“‘Have to’ feels like a strong phrase, brother. I’m the son of thepakhan. I don’t ‘have to’ do anything.”
“You’re also the nextpakhan,soI think that means you do. Come on, Ransome—you know how the Bratva works. I don’t make the rules; I’m just the messenger.”
“Remind me again why people shouldn’t kill the messenger?” I take a bite of my food. It’s cold now, which irritates me even more.
“Because at the end of the day, I’m one of the only people that has your back and you know that.”
I know he’s right. But I’m not going to say it. Instead, I agree to meet at Rare Chophouse at five o’clock and hang up.
It’s not that I can’t handle the schedule change. But it pisses me off nonetheless. Juggling these two masks is already almostfucking impossible, and I don’t appreciate people making it harder than it has to be.
What Baron said is true: Behind the scenes, I live another life. A dark, second life that exists in the underbelly of New York City. It’s a world that many people suspect to be real but no one gets involved with because they’d be stupid to do so.
They aren’t built for it, like me.
They weren’t bred for it, like me.
They weren’t born into it with no choice but to embrace it, to own it, to fucking breathe it into their lungs and their veins and let that darkness become a part of them.
Not likeme.
The Rozanov family is one of two Bratva families running the underbelly of NYC. On the other side of the tracks lives the Chadovich family. And much like the Montagues and the Capulets, we are anything but friendly.
Civil, perhaps, but only because the NYPD prefers it that way. The problem with there being two families is that means two of everything.
Twoideas about how things should be run.Twoterritories with often blurred, frequently bloodied lines.Twopakhanswho run the operations. Andtwosons (one from each family) who will in six months each be taking over the respective crowns.
A shift of power means a lot of shit gets unsettled. Concerns get raised; heads get butted.
Unfortunately for me, it also means a lot of mid-week steakhouse dinners where my father blathers on and on about legacy and power.
A lot of bullshit, in other words.
But Baron was right about something else: I don’t have a choice in this one. Like it or not, this is how things are done in my world.
The rest of the workday goes on as usual. A million different demands pull me in a thousand different directions. It’s nothing that I can’t handle, but my fuse is short and those around me know to steer well fucking clear of me.
I have a closet in my office at Apex that’s nearly the size of the office itself. The only way in is through a black door in the corner that I keep locked at all times. The only other person with a key is my assistant, Amara.
That’s a first for me, letting an assistant touch the cards I hold closest to my chest. But something about her is… different.
I knew it the moment her interview started. She was early—not early enough to look desperate, but early enough to be prepared and then some. She was dressed the part. Apex is all about appearances and noMade In Chinadress from the department store at the mall was ever going to cut it.
She listened well, learned fast, and was able to predict my needs. That was also a first.
Most importantly, she learned quickly to stay the fuck out of my way.
The clock counts down and I step into my closet to change for dinner. It’s past business hours, so most of my employees haveprobably already clocked out. I slip into a pair of black slacks and pad around to the other side of the closet barefoot to find a shirt.
Black? No, not tonight.
White? Too passive for the attitude I’m bringing to this dinner.
Blue? I need more edge than that.
But red… dark red, crimson, almost a red like blood…
Yeah, that’ll fucking work.
