The information lands like shrapnel.
I stare at my twin brother and realize the situation is even more dangerous than I calculated.
Alexei is invested. Not just interested. Invested. He spent half a day choosing jewelry for a woman who's marrying Maksim, and now he's sitting here asking if she liked it like it matters, like her opinion carries weight beyond strategic value.
And beneath the tactical concern, something uglier twists through my chest: jealousy that he was included and I wasn't, possessiveness over a woman I have no claim to.
"Keep your head straight," I say, voice low and hard. "Victoria is marrying Maksim. Not you."
Alexei's grin sharpens into something more challenging. "We've shared before. Why not now?"
The casual way he says it makes my jaw clench.
Yes. We've shared women. When the situation allowed, when everyone involved understood the parameters. Quick. Transactional. Uncomplicated.
I've never minded the arrangement. Sometimes preferred it—the intimacy of sharing pleasure with my brother, the trust required, the understanding that connection doesn't have to mean exclusivity or complication.
But this is different.
This is Maksim's wife. The woman who's supposed to legitimize our operations, open doors to circles that currently view us as criminals.
This is the woman who makes my pulse race just thinking about her.
"She's not like the others," I say.
"No," Alexei agrees, and his voice drops into something more serious, more honest. "She's better. Sexy and smart and fierce. The way she handled us in Arthur's office?" He shakes his head, admiration clear in his expression. "That's my kind of woman. Tell me you disagree."
I can't.
That's the problem. I open my mouth to argue, to establish boundaries, to remind him—remind both of us—that this situation requires discipline.
Nothing comes out.
Because he's right. Victoria is different. And I can't disagree without lying, and I don't lie to my twin.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with implications neither of us wants to name.
Before I can formulate a response that doesn't reveal too much, Maksim cuts in.
"This situation is different." His voice carries the weight of command, the particular tone that reminds us who holds authority here. "We can't afford scandals. Legitimacy doesn't work with even a whiff of impropriety."
Maksim picks up his vodka again, studies the clear liquid. "Besides, I doubt she'd agree. She's only in this for the money. That's not a woman looking for romance."
The words should be reassuring. Should remind me that this is business, that Victoria Ainsley is a transaction, that whatever I'm feeling is irrelevant compared to the strategic value she brings.
Instead, the thought of her being purely mercenary makes something uncomfortable and unwelcome settle in my chest.
Maksim finishes his vodka, sets the glass down with finality. "Now that that’s settled," He slides out of the booth, straightens his suit jacket. The golden light from the brass fixtures catches the platinum of his watch, turning it molten. "Zakhar, keep digging into Eryan Nis. Alexei, monitor the Albanians."
Alexei and I follow suit, standing in unison. Years of moving as one organism, anticipating each other's motions without conscious thought.
"One more thing." Maksim's voice is casual. Too casual. Like he's mentioning an afterthought instead of dropping a grenade into the conversation. "Victoria doesn't want her father to give her away at the wedding."
He looks at Alexei. Holds his gaze for one beat too long.
Understanding passes between them. Silent. Absolute.
Alexei's grin turns unhinged, wild around the edges. "I'm on it."
