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“I will not go back on my word.”

Yuriy’s smile was quick, wolfish. A lock of hair fell from his ridiculous loose bun into his eye. “Good. Then set him free.” He pressed the gun into Yelena’s temple for a second longer, as if testing the price of a promise, then finally relaxed his grip.

My men moved like a single animal. Around us, gun muzzles stayed trained on Yuriy and Zasha, making sure no one cheated. If Yuriy tried anything, my men would answer with lead. If my men moved first, the law of retaliation that existed in our world would drown us. We’d set the terms by which we lived.

I watched Yuriy, cataloging him in the way men do when they wanted to remember a face to hate later. He was taller than I remembered, almost my height, with a hard jaw and cheekbones like knives. A silver hoop hung in one ear, and a thin stud near his eyebrow caught the bulb’s light.

He didn’t look like a pakhan. Not in his jeans and sneakers.

Nico cut the rope from Zasha’s wrists. The boy stumbled forward at the same time Yuriy released Yelena. For a second, I thought she would go to him, but common sense prevailed. She ran toward me, and I gathered her to my chest so fast my ribs ached, inhaling the scent of her hair, the faint perfume she always used, the wet salt of her tears. She buried her face into my coat like a frightened little thing. She had her mother’s build, a pint-sized young woman who barely reached my chest—another reason I was so overprotective of her.

“Did he hurt you?” My fingers found the back of her neck and held her like an anchor.

She shook her head, clinging to me. He was a lucky fucker. Had he hurt her in any way, my promise to get him out of that warehouse alive would no longer apply.

“Nico,” I said, voice low and cold, “escort them off our turf.”

Nico stepped forward without a word, that silent, immense presence at my side. He herded Yuriy and his brother toward the open bay door. Around us, my crew tightened the perimeter.

I let my gaze land on Yuriy. “You walk, Orlov. You leave here whole. But remember this. Next time we meet, I won’t be so generous.”

He met my stare without blinking, propping Zasha up with one arm. The younger man was still white-lipped and pale but alive. Regardless, he would remember the penalty for seducing my daughter.

Yuriy’s mouth twisted into contempt. “You’re on, Zhukovsky,” he said in a low voice, and then louder, “One day you’re going to pay for what you did today. And I’m gonna enjoy watching you bleed.”

Those words lingered after them as they stepped into the cold night, guns still pointed at their backs.

“Papa—” Yelena clutched my arm.

“It’s okay, printsessa. You’re safe now.”

“Papa, you promised to let them go.” She tightened her grip on my arm. “You promised!”

I clamped my jaw shut, grinding my teeth. She was concerned I would go back on my word? Did she not have any idea what could have been the result just now? I forced my voice flat to camouflage my rage. “You had a gun at your temple, Lena. Do you understand what that means?”

She sniffed, breath shaking. “I know, Papa, but Yuriy only took me because you had Zasha. He didn’t hurt me at all. Zasha says his brother’s not a bad person and⁠—”

“Enough.” I slammed the word out so it cut the air. She closed her mouth, but her eyes searched mine like she was looking for the man who would soothe her, not the one who might kill on a whim. I let my words hang there until the tremor in my hands calmed. “You have disappointed me, printsessa. You know better than anyone else who the Orlovs are to us. They killed your uncle and cousin. If you ever go looking for him—if I find you two together—” My voice narrowed to steel. “I will cut his heart out and give it to you if you want it so badly.”

I pressed my forehead to the top of her head and said quieter, not for her but for myself, “You will do as I say, printsessa. You will forget his name.”

YURIY

2 MONTHS LATER

The first thing I heard when I stepped into the gym was the smack, smack, smack of fists hammering leather. The sound bounced off concrete walls and rattled in my chest like gunfire. It was steady, relentless, carrying the sharp edge of rage I knew too well.

Zasha.

I spotted him across the room, shirtless, sweat flying with every blow as he punished the heavy bag. His knuckles were red and raw, tape darkened with blood where it split. His shoulders bunched with fury, every muscle in his back straining, veins standing out along his neck. The bag swung wildly on its chain, jerking with every strike.

He might have been pummeling the bag, but I knew it was my face he was picturing. He’d been giving me the cold shoulder since I saved his ass from Zhukovsky, as if he wouldn’t be dead had I not intervened.

The place smelled of iron and sweat. A couple of my men lingered at the side, quiet, pretending not to stare. No one wanted to get in the middle of Zasha’s temper, not unless they had a death wish. My little brother had always been capable, but his mellow personality made him likable. The one with the big smile and bigger future, but the loss of the woman he loved had changed him. He had a short fuse, and everyone walked on eggshells around him.

But two months had passed, and it was time for him to get over it. If being in the country with Zhukovsky’s daughter was too difficult for him, then I had a one-way trip to Russia for him to forget about her and to remember all I’d sacrificed for our family.

Zasha hit the bag one last time, harder than the others, a blow that sent it slamming back into the steel post. He stood over it, panting, sweat dripping from his brow into his eyes, chest heaving.