I glance up at her.
And recognition hits like ice water.
I know her. What is she doing in Ramiz Krasniqi's house?
She leans closer, voice dropping to barely a whisper that gets lost in the music and laughter surrounding us.
"Rrezik."
The word is Albanian. I don't speak the language fluently, but I know that word.
Danger.
Her eyes flick toward the hallway where the men disappeared. Where Maksim and Zakhar and Alexei walked with Ramiz into his game room, into his territory, into a space where he controls every variable.
Understanding crashes through me.
The men are in danger.
16
MAKSIM
I'm going to kill Ramiz Krasniqi.
The thought crystallizes with perfect clarity as I follow him into his den, a room designed to intimidate with dark wood paneling and leather furniture arranged around an unlit fireplace. Heavy cigar smoke hangs in the air, mixing with the scent of expensive whiskey and male aggression.
He dared to touch her. Put his hands on Victoria's face like she was property he could appraise and claim.
I've killed men for less.
The mental list of how I'll make him suffer unfolds with surgical precision. Each method more creative than the last. Each one designed to extract maximum pain before the final mercy of death that he doesn't deserve.
Zakhar appears by my side, pressing a crystal tumbler of whiskey into my hand.
"Cool down," he murmurs, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. "Your murderous thoughts are showing on your face."
I force my expression into neutrality. Take a sip of whiskey that tastes like smoke and violence barely restrained.
We move to sit in leather chairs arranged near the unlit fireplace.
"That fucking piece of shit," I say under my breath, the words coming out in Russian. More satisfaction in the language of our childhood when discussing violence. "Touching her like she's merchandise. Like he has any right."
"I know," Zakhar replies, equally quiet. His jaw is tight, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. "And the only way you're killing him is if you get to him before I do."
The admission surprises me. Not the fury, I expected that, but the specific source of it.
My brother is protective by nature, trained from childhood to guard what's his. But this rage isn't about duty or strategy. This is personal. This is about Victoria specifically, not just the Pakhan's wife in abstract.
I glance across the room at Alexei, who's leaning against the pool table with deceptive casualness. To anyone else, he looks relaxed. Bored, even.
I know better.
His shoulders carry tension that doesn't belong there. His usual grin is absent. And his hand rests too close to where his weapon is.
All three of us, furious for the same reason.
All three of us, ready to burn this house down for the same woman.
