Especially not after this.
The next morning, I leave the apartment before dawn. There’s a familiar steel in my veins—one that never fails me when I need it most.
Some things can’t be ignored, not even for her.
I drive out to an old warehouse near the river, one of our quieter meeting places. The city is still sleeping, but my world never does. Mikhail and Anton are waiting inside, faces grim, a man kneeling between them with his hands bound behind his back and a split lip blooming red.
They greet me with curt nods, falling silent as I step into the circle of light. The air is thick with the scent of oil and concrete and fear.
“He lied,” Mikhail says, voice low. “Skimmed from the imports. Paid a cop to look the other way.”
The man tries to speak, but a look from me shuts him up. I take my time, rolling up my sleeves, letting the room settle into my silence.
I kneel, meeting his eyes. “You know what happens to men who steal from my family.”
He starts to beg. I don’t care. I nod to Anton, and he hauls the man up. I don’t even flinch as I deliver the punishment—quick, efficient, final. My hands come away bloody, but my mind is cold, my heart steady.
This is what I am. This is what I was born for. Ruthlessness is my inheritance. It’s the one thing my father gave me that never breaks.
When it’s done, Mikhail hands me a towel, his gaze respectful and wary. “Will you be at the office later?”
“Yes,” I say, voice clipped.
And when I make back thirty minutes later, I’m immediately greeted by the one person Idon’twant to see.
And my father isn’t alone either.
Perched beside him is that same scrawny attorney from the boardroom—sweating through his collar, a nervous stack of papers in his trembling hands. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth.
“You should have told me you were coming,” I say, stepping fully into the office, voice cool and flat. “I would have rolled out the red carpet. Maybe called the orchestra.”
My father’s smile doesn’t waver. “I never needed an invitation for my own son’s domain. Not when there are… family matters to discuss.”
I don’t bother to hide my irritation. “So what is this, then? More of Grandfather’s games?”
“Tell him,” my father says, flicking his hand toward the attorney without looking at him.
The little man jumps. He fumbles with his folder, dropping a page and scrambling to retrieve it. “Y-yes, well, Mr. Vasiliev—uh, Aleksei—there was an… an additional clause in your grandfather’s will. One that, ah, perhaps, wasn’t fully explained last week?—”
I fix him with a stare that could cut glass. “Get to the point.”
He swallows, eyes darting from me to my father and back, lips wobbling. “It’s about the… ah… contingency, regarding your, um, eligibility. If you do not fulfill the primary requirement—marriage and a legitimate heir within the year—then…”
My father cuts in, voice smooth as poison. “Then everything passes tome,not a distant cousin. Every company, every account, every piece of land your grandfather built. All of it, Aleksei. All your hard work, all your… sacrifices. Wasted.”
He leans back in my chair, satisfaction written in the cold lines of his mouth. “I thought you should hear it from me. Directly.”
The attorney shrinks back, looking like he wants to disappear.
For a moment, the room is silent except for the hum of the city far below.
I stare at my father, feeling old rage kindle like fire in my chest.
So that’s what this is. Not just a deadline. Not just a test.
It’s a fucking war.
10
