"And now Roman wants to elevate us even further—"
"Roman wants to absorb us. Eliminate us as competition while looking magnanimous." I cross back to his desk. "But fine. You want to know what you get? You get a stipend. Enough to maintain this house and your lifestyle. You get to keep your dignity. And you get to tell people your daughter married into the most powerful family in Moscow."
"That's it?"
"That's more than you deserve." I lean in close. "And if you ever—ever—try to use Anya as leverage again, I will end you. Fatheror not, blood or not, I will put a bullet in your head and sleep like a baby afterward. Are we clear?"
The color drains from his face.
"Crystal clear," he whispers.
"Good." I straighten. "Now call Roman. Tell him I've agreed to the marriage. But Anya goes to Paris, all expenses paid, and she leaves before the wedding. Those are my terms. Non-negotiable."
"He's not going to like demands—"
"He'll like them better than the alternative." I head for the door. "And Papa? When you talk to him, remember that I'm the one with actual power here. Not you. If you try to undercut me or change the terms, I'll know. And we'll have a very different conversation."
I leave him there, small and pale and finally understanding that his eldest daughter isn't someone he can control anymore.
If she ever was.
Chapter Four
Maksim
The streets of Moscow feel like walking through a graveyard of my former life.
I keep to the shadows—not difficult when you're a ghost. This is the part of the city that’s far away from the tourists and the politicians and the pretty facades. This is where the Bratva conducts its actual operations. I need to know exactly what I'm walking back into.
Semyon walks beside me, quieter than usual. Thinking. Worrying. Probably trying to figure out how to keep me alive when I'm determined to walk into a room full of people who believe I'm dead.
I’ve been unofficially alive for two weeks. I’ve eaten. Rested. And I am planning to make my move soon.
"Viktor's warehouse is two blocks up," he says, breaking the silence. "He's been doing runs for Roman now. Might have useful information."
Viktor is one of my father's oldest associates. A man I trusted with my life a thousand times.
A man who didn't even question my death.
We approach through the back alley. I can see the operation in full swing—men loading trucks, money changing hands, the efficient machinery of illegal enterprise. It looks the same as it did six years ago.
Like nothing changed.
"Let me do the talking," Semyon suggests. "Viktor is loyal to whoever pays him. Right now, that's Roman."
"Noted." I pull my hood lower. The scars on my face attract attention I don't need yet.
We slip through the side entrance, past guards who recognize Semyon and wave him through without question. The warehouse smells like diesel fuel and cigarettes. Familiar. Home.
Except it's not home anymore.
Viktor is in his office, a glass-walled box overlooking the warehouse floor. He's aged badly—grayer, more weight, the look of a man who drinks his stress. When we walk in, he glances up from his paperwork with mild annoyance.
"Semyon. Didn't know you were stopping by—" He freezes mid-sentence, his eyes landing on me.
Nobody moves.
"Maksim?" His voice comes out strangled. "That's... you're dead. You're supposed to be dead."
