Dem crosses his arms, his expression dark. “Since when is our father focused on marrying us off? He’s always cared more about selling Katya to the highest bidder.”
“Fuck if I know, but he’s getting older. Closer to stepping back. Maybe he’s thinking about legacy. Making sure the next pakhan produces heirs. You know how it goes.”
A familiar bitterness crawls up the back of my throat, the same taste I’ve been swallowing since leaving Ruslan’s study this morning.
Matvey snorts. “More like he wants to make sure you’re properly shackled before he hands over the crown.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t plan on fucking this up.” It’s not only Katya’s future on the line, but mine.
I’ve got plenty of reasons to want the Ghost dead, considering they’re actively dismantling the empire I’m supposed to inherit.
“So what’s your brilliant plan?” Matvey leans forward, elbows on his knees. “The Ghost seems to know our routes, schedules, even our security protocols. I bet we have a mole.”
“We interrogate every soldier until someone breaks.” Dem cracks his knuckles, eager to start the bloodletting.
I hold up a hand. “That’ll take longer than twenty days, and torturing half our men won’t win us any loyalty. No. We need to be smarter. Draw them out. And I think Elio Valenti is just the person to help us.”
Dem’s lips twist in disgust. “And why would we partner with that, mudak?”
I push back from the desk and cross to the window. “Ruslan was right about one thing. The Italians are powerful. We need their help—a short-term alliance—to draw the Ghost out. Set up a trap together, and when they strike, we strike harder.”
“And this is the mudak you’d trust?” Matvey asks.
“Not as far as I can throw him. But I trust he wants the Ghost gone as much as we do. And I bet he doesn’t want an arranged marriage to make it happen. Our fathers want the alliance, but we can handle what needs handling without a wedding ring.”
Dem pushes off the wall, rolling his neck until it cracks. “So we offer him a short-term deal that gets him out of an arranged marriage and eliminates the Ghost? It’s a win-win.”
Matvey drains his vodka and sets the glass down. “In that case, it’s Saturday night—we know where to find him.”
Elio Valenti runs his empire from Apollon, his family’s sprawling nightclub on the Lower East Side.
“Give it a few hours. Let’s wait until our boy is nice and sloppy before we pay him a visit.” I wave them off. “I’ve got some shit to handle here first.”
They file out, Matvey clapping me on the shoulder as he passes. Then I’m alone.
I should get back to work, but instinct pulls me toward the one-way glass overlooking the main floor.
Velour just opened and already the crowd is growing, the music pulsing through the space. Servers weave through the chaos with practiced steps, trays balanced on one hand.
I spot Evelina as she moves through the space, blonde ponytail swinging as she delivers drinks to a booth near the bar.
Even from up here I notice men track her every move, their stares trailing that perfect ass in the tight black dress. A dark and possessive heat coils in my gut.
Every time I close my eyes she’s on my lap, moving against me, making those needy little sounds. I don’t fuck my staff as a general rule. It’s way too messy and now, I don’t have time for distractions with a twenty-day deadline hanging over my head. But watching her now, resistance feels like a losing game.
I force myself to turn away from the window and head back to the desk. A stack of papers waits—invoices, liquor orders, the usual administrative crap. Normally I wouldn’t touch this, but with Danny gone, someone has to sign off on the red tape.
My hand stills on the document on top. Employment paperwork for the new hire.
There’s a bright yellow sticky note on top in Matvey’s handwriting:
You hired her. YOU fucking fill out the forms.
A laugh spills from my lips. The asshole.
The irony is that Velour is one of the few legitimate businesses we run, so we process the paperwork like anyone else.
Well, mostly legitimate. We launder millions through here every month, another reason we can’t have the IRS crawling up our asses over unpaid taxes or off-the-books employees.
