“You must know my reputation well enough to know you’re not leaving here intact, Dennis.”
His face contorts, shedding its false gallantry like molting skin. Disgust and hatred blaze in his eyes as they find mine, the tension winding tighter until it breaks with that satisfyingsnap.
“Your reputation means shit to me! I served your father, not his pathetic spawn.”
There it is.
“My father is dead,” I say slowly, standing from my seat. He shrinks back like the coward he is, but my men stand behind him, blocking his exit. “And his Bratva died with him.”
“You were never supposed to be in line for Pakhan in the first place. You’re a pathetic choice for this organization! After the Italians got to Nikolai, your family’s line of power should have been terminated.”
I don’t give him the flinch he’s searching for at the mention of my brother. He doesn’t deserve even to utter his name. Instead, I make my way around my desk, stepping up to his sweaty, red face. He’s starting to shake, his bravado already faltering.
“Look around, Dennis. Does it seem like my power has been terminated?”
His trembling only increases. Because he suddenly sees what everyone else in the room already knows.
There’s only one way out.
“Look, Mikhail?—”
My movement is quick. A smooth slice across the wrinkles of his throat. The pointed letter opener in my grip carves through his skin like a hot knife through a stick of butter.
A soft choke breaks the silence.
The finality of thethudvibrates through the room as I turn, but I don’t even feel the usual thrill of relief from eliminating yet another hidden defector in my ranks.
I’m just fucking tired.
I wipe the blood from the sharp metal and return to my desk.
An hour later,the floor is empty once more. The only sign of the messy exchange is the dark red splotch that’s currently being scrubbed from my carpet. I suppose they should just replace the whole thing. I tend to go through a lot of carpets.
The door has been left open as they clean, leaving the godawful beat of the music to pierce through the opening, assaulting my ears once more.
The club serves its purpose—laundering money, providing legitimate cover for less savory operations. I’ve built an empire that functions in the locked back rooms of some of the most exclusive clubs and restaurants in the city, paying my people to handle the external details while I orchestrate from above. Physical proximity to the chaos below holds no appeal. The press of bodies, the overwhelming assault of music and alcohol-fueled stupidity is everything I’ve structured my life to avoid.
My fingers drift unconsciously to my collar, seeking the familiar raised ridge of scar tissue beneath the starched cotton. The bullet wound has healed, but the memory it carries remains sharp.
Always, it brings me back to her.
Grey eyes like drops of rain. Dark curls framing a face that belonged in a painting, not a blood-soaked alley. The delicate dragonfly tattooed on her wrist as she reached for my gun, her movements steady while my life slipped from my fingers.
I should have died that night. Would have, if not for some misguided sense of mercy that compelled a stranger to kneel in my blood and press her palms against the hole in my chest. The rational part of my mind understands she was likely just another witness in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But rationality has never been my strong suit when it comes to obsession.
Fight a bit longer.
Four words that rewrote my entire existence. Before that night, I had been ready to let the Solokov name die with me. A fitting punishment for my failure to protect Nikolai. My father’s final manipulation had poisoned the crown before my brother ever wore it, filling our ranks with traitors loyal to the old ways. Trafficking, infighting, behavioral anarchy; you name it, he ran it.
My big brother, visionary that he was, saw the potential for a better Bratva. A unified organization. Unfortunately, he couldn’t enact his plans before being punished for our father’s feud with the Mafia. And I, in my arrogance, thought I could single-handedly eliminate the bastard responsible for putting a bullet in Nikolai’s skull.
Instead, I nearly joined him.
The emptiness that followed my brother’s death had been absolute. When that shot tore through my chest, part of me welcomed it. The thought of the empire crumbling with its most unworthy heir felt like a morose sense of justice.Fuck them all. Let them pick up the jagged pieces in my wake.
Then she appeared. Materialized from the shadows like some avenging angel, except angels don’t typically steal weapons from dying men or speak with such quiet authority to someone bleeding out in an alley.
