I storm up the steps to Mike’s front door, every muscle taut. Summons without explanation irritate me.
I, Timofey Rusnak, do not enjoy being interrupted.
I’ve earned my reputation: efficient, ruthless, disciplined. A man who wastes time is a man who dies young—or worse, fails the family.
So I don’t waste time. My family knows this. Mike knows this.
Still. I don’t ignore Mike. Not this time.
The urgency in his message was clear:
“Come see me immediately. Very urgent.”
Mike doesn’t do “urgent.” Ever.
He takes his time. Do things slowly. Except when it comes to his wife, Ellie.
But I know this isn’t about Ellie. If it were, he’d handle it himself. So what else could be causing the urgency? That alone sparks my interest. I tried to ask what it was about, but he won’t say a word. Then messages from Dimitri, Konstantin, and Sebastian land at different times—each more insistent than the last. All asking if I’ve gone to see Mike.
My cousins—my blood—I love them to death, but even they know better than to summon me blindly.
So I take my sweet time.
Three hours of calculated pacing, because I want to savor the tension. Let them stew. Let them wonder if I’ll come at all.
When the door opens before I reach it, Maksim steps out. Mike’s new right-hand man. Tall, sharp, eager—but not enough to impress me, especially after what Mike’s previous right-hand man did. I pass him without a word.
The hall smells faintly of expensive whiskey and leather. I jog up the sprawling stairs. Mike’s estate is huge, and his houseis bigger. Every step irritates me. I was at the gym less than an hour ago, pushing my limits, and now climbing these endless staircases feels like punishment.
I reach the final step and push open Mike’s office door.
I expect a routine security briefing. Maybe instructions about an upcoming shipment.
I don’t expect a stranger.
She stands in the center of the room. Young. Exhausted. Out of place in clothes that don’t suit the cold New York winter outside. Her hair is disheveled. Her posture screams fatigue—but not defeat. She’s been pushed beyond limits most people can’t imagine.
I can see it.
Still…her gaze hits mine, sharp, unflinching.
Most men can’t do that. I’m not feared in the underworld as “The Enforcer” for nothing. But she holds it. A predator in the making—or a survivor. I notice every detail: the tension in her shoulders, the calculated way her eyes scan the room, the way her fingers twitch almost imperceptibly.
And then I see it.
The look I know too well. The one I’ve seen in men and women who have survived violence and lived to fight again.
She’s dangerous.
Not in some random, naive way. She’s precise. She’s aware. And she has the instinct to survive.
My pulse doesn’t spike. I keep my composure. But something inside me sharpens. This is no ordinary person. And if she’s standing here…then this is going to get complicated very fast.
I dismiss her silently and turn to Mike. He’s pouring whiskey into a glass, the amber liquid catching the light. He hands one to me. I don’t take it.
“What is this?” I snap.
Mike doesn’t flinch. He takes a slow sip from his own glass and sets it down.
