She’s not the type.
If I know Ivy—and I’m beginning to know her better than I’d like—she’s already cataloging the room for objects she can weaponize against us. Planning how she’ll be able to rig a lamp with a power cord and a loose floorboard like she’s in a prison break movie, just for the chance to do some real damage and get the last word in once someone comes knocking.
It’s almost charming in a fucked up way.
Unfortunately, I don’t have time for charming. Not when the hit at the cafe and the Petrovs’ deaths are still fresh and somehow connected. The streets are teeming with whispers, half-truths, and rats too clever to be caught.
I’ve got a dead contact and a half-finished trail of questions. And now a civilian witness who doesn’t know when to keep her damn nose out of things.
I’ve danced this line before. Managed worse. But something aboutthis, about the way Ivy looked at me like I was some monster pulled straight from the mouth of hell inside that car when we were talking, sits wrong in my chest.
For some inexplicable reason, I hated that look in her.
Why?
Before the thought has a hold to take route and derail me for the rest of the day, I shake it off. There’s too much work to be done to get distracted.
“Call thesovet,” I tell Lev when I get back down to the main level. “Now.”
Ten minutes later, we’re all gathered in the west wing of the estate inside the long council room reserved only for high-level operations and decision-making.
No one else is allowed past the doors. No waitstaff, no low-level security, just my inner circle. The ones who have bled for this family more times than they can count. The ones who make the decisions that ensure not one sacrifice is in vain.
The room itself is cold and dark, lit by wall sconces that circle the large table in the center. The table is an intimidating stretch of carved oak, older than most of us. It smells faintly of wax and wood from a fresh cleaning and shines like it’s new.
Katya is the first to arrive. As always.
She’s dressed in black—tailored, elegant, and absolutely no-nonsense. Her dark eyes sweep the room with clinical detachment before she folds herself into the chair nearest mine like a dagger being sheathed. Her fingers steeple in front of her mouth, blood-red nails gleaming in the low light. She doesn’t speak, but her eyes talk enough for her.
Her twin brother, Roman, follows in a moment later, his scowl arriving three seconds before he does. There’s the faint aroma of woodsy cologne clinging to his coat and hands, along with the telltale whisper of gun residue. I don’t bother asking what the latest hit he’s had to take out in the field is. I’ll see the report come across my desk soon enough. For Roman, violence is a second skin worn comfortably.
He slumps into a chair across from his sister, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
Matvey appears next, his tablet already in hand, lit up and streaming intel before he even sits. His round face is slightly flushed, glasses pushed back on top of his head where a few of his messy curls escape from around the thick frames. He flashes the rest of us a tired smile before taking the seat next to Katya, his fingers flying over the tablet’s keyboard as he answers whatever slew of emails has just dropped into his inbox.
Luka, Anton, and Alisa come together, but none of them speak to each other. Luka takes his usual seat near the middle, silent andsharp-eyed while eyeing the siblings. He shoots Katya a look that is all heat, none of which is reciprocated. His tall, lanky limbs are stuffed under the table, with his upper half practically hunched over the surface.
Alisa sits two chairs down, straight-backed, her long braided hair looped tight behind her head and draping well past her lower back. Her intense gaze is fixated on Matvey, a dark scowl deepening the longer his fingers bang against the tablet. She lets out a long, annoyed sigh before pinching the bridge of her nose, the wrinkles around her eyes more prominent today than usual.
My eyes latch onto Anton closely as he slinks into place at the far end of the table, directly opposite to me. A power play that’s obvious to the entire room, including me. His usual motive. His smirk is mild, easily passed off for polite, but I see the glint in his eye, the gears turning. It always strikes me as odd how he seems like he’s constantly waiting for an opportunity to start something.
I always keep my attention on him when he’s in the same room. Maybe that’s what he likes. Craves, even, the attention I’m forced to give him. He was my father’s general back in the day, a fact he never,everallows me to forget.
Andrey’s the last to arrive, one cheek already blooming freshly purple from a fight he clearly just got done taking care of. Not at all a surprise, considering he’s in the midst of training a fresh wave ofshestyorka. He brushes a hand through his long, dirty blond hair, pushing it out of his eyes before dropping into the only seat left, directly next to Katya. Her eyes snap to him, narrowing instantly. He lounges back, one arm raising to drape over the back of her chair.
I straighten at the head of the table, feeling Lev shifting behind me, keeping to the shadow where he prefers to be, and sweep my gaze across the room one last time. Everyone is finally accounted for.
Seven pairs of eyes lock on mine.
I don’t waste time getting into it. “Roman’s contact to the Petrov family is dead. The cafe he owned was targeted in a drive-by attack three days ago and he was taken out in the crossfire before answers could be given about what happened with the Petrovs.”
That gets a ripple of energy moving through the room.
Katya’s eyes flick to her brother instantly.
Roman’s jaw clenches tightly as the spotlight is suddenly turned to him. “I was in the back when it started. Owner and I barely got out two sentences before we heard the gunshots. He moved before I could tell him to hang back and got shot the second he stepped into the lobby.”
“Fuck,” Andrey mutters under his breath. “That blows.”
