The words haunt me as I pour myself a glass of wine, hands trembling just enough to make the liquid ripple. I down half of it in one swallow, the burn not strong enough to settle the storm in my chest.
I’m in, yes. How long until he sees me? How long until he senses the rot in the loyalty I’m selling?
I curl up on the couch, clutching the glass, staring at nothing. The apartment is quiet, but my thoughts are deafening. Every time I close my eyes, I see Alexei’s face, hear his voice,remember the way he said,“We’ll have more work, if you’re interested.”
Like it was a choice.
Like he already knew I’d say yes.
I press the rim of the glass against my lips and whisper into the emptiness, “I’ll burn you to the ground.”
The vow steadies me. It’s the same vow I made at my father’s grave, the same vow that has driven every choice since. No matter what mask I wear, no matter what roles I play, the end is always the same. Alexei Sharov will pay.
I finish the wine and set the glass aside, forcing myself up. My reflection stares back at me from the window: hair a mess, eyes darker than I remember them ever being. I don’t look like the girl I once was, the daughter of a prosecutor who believed in law and order. I look like someone else entirely.
Someone dangerous.
Chapter Two - Alexei
The tinted glass blurs the courthouse steps, but not enough to hide her. Vivienne Wilder emerges like she owns the damn street, her head high, her expression carved from stone. Not one flicker of nerves, not one tell. The jury had leaned forward every time she opened her mouth, and she knew it. She wielded her words like a weapon, and unlike most who cross into our orbit, she didn’t flinch when the room bristled with tension.
Too perfect.
My fingers drum against the leather armrest. Most defense attorneys who take Bratva clients are either greedy or desperate. They tremble, hoping for the paycheck but terrified of what comes with it.
Vivienne thrived. She didn’t just argue a case; she controlled it. Every objection landed like a knife, every pause calculated. She walked out with Sergei’s freedom in her hands and not so much as a bead of sweat on her forehead.
Ambitious, maybe. Reckless, possibly. Something else entirely? That thought lingers.
The SUV door opens and Dimitri slides in, his presence filling the space the same way it did when we were boys. He still carries himself like the enforcer he once was, shoulders squared, dark eyes sharp beneath the scar slicing across his hand. He tosses a folder onto the seat between us, then lights a cigarette with the ease of habit. Smoke curls upward, pale against the tinted glass.
“She’s clean, so far,” he says. “Law school golden girl. Promising career. Nothing but praise from her professors and colleagues. Too good for the likes of us.” He exhales, tapping ash into the tray. “So why is she standing next to Sergei Markov, saving his neck?”
The question doesn’t need an answer. We both know why. Ambition eats people alive. It drives them straight into our arms.
“Maybe she wants money,” Dimitri adds when I don’t respond. “Or maybe she wants protection. Either way, it’s dangerous to let her in any further. She doesn’t belong in our world.”
“She belongs wherever she chooses to stand,” I say, my tone clipped. My brother has always been quick to judge, quicker to dismiss. He doesn’t understand the value of patience. Of watching.
Dimitri smirks, tilting his head toward me. “That’s a dangerous way of looking at it, Alexei. Especially when the one choosing to stand with us has eyes like hers.”
I ignore the jab and keep watching the courthouse doors, even though she’s gone now. “Run a discreet background check,” I say. “Quiet. Thorough. I don’t like unknown variables.”
Dimitri takes another drag, studying me through the smoke. “You don’t trust her.”
“I don’t trust anyone,” I correct.
The driver pulls us into traffic, the city sliding past in gray smears of concrete and steel. I lean back, closing my eyes briefly. Vivienne Wilder’s voice replays in my head, sharp as glass:“Don’t let misconduct become conviction.”
She had the jury by the throat, and she knew it. Too clever for someone so young. Too controlled. It wasn’t just skill, it was intent.
The Bratva attracts all kinds of parasites. Politicians with empty coffers. Cops with dirty hands. Businessmen too weak to compete. Lawyers are useful, yes, but they’re never trustworthy. Still, something about her is different. She doesn’t look like a parasite.
And that makes her dangerous.
We reach the safehouse on the edge of Brighton Beach where a few of the men are already waiting. The building is nondescript from the outside: gray brick, cracked windows, a place no one looks at twice. Inside, it’s all steel doors, heavy locks, and low voices. The Bratva’s heartbeat hums here, quiet but constant.
I step inside, shrugging off my coat. Dimitri falls into stride beside me as we make our way down the narrow hallway to the war room. Inside, a few lieutenants are gathered around the table, dossiers spread open, vodka already poured. Their voices cut off when I enter. Silence falls, as it always does.
