PROLOGUE: DIMITRI
The phone rings in the middle of Ivanoff’s territorial projection report, and I almost silence it. Almost. But the name on the screen stops my hand mid-reach.
Roman. My head of security doesn’t call during business meetings unless the world is ending.
“Da?” I answer in Russian, my native tongue slipping out as it always does when something’s wrong.
“Boss.” Roman's voice cracks, and in the eight years he’s worked for me, I’ve never once heard him break. “You need to come. Now. The warehouse district off?—”
“What happened?” I’m already standing, and the three men across from me—minor players hoping to expand into the ports—exchange nervous glances.
“It’s Alexei.”
The world tilts.
“What about Alexei?” My voice comes out flat and controlled. Years of leading this organization have taught me to never show weakness.
“Boss, I’m sorry. You need to see for yourself.”
I end the call and the phone nearly cracks in my grip.
“We’re done here,” I tell the three idiots still sitting at my conference table. “Mikhail will see you out.”
I don't wait for their response as I'm already through the door, down the stairs, shouting for my driver. The words Roman didn’t say echo in my head, growing louder with each step.
It’s Alexei.
You need to come.
I’m sorry.
No.
I refuse to accept what those words mean. I refuse to let my mind go there. Alexei isfine. He has to be fine. He went to a meeting with the Ashfords—a peaceful negotiation about border territories. Simple. Safe. I wouldn’t have let him go otherwise.
My SUV tears through the streets. I don’t remember telling Anatoly where to drive, but he knows. Of course he knows. My men know everything before I do, and the fact that no one is calling me, no one is explaining, tells me everything I need to know.
Everything I’m not ready to know.
We screech to a stop outside the warehouse district, and I see them before I’m even out of the vehicle. Flashing lights. Policecruisers we have on payroll. My men—dozens of them—standing in a loose circle around something. Someone.
They see me approaching and move aside, parting like the Red Sea. No one meets my eyes.
Roman rushes forward, his face gray. “Boss, maybe you should?—”
I walk past him and push through the last line of my men. And then I stop.
There’s a white sheet and it’s stained with something dark at the edges. It covers a body on the ground, and I know—I know—but I don’t want to look. If I don’t look, it’s not real and if I don’t lift that sheet, my baby brother is still alive.
“Boss.” Roman’s hand lands on my shoulder. “The Ashfords ambushed him. He never had a chance.”
My knees feel weak. I, Dimitri Volkov, who have faced down rival families and government officials and death itself, feel my knees weaken.
I kneel beside the sheet.
My hand trembles as I reach for the corner. This isn’t happening. Thiscan’tbe happening. Alexei was supposed to meet me for a late dinner tonight. We were going to discuss his new responsibilities and how proud I was that he was finally taking initiative. How he was becoming the man I always knew he could be.
I pull back the sheet.
