We're in an alley between two abandoned warehouses, the kind of place where screams wouldn't carry, where bodies could disappear without anyone noticing. My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears, and my hands shake as I reach for the door handle even though I know it won't open.
Marcus turns in his seat, and the gun in his hand makes my blood run cold. The silencer attached to the barrel is professional, efficient, designed to kill without drawing attention.
"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice carries genuine regret. "Nothing personal."
Then he shoots James in the head.
The sound is muffled by the silencer, just a softpopthat seems impossibly quiet for something so devastating. Blood and brainmatter spray across the windshield, and James slumps forward against the steering wheel, his eyes still open, staring at nothing.
I'm screaming. I don't remember starting, but the sound tears from my throat, raw and desperate. My hands scrabble at the door handle, trying to force it open, trying to escape. But the child locks hold firm, and I'm trapped with a killer and a corpse.
The back door opens from the outside.
Hands grab me, rough and efficient, dragging me from the SUV. I fight, kicking and clawing, my nails raking across someone's face. But there are too many of them, three men in dark clothing, their faces covered with masks. One of them produces a cloth, and the chemical smell makes my stomach turn.
Chloroform.
I try to hold my breath, try to fight, but strong hands force the cloth over my nose and mouth. The world starts to blur at the edges, darkness creeping in from all sides. My last coherent thought is of Roman, of the baby growing inside me, of the life we were just starting to build together.
Then everything goes black.
48
ROMAN
The conference room feels like a tomb. I sit at the head of the long table, my hands folded in front of me with deceptive calm, while every muscle in my body coils with tension. Lev occupies the chair to my right, his dark suit immaculate as always, but I see the way his fingers drum once against the armrest before he forces them still. We're both on edge, waiting for the Moscow delegates to arrive and deliver their judgment.
The evidence we gathered from Abram's soldiers sits in neat folders before each empty chair. Documented proof of his sabotage, his attacks on the Chinese and Irish operations, his systematic destruction of my alliances. It should be enough. It has to be enough.
But nothing is certain when the council gets involved.
My phone sits face-down on the table, silent. Eva should have arrived at the office by now, should have texted to let me know she's safe. The absence of that message makes my jaw tightenwith unease I'm trying to ignore. She's fine. She has security. She's probably just busy settling in at her desk.
I think about this morning, about the way she felt in my arms, warm and soft and mine. The memory of her brown eyes looking up at me when she saidI love youmakes my chest tight with emotions I'm still learning to navigate. I've never let anyone this close, never allowed myself to feel this deeply. But Eva has gotten past every defense I've built, and I'm helpless against the tide of what she creates in me.
Focus, you bastard.
The conference room door opens, and my hand moves instinctively toward the gun concealed beneath my jacket. But it's just David Brennan, his titanium-framed glasses reflecting the afternoon light filtering through the windows. He settles into a chair near the back, his laptop already open, ready to document whatever happens next.
"They're on their way up," he says quietly, his lawyer's voice carefully neutral. "All three delegates."
I nod, forcing my breathing to steady. This is it. The moment that determines whether I keep my empire or lose everything.
The door opens again, and this time, my blood runs cold.
Abram Yakovlev strolls into my conference room like he owns it, his massive frame filling the doorway, his steel-gray hair slicked back with pomade. He's wearing an expensive leather jacket over a silk shirt, heavy gold chains glinting at his throat. Everything about him screams old-school Bratva, the kind of ostentatious display I've deliberately moved away from.
His pale gray eyes sweep the room with predatory assessment before landing on me, and his lips curve into a smile that's all teeth and malice.
Lev and I both reach for our weapons simultaneously, our chairs scraping back as we rise. My Glock clears my jacket in one smooth motion, aimed directly at Abram's chest. Lev's gun tracks to his head. The satisfying click of safeties disengaging echoes through the sudden silence.
"Easy, boys." Abram holds his hands up in mock surrender, but his smile doesn't waver. "I was invited. By the delegates themselves."
The words hit like bullets.Invited.The Moscow delegation summoned both of us, brought us together like we're equals rather than Pakhan and challenger. The implications make my trigger finger itch with the need to end this now, to put a bullet between Abram's eyes and deal with the consequences later.
But I force myself to lower the weapon, to holster it with controlled precision. Lev does the same, though his dark eyes never leave Abram's face, tracking every movement with professional vigilance.
"Sit," I say, my voice low and dangerous. "Over there." I gesture to the far end of the table, as far from me as possible while still being in the same room.
