Your stupid rage won’t get you anywhere.
Not now.
First things first, I have to give Timur a call. My hand snaps out to reach for my phone, but I feel the nerves close in, a cold shiver running through me.
Timur will not take this lightly. I don’t even want to think about the shit he’s going to give me for disappearing and letting him think I was dead. Like me, Timur has always been in the Bratva, the two of us joining the family as newborns. We learned to hold a gun before we learned to walk. These past four years have been tough as fuck for me, but I bet they’ve been just as hard for Timur. I stole away his life’s purpose the second I signed our empire over to Aslanov.
Come on, pridurok.
You can do this.
I mutter a curse under my breath and pick up the phone, finding Timur’s contact. I’ve been in this situation before,finger poised over the call button in debate—do I announce my resurrection or stay dead? He’s my oldest friend and ally, and I always knew that I could trust him, but his wife’s connection to Lauren has always been too strong.
I couldn’t afford to take risks.
Keeping all of them in the dark was the only way to protect them all.
That still doesn’t make me less of an asshole, though. Even though I did it for a good cause, to keep them safe.
But with Aslanov looking for me, their safety is gone.
Which is why I have no time to hesitate. I must warn him.
I push all of the breath out of my lungs. If I’m going to come back from the dead, I might as well make it dramatic.
My fingers hover over Timur’s contact.
Then, I hit the call button.
Chapter Three
Lauren
I scroll through investment reports, my eyes glazing over numbers that should bring me comfort.
Spreadsheets, risk assessments, market fluctuations—everything in these client portfolios is clean and controlled, the complete opposite of the world I left behind four years ago. There's something soothing about the predictability of financial data, the way everything adds up to logical conclusions. No hidden agendas, no deadly secrets lurking beneath polished surfaces.
But today, my mind keeps drifting. Ever since that goddamn black SUV invaded my carefully constructed peace, nothing feels the same. I stare at the numbers on the screen, watching them blur and jumble into meaningless symbols.
I took an extended leave from work after the whole Aslanov nightmare—partly to grieve Nikolai's death, but mostly to focus on my pregnancy. When Hannah was born, my world narrowed to feedings, diaper changes, sleepless nights, and first smiles. For that precious first year, I cocooned us both away from everything, building our own little universe where the danger of the outside world couldn't touch us.
A little less than three years ago, I finally felt ready to rejoin the workforce. Johanssen Holdings offered me a portfolio management position—a significant step down from my Vice President role at my father's company, but I welcomed the demotion. Here, I could work without Charles Watson's suffocating surveillance, without the constant reminder of how spectacularly I'd destroyed everything he'd built.
My routine became sacred: coffee in hand, eight hours at the office, five days a week, managing investments for clients whose biggest concerns were market volatility and tax implications. Normal people with normal problems. It felt like redemption, proof that I could build something stable and honest from the wreckage of my past.
Except today, everything feels wrong.
I lift my coffee mug, but the liquid tastes bitter against my tongue. My stomach churns in protest, and I push the cup away, afraid I might actually vomit right here at my desk.
That car has to mean something. The fact that even Ethan—with all his investigative resources—can't trace the plates confirms my worst fears. This isn't paranoia. This is real.
I stand abruptly, interlacing my fingers to stretch my arms above my head, trying to work out the tension that’s taken permanent residence in my shoulders. I need air, perspective, something to ground me in reality. Walking to the window, I focus on the familiar rhythm of traffic below, the comforting chaos of a city going about its business.
But then, I see him.
My breath catches in my throat, a strangled gasp that thankfully doesn't carry to my two colleagues hunched over their computers nearby.
A man dressed entirely in black stands on the sidewalk across the street, his face obscured by a dark hoodie. Everything about his posture screams intentionality—the way he stands perfectly still while everyone else hurries past, the deliberate angle of his head tilted up toward our office building.
