"Rivals. Enemies he's made over the years." He pauses. "Maybe someone inside his own organization. Someone who wanted him gone."
The implication hangs heavily in the air. "You think someone in the Bratva tried to kill him?"
"I think someone shot him and left him to die. And I think they're still looking to finish the job—if they suspect he's alive." His dark eyes are serious, and I notice a hint of worry that surprises me.
"That hit…" He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. "It was business. Nothing personal. Your family stole from him. He had to respond or look weak. That's how this world works."
"Nothing personal." I laugh, and it comes out harsh and broken. "My uncle's gambling debts and my father's desperation got me a death sentence, and it wasnothing personal."
"I'm not saying it was right. I'm saying it was business." He leans back again, and I notice the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest. Even sitting still, he radiates controlled violence. "Aleksandr doesn't remember ordering it. Doesn't remember you or your family or any of it."
"But he will remember. Eventually." My voice cracks. "And then what?"
Danil is quiet for a long moment, his gaze moving to the window where snow continues to fall in thick sheets, highlighted by the yellow glow of the porch light.
"I'd pray he never remembers. Because the Aleksandr I know doesn't leave loose ends."
26
ALEKSANDR
Dawn light filters through the curtains, painting Maya's face in shades of gold and shadow. I've been awake for an hour, watching her sleep, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the way her lashes rest against her skin, the small furrow between her brows that suggests even her dreams aren't peaceful.
She's beautiful. More than that, she's mine in a way I don't fully understand but feel in my bones.
The thought should comfort me. Instead, it sits heavily in my chest like a stone.
I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. She needs the rest. The dark circles under her eyes yesterday told me she didn't sleep well the night before, and I have a feeling Danil's presence is part of the reason.
The cabin is cold, the fire burned down to embers. I pull on jeans and a thermal shirt, moving quietly through the dim space. Danil is already in the kitchen, standing at the counter with a mug of coffee, staring out the window at the snow-covered landscape.
He doesn't turn when I enter, but his shoulders shift slightly, acknowledging my presence without words.
"Coffee's fresh," he says.
I pour myself a mug and lean against the counter beside him. We stand in silence for a moment, two men who apparently know each other well enough that words aren't always necessary.
"You remember anything new?" he finally asks.
A flash hits without warning. My hand signing documents, expensive pen moving across paper with practiced efficiency. The weight of decisions that affect hundreds of lives. The certainty that my word is law.
"Paperwork," I say. "Contracts, maybe. Legal documents."
Another memory surfaces. Standing in a warehouse, the smell of motor oil and concrete. A man kneeling before me, begging. My hand resting on the gun at my hip, the weight familiar and comforting. The taste of power on my tongue is sweet and addictive.
"I remember giving orders," I say quietly. "Important ones. Life and death decisions."
Danil's jaw tightens. "You made a lot of those."
"Did I make them well?"
"You're still alive. That's the best measure of success in our world." He turns to look at me, his dark eyes serious. "Or you were alive until someone decided you shouldn't be."
The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, the walls pressing in. "Tell me about the power vacuum."
He's quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "You've been gone for weeks. People are getting nervous. Territory disputes that you would have settled immediately are escalating. Alliances you built are starting to fracture. Your absence creates opportunity for those who want to move up."
"Or take over entirely."
