"Any leads on who did it?" Maksim asks.
"Word on the street says it was Eryan Nis."
The name drops into the conversation like a stone into dark water.
Eryan Nis.
For the past four years, that name has surfaced in connection with high-profile heists targeting criminal organizations. Always clean. Always precise. Nobody's ever seen him or his crew. No faces. No identities. Just a name whispered in certain circles, half myth, half menace.
Some say he's Irish. Connected to the old families. Others claim he's a ghost, a story criminals tell each other to explain their failures.
What's not in question is the pattern. Each job is cleaner than the last. More sophisticated. Bolder.
Dangerous.
"He hasn't touched us," I say, thinking through the variables, calculating probabilities. "Yet."
"Yet." Alexei echoes the word, lets it hang heavy between us. "But he's getting bolder. Eventually, our paths will cross."
I look at Maksim. "While Alexei monitors the Albanians, I'll dig into Eryan Nis. See what I can find. If he's planning to expand operations, I want to know before he shows up at our door."
Maksim nods his agreement, then reaches for his vodka. Takes a slow sip. Sets the glass down with deliberate care. The kind of controlled motion that means he's about to deliver news nobody's going to like.
"On that note," he says, voice dropping into that particular register of absolute command, "I've informed Victoria that she needs to move in. She'll be living with us after the wedding."
The words hit like a physical blow. My chest constricts, ribs tightening.
"You made that decision without consulting us." The statement comes out harder than I intend, edges sharper than professional disagreement.
"Plans change." Maksim's expression doesn't shift. Cold. Logical. The man who rebuilt himself from ash and blood into something that doesn't flinch at hard decisions. "The Albanians are suspicious. They need to believe the marriage is legitimate. That means Victoria lives with us. Plays the role convincingly."
"She's moving in with all three of us." I hear the edge in my voice, feel the iron control starting to fracture at the seams. "We should have been consulted."
"I'm informing you now."
"After you already told her." The distinction matters. We operate as a unit. Three parts of one organism. Decisions like this should be made together, not handed down like edicts.
But Maksim is the Pakhan. What he says goes, even when it guts the careful structure we've built.
"Does she know?" I ask. "That she's moving in with all three of us?"
"She'll know soon enough." Maksim's mouth curves slightly, not quite a smile, something colder. "The wedding is in three weeks."
Three weeks.
Victoria Ainsley in our home. In our orbit. Close enough to touch, to smell, to—
No. I shut down that line of thinking before it takes root.
But it's already too late. I can feel the crack in my composure, the fracture spreading like ice breaking under weight.
"Three weeks," Alexei repeats, and there's something in his voice that makes me turn to look at him. Something pleased. Anticipatory. "Did she like the ring I picked?"
I go very still. The way I do before violence.
"You picked the ring?" The words come out flat. Dangerous.
Alexei grins, unrepentant. "Maksim asked for help. I know what women like. Spent half a day at Éclat finding the perfect one. Cushion cut. Platinum. Delicate but substantial." He leans back, still grinning. "Sexy. Like her. So? Did she like it?"
