Because when I found Douglas, I wanted to kill him. Slowly. Methodically. I wanted to watch the life drain from his eyes the same way he’d drained those accounts, wanted to hear him scream apologies that would never be enough. Wanted him to feel a fraction of the rage that lived in my bones like marrow.
I wasn’t sure I could keep that promise.
My phone pinged, dragging me back from the dark place my thoughts had wandered. Drew’s name flashed across the screen.
In town for two months. Bratva club tonight. Get your ass over here.
I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. Drew was my best friend; we’d grown up in the same circles, spoke the same language of violence and code. Seeing him should’ve been cause for celebration.
But I wasn’t into liquor, thumping bass, or hookups. I’d outgrown clubs years ago, traded them for the quiet hum of machines. Still, Drew wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.
I typed back a single word:Where?
His response came immediately:The usual. Damir’s coming too.
My jaw tightened. Damir. Drew’s younger brother by two years, which made him thirty-six to my thirty-eight. We’d never gotten along. He was too brash, too quick to throw fists before thinking things through. Too much like the monster Vladimir had seen in me.
But I owed Drew. More than I could ever repay. So I grabbed my jacket, holstered my gun, and headed for the door.
The club was exactly what I expected: too loud, too crowded, too full of people pretending they were more dangerous than they actually were. I moved through the crowd with practiced ease, ignoring the looks. People knew who I was. What I represented.
They knew better than to get in my way.
Drew and Damir were already in a private booth, bottles of vodka lined up like soldiers. Drew raised his glass when he saw me, that familiar grin splitting his face. “Thought you’d forgotten how to have fun.”
“Fun’s overrated.” I slid into the booth. Drew pushed a drink toward me, vodka cranberry, my usual poison when I was forced to socialize. I took it, ignoring his smirk. He’d never let me live down this choice.
“Can’t a man see his best friend without an agenda?” Drew’s grin widened, but there was something in his eyes—concern, maybe. Or curiosity.
Damir slouched beside him with that comfortable silence that only came from knowing someone your entire life. He waswearing a tie that looked like someone had strangled a peacock and called it fashion.
“That tie,” I said, jabbing a finger at his chest, “is a fucking crime against fashion. It looks like a dead fish threw up on your neck.”
Damir didn’t even glance down. “Your opinion means nothing to me when you’re wearing something that looks like it was designed in a Russian basement by someone who hates color.”
Drew smirked into his drink. This was normal. Easy. Just three men talking shit about clothes and life and the general incompetence of everyone around us.
I was on my third vodka cranberry—a disgusting choice that Drew would never let me live down—when Damir’s entire demeanor shifted. His jaw tightened, spine straightened. He set his drink down with deliberate care.
“I’ll be back.”
“Where the fuck are you going?” Drew called after him, but Damir was already crossing the floor toward the bar.
I followed his trajectory and saw her—a bartender with dark hair and a smile that said she’d fought her way up from nothing. Hailey, her nametag read. They talked like old friends, easy and familiar. Drew and I exchanged glances, both of us surprised by their frankness.
I turned my attention away, scanning the crowd out of habit. Looking for threats, exits, anything that didn’t belong. That’s when my eyes snagged on someone sitting with Cassandra—Drew’s wife—in a nearby booth.
My heart started pounding, hard and fast, drowning out even the bass.
She was small, maybe five-six, with honey-brown eyes and chestnut hair that caught the club lights like silk. She wore designer everything—blouse, skirt, heeled boots—the kindof expensive taste that screamed old money and privilege. Everything about her was polished, perfect, untouchable.
But it was her face that stopped me cold.
Soft. Delicate. Beautiful in a way that made my chest ache. She was laughing at something Cassandra said, her whole face lighting up, unguarded in a way that felt dangerous. People like her didn’t survive in this world. They got chewed up and spit out, broken beyond repair.
“Barbara Davis,” Drew said, still smirking. I didn’t even know he’d noticed me staring at her. “She’s out of your league.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
