decent documentary to turn my mind off, but nothing catches my attention.
The scratch of her pen is what draws me.
I turn. Sima’s bent on her books again, scribbling morenotes. The soft, regular rhythm of her writing steadies me, slowly easing the knot between my shoulders.
She must sense that I’m looking, because her gaze darts up. “Almost done,” she promises.
“Don’t stop on my account.” It feels oddly domestic, to stay like this. Me watching TV, her studying, in each other’s presence without an ulterior motive. “Business comes first.”
