I've been doing this for eight years. Started at twenty-two, working under my uncle Yury, learning the trade from the ground up. Now I run the largest procurement network in the city. Weapons, documents, vehicles, information…if someone needs it and can't get it legally, they come to me.
The club is just the front. A very successful front, admittedly. High-end, exclusive, the kind of place where the city's elite come to pretend they're dangerous. They're not. But they pay well for the fantasy, and the profits get laundered back into operations that actually matter.
Like this.
Valentin's man is already moving toward the crates when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out, glancing at the screen.
Vitali:Charlotte's pregnant. Early days. Thought you should know.
I stare at the message longer than I should.
My brother's been married to Charlotte for not even two months, and he's already knocked her up. Efficient. Exactly what I'd expect from Vitali.
Exactly what Uncle Yury demanded.
The mandate sits in the back of my mind like a low-grade headache that won't go away.One year. Each of you will marry and produce an heir.
It's been two months since he issued it. Two months of watching my brothers and cousins scramble, panic, pretend they're in control. Vitali handled it the way he handles everything, by making a transaction. Marriage contract, terms negotiated, problem solved.
Avros is losing his fucking mind over some ballerina. I've seen him three times in the past month, and each time he looks more unhinged. Obsessed. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with the work and everything to do with whatever's happening in his head.
Iosif sits in his office drumming his fingers, thinking he can puzzle his way out of this somehow while he runs the club with me.
Zakhar's refusing. Outright. Saying he won't be bred like livestock, won't be forced into marriage and fatherhood for the sake of legacy. He'll come around. Or he won't. Either way, our uncle doesn't make idle threats.
And me?
I've been treating it like another procurement job. Find a suitable woman. Someone appropriate. Someone who understands what this is. A business deal, not a romance. Get her pregnant, fulfill the mandate, move on. Maybe Vitali has it right after all.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and refocus on Valentin, who's inspecting the guns like he knows what he's looking at. He doesn't.
"Satisfied?" I ask.
"Very." He straightens, attempts a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Dubovich."
"Likewise."
We're almost done. Another thirty seconds and they'll be out of here, and I can get back upstairs to my office and figure out what the fuck I'm going to do about thefamily legacy.
The door slams open.
Everyone freezes.
A woman stumbles through, heels clicking on concrete, eyes wide and unfocused like she's still expecting to find an alleyway or parking lot or anything other than what's actually here.
She's small. That's my first thought. Delicate, dark hair spilling over bare shoulders, a black dress that hugs curves I have no business noticing right now. Her lips are parted, breath comingfast, and for one suspended second, she just stands there, staring at us.
At the guns.
At the money.
At me.
Her eyes lock on mine, and something in my chest tightens in a way I don't recognize.
Then she processes what she's seeing.
