Fear.
"Dimitri?" I touch his arm gently. "Who is it?"
He turns to look at me, and the haunted look in his green eyes makes my breath catch.
"Mikhail Volkov," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "A former Bratva boss. My mentor." He pauses, his jaw clenching. "He was supposedly killed in a prison riot five years ago."
The room goes silent. I can feel the shock radiating from every man present.
"That's impossible," Alexei says finally. "We saw the body. We attended the funeral."
"Did we?" Dimitri's voice is hard now, controlled. "Or did we see what we were meant to see?"
He moves to the bar cart and pours himself vodka, downing it in one swallow. When he turns back to us, the Pakhan is fully present, the vulnerable moment locked away.
"If Mikhail is alive," he says, his voice cold and certain, "then everything makes sense. The church attack. Viktor's betrayal. The frame job. It's all revenge."
"Revenge for what?" I ask.
Dimitri's eyes meet mine, and I see decades of history, of choices made and prices paid.
"For the testimony that sent him to prison," he says. "For choosing my principles over our friendship. For being the reason he supposedly died."
He sets down the glass with a sharp click.
"Mikhail Volkov is alive. And he's coming for everything I've built."
34
DIMITRI
The name on the screen burns into my retinas like a brand. Mikhail Volkov. I stare at it, my hand frozen on the mouse, and feel the past twenty years collapse into this single moment.
"Dimitri?" Alina's voice comes from beside me, concerned. "Who is he?"
I can't answer immediately. My throat has closed, memories flooding back with such force that I have to grip the edge of the desk to steady myself. The tech specialist who found the connection shifts uncomfortably, sensing the tension radiating from my body.
"Leave us," I say, my voice rough. "All of you. Now."
Alexei hesitates, his blue eyes sharp with concern, but he nods and ushers the others out. The door closes with a soft click, and suddenly, it's just Alina and me in the study, the name glowing on the screen between us like an accusation.
"Dimitri." She touches my arm, her fingers warm against my skin. "Talk to me. Who is Mikhail Volkov?"
I force myself to breathe, to think past the rage and grief and betrayal churning in my gut. When I finally speak, my voice sounds distant, like it's coming from someone else.
"My mentor. My brother. The man who taught me everything I know about the Bratva." I turn to look at her, seeing the confusion in her green eyes. "The man I sent to prison fifteen years ago. The man who supposedly died in a riot five years later."
Alina's hand tightens on my arm. "But he's not dead."
"No." The word tastes like ash. "He's very much alive. And he must have been planning this for five years."
I move to the bar cart and pour vodka with shaking hands. The Beluga Noble burns going down, but it doesn't touch the cold spreading through my chest. I pour another and down it just as quickly.
"Tell me," Alina says softly. She's moved to stand beside me, her presence grounding me even as my world tilts on its axis. "Tell me about him."
So I do.
The memories come in fragments, sharp-edged and painful. Mikhail finding me when I was seventeen, bloodied and desperate after my father's latest beating. Taking me in. Teaching me to fight, to think, to survive in a world that devoured the weak. He was everything my father wasn't—strong, controlled, brilliant. He saw potential in me when everyone else saw just another street rat.
