My phone buzzes in my purse, the sound cutting through the quiet like a knife. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession. I pull it out with my free hand, expecting more tabloid notifications or maybe another message from Maya's rehab facility.
Instead, my screen fills with emails from clients.
My stomach drops as I read the first one, the words blurring together through the sudden sting of tears.
Dear Ms. Levin, After careful consideration, we've decided to go in a different direction for our upcoming event. We appreciate your understanding and wish you the best in your future endeavors.
The second email is almost identical, just different names and dates. Professional. Polite. Devastating.
"What is it?" Nikolai's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
I hand him my phone wordlessly, watching his jaw tighten as he reads. When he looks up, fury blazes in those ice-blue eyes.
"They're canceling because of the photographs," I say, my voice flat. "Because being associated with the Pakhan’s woman is bad for business."
Two of my biggest clients, gone. Events I'd been planning for months, revenue I'd been counting on to keep Thyme and Tide afloat. The photographs aren't just destroying Nikolai's reputation. They're destroying mine too.
40
NIKOLAI
The manila envelope sits on my desk like a coiled snake, and I can't stop staring at it. My hands grip the edge of the mahogany surface hard enough that my knuckles have gone white, but I don't loosen my hold. If I do, I might put my fist through the wall, and that won't solve anything.
The courier delivered it twenty minutes ago. Young kid, maybe nineteen, who took one look at my face and practically ran back to his car. Smart. He probably sensed what was coming, the violence building in my chest like pressure in a sealed container.
I tear open the seal with more force than necessary, and photographs spill across my desk like accusations.
My breath stops.
Aria sleeping in our makeshift shelter, her dark hair fanned across the sand, one hand resting on my bare chest. The two of us in the shallows, water streaming down our bodies, her back pressed against me while my mouth finds her throat. My fingers threading through her wet hair as she laughs at something I said, my expression so unguarded I look like a stranger to myself.
I force myself to look at each photograph, cataloging the angles, the quality, the deliberate arrangement. Someone laid these out with care, positioning them for maximum impact. This isn't just blackmail. This is psychological warfare.
The note sits at the bottom of the pile, typed on plain paper with no identifying marks.
Nikolai,
You have seventy-two hours to make a choice. Surrender your territory to me. Dissolve your organization. Disappear from the Bratva world entirely. Walk away from everything, and these photographs remain private.
Or refuse, and I send copies to every council member, every rival Pakhan, every news outlet that will publish them. I'll destroy your reputation first. Then I'll come for the woman and the child she's carrying. Your miracle baby. Your weakness made flesh.
The clock starts now.
M.
My hands shake with rage so cold, it feels like ice spreading through my veins. Matvey Ignatyev has made the fatal mistake of threatening what I value most. He thinks he's found my weakness, my vulnerability, the pressure point that will make me fold.
He's wrong.
I pull out my phone and send a single text to Cyril.
War council. One hour. The Golden Lion.
His response comes immediately.
On my way.
I gather the photographs with hands that have steadied, my mind already shifting into the cold calculation that's kept me alive for two decades. Matvey wants to play games? Fine. But he's forgotten who taught him how to play in the first place.
