And I smile—wide, feral.
Because the game has finally begun.
I have a meeting with Lev and Niko in less than an hour, but I can’t bring myself to leave this table.
Not when she’s staring up at me from the glossy page.
Vivian Laurent. The daughter of the man who thinks his blood is too pure to mix with mine.
I should close the file. I should get up, straighten my jacket, and go to that meeting like a responsible brother, a responsible ally, a responsible Bratva member.
But I don’t move.
My fingers rest against the edge of her photograph, and for a moment I indulge myself—just a moment—letting my mind drag back to Monaco.
She doesn’t know it, but she marked me.
And now she’s the piece I’m taking from her father.
I exhale slowly, leaning back in my chair.
I should tell my brothers what I intend to do.
Lev would warn me.
Niko would laugh.
Roman would probably curse me.
They would ask why the hell I’m going after a Laurent heiress like she’s a prize in a game.
But I’m not telling them.
Not yet.
I’ll hold this close until everything is sealed—until the papers are signed, until every Laurent avenue is cut off, until there’s no escape for her or her father. Words travel fast in our world.
Too fast.
If Henri Laurent learns I’m entering the bid, he’ll shut the doors and lock them tight. They may be desperate, but they’re not desperate enough to willingly hand their daughter to a Rusnak.
Not without being cornered.
The Laurents think their lineage is untouched by the world’s dirt. They think their blood is cleaner, higher, holier than anyone in the Bratva. They turn their noses up at us like their wealth makes them gods. But gods fall. And old dynasties rot faster than street empires.
I drag my thumb across Vivian’s picture again, a slow, possessive motion I don’t bother to hide from myself.
I’ll show them that I’m better. Stronger. Always a step ahead.
Chapter 2 – Vivian
The Laurent townhouse is too quiet.
Not the comfortable, expensive kind of quiet I grew up with—the soft hush of money and order and polished marble—but something colder. Accusatory. Like the walls themselves are listening and waiting to see what I’ll do.
I sit in the parlor with my hands in my lap, nails digging into my palms. The chandelier overhead throws fractured light across the room, scattering gold across my dress in a way that feels mocking. My father sits opposite me, legs crossed, holding a glass of whisky he hasn’t even tasted. My mother hovers by the window, pretending to admire the terrace flowers when, in truth, she’s avoiding looking at me.
She hasn’t looked at me since I walked in.
