Chapter 25
Anton
Two days. That’s how long it’s been since she ran from me with tears on her face. I’ve kept myself buried in work since—numbers, calls, anything to keep from seeing her eyes in my head.
It doesn’t matter. The image sticks anyway.
Now it’s Wednesday night, and I’m exactly where I don’t want to be.
“Bratishka, I’m glad you came tonight.”
The voice is thick with vodka and smoke, carried over the bass thump of a club that should have closed three hours ago. Instead, it pulses with red lights and half-naked women moving slow and bored on poles, more for atmosphere than attention.
The place isn’t ours. Too clean, too American.
Belongs to a hotel investor named Mikhail Rudenko, one of the Old Guard who’s been laundering casino money since the Vetrov Bratva first bought its way into Vegas.
Gold watch flashing, shirt open at the collar, Mikhail hugs me like we’re family. We’re not.
“You’re late,” he says, teeth too white. “But I forgive you. Sit, sit. We drink.”
I drop into the booth. Leather sticks to my shirt. Dima and Lev slide in on either side, their eyes already scanning the room.
Mikhail signals a girl in sequins to bring bottles. Beluga vodka, neat. Too much ice in the glasses.
“To friends,” Mikhail toasts, “and to a Pakhan who still breathes.”
I lift my glass but don’t drink. My jaw tightens.
Everyone’s thinking the same thing: Igor’s slipping.
The old man’s paranoia has gone from whispered insult to open concern.
He favors Timofey more each day, handing him pieces of the empire like test gifts.
Everyone here knows Timofey’s ambition is bigger than his loyalty.
And still, they invite me. Which tells me what they want: reassurance. Maybe more.
Lev leans back, smirk curving. “Funny thing about loyalty,” he says, picking up a handful of peanuts from the bowl. “You can’t drink it, can’t fuck it, can’t buy it. But you sure as hell notice when it’s gone.” He crunches loud enough to make Mikhail wince.
Dima says nothing, just watches the room. Always the quiet one, always cataloging threats.
My phone buzzes once in my pocket. I don’t take it out.
I know it’s not her. Mary barely looks at me these days, not since Monday night.
She trains with Dima, she eats without me, she goes to her bank job looking like her soul got dragged across asphalt.
I did that. I remind myself it’s for the best. Distance keeps her alive. Keeps me sharp.
Still, the thought of her spending mornings with Dima instead of me makes something ugly coil in my chest. Like we’re in a relationship. Like I have the right to be jealous. I don’t.
The waitress tops off our glasses, the bass rattling through the floor. Mikhail tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he studies me, then waves her away with a flick of his fingers.
“You wonder why I ask you here.” His voice drops lower, less cheer now, more calculation.
I glance at my glass. “You said friends. Drinking.”
He steeples his fingers, eyes darting once toward the dancers on stage, then back to me. Calculating.
“Igor grows suspicious of shadows that are not there. He gives Timofey more responsibility—casino accounts, freight routes, even introductions to partners like me.” He taps his chest. “But I do not like dealing with children. And Timofey is still a child, no matter how polished his suits.”
Lev chuckles under his breath. “Polished turd is still a turd.”
Mikhail doesn’t smile. “A child who listens too much to his own ambition. He talks of expansion, of risk, of… speed.” His mouth twists. “Speed kills business. You know this, Anton. You build carefully. Brick by brick.”
I swirl the vodka in my glass, watching the clear liquid catch the red light. “And what is it you want from me?”
“What I want,” Mikhail says, leaning closer, “is stability. If Igor chooses badly, if he hands power to a man who burns instead of builds, then the men with money will step back. They will protect themselves. The Bratva cannot afford that.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle. “Many eyes watch Timofey. But many more look to you. They see who you are. Who your men follow.”
Dima’s shoulders stay still, but I catch the flick of his gaze my way. Lev smirks again, but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes.
I knock back the vodka, feel it burn all the way down.
They want reassurance. Maybe more. But I can’t give it. Not yet.
Mikhail leans forward, thick fingers drumming once against the table.
“I’ll be plain, bratishka. Men like me… we want stability. I keep hotels. Others keep ports, trucks, accounts. We have wives, children, business to protect. We cannot survive a Pakhan who hands power to a gambler.”
He tilts his head, eyes sharp despite the vodka shine. “Timofey is a gambler. You are not. That is the difference.”
Lev whistles low. “Sounds like a pitch.”
Mikhail ignores him. “I am not alone. The others see what I see. The crews follow you, not Timofey. Even Igor knows this, though he pretends otherwise.”
Dima shifts, finally speaking, voice even. “You’re saying if Igor falls, Anton is the one you’ll look to.”
Mikhail doesn’t flinch. “I am saying he already is. Whether he admits it or not.”
The words hang there, heavy enough to choke on.
I stare into my vodka, watching the fractured light in the glass. They want me to say yes, to nod, to accept the weight they’re sliding across the table. But a nod here isn’t just a word—it’s war. Against Igor. Against Timofey. Against everything I’ve built under his roof.
Loyalty isn’t something I break. Not even now.
“I’m not your answer,” I say finally, voice flat. “Igor still breathes. He’s Pakhan until he doesn’t.”
Mikhail studies me like he’s weighing how much of that is conviction and how much is fear. Then, slowly, he nods.
“You are cautious. Good. But understand—when the time comes, you will not choose. The choice will already be made.”
Lev leans in, grin sharp. “Translation: congratulations, boss. You’re already elected.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but the sound of it lands too true.
I sip my drink, let it burn, let it remind me I’m still in control of myself, even if the rest of the room is writing history around me.
Mikhail snaps his fingers again, and two girls glide over from the edge of the stage, sequins catching the red light.
Not random—his girls, his property, part of the show he likes to put on when he’s entertaining.
One leans in close, perfume thick enough to sting my nose, and sets a hand on my shoulder like she’s been told to.
“A gift,” Mikhail says, spreading his hands as if he’s generous. “For my friend. To relax.”
I don’t look at her. My gaze stays on him. “Keep your gifts, Mikhail.”
The girl hesitates, waiting for a cue. Mikhail waves her off, annoyed but not surprised. They step back, disappearing into the haze like they were never there.
Lev grins around his glass. Dima doesn’t even blink.
Mikhail exhales smoke, shaking his head. “Always business with you, Anton. Never pleasure.”
I take another pull of vodka, the bite sharp on my tongue. He’s wrong. There is pleasure. But it doesn’t look like this. Doesn’t smell like cheap perfume and stage lights.
It looks like garlic on her hands. Smells like butter on her skin. And that’s a problem I can’t drink away.
I set the glass down, the ring of it sharp against the table.
“Your hospitality is noted, Mikhail. So is your honesty.”
His eyes narrow, measuring. I lean forward just enough for my words to land heavily. “Loyalty runs both ways. You’ve shown me yours. I don’t forget things like that.”
It’s not a promise. Not yet. But it’s enough.
Mikhail smiles, broad and practiced, but there’s relief behind it. He claps my shoulder once, hard enough to sting.
“Then we understand each other.”
I rise. Dima slides out after me, Lev lingering lo1`ng enough to grab one last handful of peanuts just to annoy the staff.
Outside, the night air hits cooler. Bass from the club rattles the glass behind us, but out here it’s quiet—just neon bleeding across the pavement and the low hum of engines on The Strip.
Boris waits at the curb, car idling, cigarette glowing between his fingers. He flicks the ash, opens the back door.
We’re halfway across the sidewalk when Lev pipes up. “You know what’s funny?”
I don’t answer. Never a good sign when he starts like that.
“The way you act like she doesn’t matter.” He stuffs another peanut into his mouth, crunching loud enough to make two girls in sequins waiting for a cab glance over.
Neon splashes across his grin, red and blue. Cars slide by, bass thumping, laughter spilling out of open windows. The Strip never sleeps. And in the shadows between the lights, I know eyes watch. Always.
“What the fuck do you know about it?” I keep walking, shoulders loose but aware, scanning the parked cars, the drunks weaving too close to the curb. Timofey has half the city greasing his pockets; surprise attacks don’t need guns when a car door opens too fast.
“You think you’re fooling anyone?” Lev goes on, like he can’t hear the risk around us. “Mary’s not like the others. She’s not trying to bleed you dry or fuck her way up the ladder. She’s… different.”
“How do you know?” My voice comes out flat. A dare.
Lev smirks, slow and satisfied, like he’s been waiting for me to bite. “Because it’s Mary.”
The words hang there. Too simple. Too true.
Dima, who hasn’t said a word since we left the club, finally speaks. His voice is low, steady. “Lev’s right.”
We all turn a fraction, even Boris flicks his cigarette out and looks up from the curb.
Dima shrugs once, massive shoulders rolling under his jacket.
“Because it’s Mary,” he repeats, like that explains everything.
But I don’t deserve someone like her.
The thought lands ugly and true. She’s clean where I’m bruised.
She moves toward softness, and I keep carving corners out of everything that looks like that.
The idea that someone would choose to stay—really stay—here, in my life, in my mess…
it should make me proud. Instead, it pins me with a kind of terror I can’t name.
We pile into the SUV. Leather creaks, doors slam.
Boris takes the wheel and pulls us smoothly into traffic.
The Strip blurs past; tourists stumbling, a bride in heels too high, guys in cheap suits waving down cabs.
All noise, all distraction. Underneath, the city hums with something sharper.
Timofey thinks he’s already won. I can feel it in the air, the way every move feels like it’s being watched.
No one speaks for a minute. Just the engine’s growl and the muffled echo of music through the glass.
Lev finally breaks it. “Holiday tomorrow.” He stretches out in the seat like he owns it. “City shuts down offices, even the bank. Means Mary gets the morning off. You know what that means?”
I don’t answer.
Boris grins into the rearview, teeth flashing. “Means breakfast. Real breakfast. Not takeout shit. She said she’s making it herself.” He looks almost boyish about it, which makes me want to snarl.
“Can’t remember the last time someone cooked for us,” Lev adds, smirking. “Feels… family, doesn’t it?”
Family. The word sits wrong in my gut. Heavy. Dangerous.
And then the other thing—what I’m actually afraid of—slides up like bile.
If she belongs here, she’s visible.
If she’s visible, she’s a target.
If she’s a target, she dies, or she lives with scars I won’t be able to fix.
My mother—how she used to hide the bruises with scarves and laughter—flickers through my skull. I never wanted anyone else to learn that language of survival.
I swallow it down. Say it out loud instead of letting it rot inside. “She doesn’t belong in this world.”
Lev turns, eyes suddenly serious, the joke gone from his face. He’s a fool half the time, but not about this.
“No. That’s exactly why we keep her close, boss. If she’s in our world, we make it our problem. We don’t let the city chew her up.”
Dima watches me, quiet, then nods once. “She’s not as weak as you think.”
The words are simple. They land like a hand on my shoulder.
Dima doesn’t do pretty talk. He boxes. He irons men flat. The way he says it—steady, like checking a rifle—tells me he’s seen it up close. Seen her hands steady on a gun, seen her take orders without blinking. More than that: seen her stand when other people would fold.
There’s something else in the way he says it, too.
A tone I’ve only ever heard when he talks about the one he lost. Quiet protection folded into the sentence, the way a man talks about a sister gone and the things he’d give the world to keep from happening to someone else.
He’s not just observing. He’s invested. That should scare me more than it does.
Instead, it does one thing: it makes whatever this is between us harder to call by the names I know—control, fear, ownership.
My jaw ticks. I don’t like that he’s right. I don’t like that Dima, of all people, looks at her and sees leverage and worth and then, in the same breath, a thing to guard.
Outside, The Strip slides by in streaks. My reflection blurs across the glass—hard, unreadable. They’re not wrong. That’s the part that gets me.
Friday is coming. One more training, one more day to sharpen her up, to keep her alive.
Our real aim is ugly and simple: don’t let Timofey get what he’s grabbing for.
Stop his mouth from running the Bratva into the ground.
Fucking take him down before he burns the whole thing.
That’s the task laid in front of us—practical, violent, inevitable.
After that… Who the fuck knows.