The footsteps stop outside the door. The handle turns, and I hold my breath.
Someone walks in and stops before I can see him, other than a vague masculine outline from the corner of my eye. But I canfeelhis presence… whoever he is, he’s the kind of person who takes up all the space in a room when he walks in, who commands attention wherever he goes. That scent of bergamot and cedar intensifies, and I realize it’s his cologne that I smelled before. I canfeelthe confidence wafting off of him, the absolute power that comes from knowing that every person in this room will do exactly what he says without question.
And then, he speaks, and I feel the temperature in the room drop. His voice is low and cold, with a faint Russian accent. And my heart nearly stops at the words that come out of his mouth.
"This isn't the right woman."
2
ANDREI
Alexei Romanov is fifteen minutes late to this morning’s briefing. I can feel the eyes on me from my other men, including Viktor Zemov, my second-in-command, waiting to see how I’ll handle it when he finally shows up.
They're always watching now. Always waiting to see what I'll do.
The door finally opens, and Alexei walks in like he has all the time in the world. There’s no apology in his posture, no acknowledgment that he's kept hisPakhanwaiting. He slides into his chair with a casual arrogance that makes my jaw tighten.
I wasn’t in a killing mood when I woke up this morning, but I’m quickly getting there.
"Traffic," he says, not quite meeting my eyes. "You know how it is."
I can feel the silence in the room thicken. Alexei shifts in his seat. The others don't move.
“Traffic,” I repeat, finally. “That’s your reasoning?”
Alexei shrugs. "What can I say? Bad luck."
It's not an apology. It's barely even an excuse. He’s testing my patience, my authority. The other men are looking at me, waitingto see what I’ll do to him. It’s been like this for months, ever since I took over for my father, who passed less than a year ago. The formerPakhanof the Petrov crime family.
Every late arrival, every questioned order, every suggestion phrased as concern when it’s actually doubt—they’re all tests to see if I can handle this. If someone else were more capable. My father didn’t give me the hard work when he was alive, didn’t test me in front of the others, and now, because he couldn’t relinquish any part of his power to the son who was meant to inherit, no one here knows if I’m worth following.
Power in families like ours comes from fear and respect, not whether or not a leader isliked. I don’t think anyone liked my father, but no one would dare cross him. I don’t know if they like me, either, but they certainly seem more willing to push my boundaries.
A lot of these men are older than me. They’ve certainly spilled more blood. And they think youth equals weakness. They think my calculation and patience are hesitation and uncertainty.
They want to know if I have what it takes… if I can hold this position. If I'm willing to do what's necessary to keep it.
I know exactly what's necessary. Power requires brutality. Survival requires being willing to do things other men won't.
I'm willing.
I leave the head of the table and go to stand next to Alexei. “Hand me your keys,” I say flatly. I see his face pale slightly, and I wonder if he’s going to refuse. His eyes dart quickly around the table, as if to gauge if anyone else is going to speak for him. When no one does, he reaches into his pocket and takes out his car keys. I hold out my hand, and he drops them into my palm.
Then, quick as a striking snake, I grab his wrist and yank his arm out, flattening his hand against the table. I drive one of thekeys down, into the meat just above his knuckles, and into the wood of the table beneath.
His scream pierces the air. His face has gone white and bloodless, and he’s panting, staring at the metal in his skin and the blood leaking out onto the table beneath.
“Stay like that.” My voice is hard. “Don’t move. Don’t pull it out until the meeting is over.”
The room is still completely silent, but I see a flicker of approval in the eyes of a few of the men, particularly Viktor. Alexei gasps, but he doesn’t move, his eyes fixed on his hand.
I return to the head of the table, looking over the assembled men. “Now, let’s begin.”
It’s all ordinary business, for our line of work, at least—shipment routes, dealing with crews from other families testing the boundaries of our territories, paying off cops and dockworkers. I can see the body language of some of the men, though, and how it radiates disapproval. Arms are crossed, jaws are tight. I can see disagreement in some of their faces.
I can feel the anger building inside of me, as it has been for months, day by day. They think I don't see what they're doing, the game they're playing. Or maybe they do, and they’re daring me to do something about it. Something more than what I just did to Alexei.
They’re going to push me further and further. I can feel it. They want me hard, brutal, violent, and with every day that passes, I’m more inclined to give them what they want. To spill blood until they’re all too afraid to do anything but obey, so I can have some fucking peace.
