Page 3 of Black Ledger

I slid my hands into my pockets. I needed to summon the Bratva and begin the hunt for this ghost. If the hunt ended with my father dead too, even better.

At the very least, I wouldn’t save him.

But I had to appear like I wanted to.

Still, a smile lingered on my face, just a little too long. My father would be furious that this ghost had cut off his cock, and that knowledge was far too amusing to stifle.

“Oh god,” Ilya said and then cursed in Russian. “That is disgusting.” He absentmindedly hovered a hand over his groin, a sour expression twisting on his face. “I assume that’s your father’s?”

“That’s what the note said.” I turned to look at my second-in-command, Ilya Morozov, my fingers sliding along the edge of my mahogany desk. “Any leads?”

“No, not yet, sir. So far, she’s a ghost.”

“She?” I arched an eyebrow.

“No man would cut off another man’s penis and leave it as a gift for his son.” But it wasn’t Ilya who spoke this time. It was Veronika, his younger sister. She leaned forward slightly, getting a better view.

“Maybe.” I adjusted my cuff. “I do think it’s a woman, but not because of the penis.”

“Oh?”

“It’s the planning, control, and expert-level of emotional manipulation.”

Nika’s brow furrowed. “I hope you are not calling women emotionally manipulative.”

“Of course not.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “I am saying women are far better at handling emotions than men. This…”—I pointed at the box—“is emotional but controlled. It’s not reactive. It’s planned, vicious, patient, and brilliantly maneuvered.”

I always appreciated a highly skilled opponent. Life was like a game of chess, and I usually wanted to hold all the pieces—or, at the very least, understand the entire board. And that’s why this situation was so unsettling. I knew almost nothing. It was like playing chess blindfolded, with half the pieces missing, and the game already underway. I despised playing from that position.

Nika nodded. I highly doubted she was actually annoyed with me. She was an intelligence analyst and a woman in the Bratva. She was undermined and undervalued at every turn.

Because my father was a sexist dick.

She tilted her head and stared at the word whore burned into the appendage. “This is highly amusing.”

“My exact sentiments,” I said, turning to her brother. “Send for your father, Mikhail, and the head brigadiers. We need to strategize.”

Chapter Three

Severin Volkov

Age 36

One hour later, the box sat open on the heavy wooden table in my conference room. I was at the head of the table with my half-brother, Mikhail, across from me. He was my father’s eldest child—five years older than me—but a bastard, which disqualified him as heir. Half the men around this table seemed perfectly fine overlooking that fact. They wanted him to lead the Bratva instead of me.

Maksim Petrov sat on my right and Ilya on my left. Right where they belonged: my right and left-hand men.

Ilya’s father, head of the Bratva intelligence unit, sat next to his son with Nika Morozova on his other side.

The other four brigadiers stretched across the rest of the table. Leon Orlov and Kazimir Kaloshin flanked Mikhail. Roman Balinsky and Grigori Larin sat in the middle—neutral.

Everyone was here. Allies and threats.

All of them waiting to test me.

Let them try.

I welcomed it.