The implication is clear. What Maksim is asking without asking. What Alexei is agreeing to without stating it outright.
"Don't get carried away," I say, voice hard, because someone has to maintain boundaries. "We're talking about the Pakhan's father-in-law. Soon to be a distinguished member of Chicago's elite society."
Alexei's grin doesn't fade. If anything, it sharpens. "I know exactly what we're talking about, brother. Trust me."
That's the problem. I do trust him. With my life, with my secrets, with everything that matters.
But I also know what he's capable of when that particular light enters his eyes. The line between controlled violence and chaos is thinner for Alexei than it is for the rest of us.
We move toward the exit as a unit, footsteps synchronized on the polished wood floors. The restaurant hums with quiet conversation, the clink of crystal, and muted jazz music.
Outside, Chicago's afternoon heat hits like a wall. The air smells like exhaust and summer, the city breathing around us in its perpetual state of motion and noise.
Maksim heads toward his car. Alexei peels off in another direction, already pulling out his phone, that unhinged grin still playing at the corners of his mouth.
I stand on the sidewalk and let myself acknowledge what I've been trying to ignore since Victoria Ainsley walked into Arthur's office dripping pool water and defiance.
Control is my weapon. Discipline is my shield. For thirty-seven years, I've relied on both to survive, to protect the people I love, to build an empire from the wreckage of our childhood.
But Victoria represents a tactical problem I can't solve: proximity I can't avoid, attraction I can't eliminate, want that feels like a weakness in a world where weakness gets you killed.
And in three weeks, she'll be living under our roof.
I pull out my phone, pull up the file I've already started on Eryan Nis. Focus on what I can control. On threats I can quantify and neutralize.
But even as I scroll through the information, running probabilities and scenarios, one truth cuts through all the discipline and tactical assessment:
Victoria Ainsley is already a threat to everything we've built.
And I have no idea how to defend against her.
5
VICTORIA
Three weeks until I'm supposed to walk down an aisle toward a man who bought me.
The thought follows me down the narrow staircase behind Maison Lyra's kitchen, each step taking me deeper beneath the restaurant, away from the performance and into the truth.
The office smells like coffee grounds and machinery oil, sharp citrus cleaner cutting through both. Muffled laughter bleeds through the ceiling vents. Women sharing secrets over mimosas, oblivious to what happens in the space below their expensive shoes. The distant whir of the espresso grinder. The clink of crystal. The jazz playing just loud enough to mask conversation.
Down here, the world is cooler. Quieter. Real.
I close the door behind me and feel my spine unlock, shoulders dropping half an inch as the performance armor slides away.The careful composure I maintain above ground costs more than most people realize. Down here, I can afford to let it slip.
Just slightly.
"Jelena, I'm so sorry."
She looks up from the desk where she's been reviewing invoices, dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, the rose-gold apron discarded over the back of her chair. At thirty, Jelena Kovac has the kind of face that makes people confess things. Warm brown eyes, easy smile, the bearing of someone who's never learned to be anything but genuine.
It's a useful lie.
"Well." She sets down her pen, mouth curving with dark amusement. "That was memorable. You're lucky I was the one serving you and not Katarina. She'd have given you a black eye for that performance, understanding or not."
I suppress a shudder. Katarina's rage is a force of nature, and I've been on the receiving end of it exactly once. Once was enough.
"Thank you for adapting so quickly." I sink into the chair across from her, and tension drains from my muscles. The exhaustion I've been holding at bay all afternoon crashes over me in waves. "You were perfect. Convincing."
