Chapter 26
Anton
My eyelid twitches again, and I press my fingers against it, trying to stop the involuntary spasm. It feels like I’m having a fucking stroke, which is ironic, considering what’s actually killing me right now.
Earlier, listening to those cunts tear Mary apart piece by piece had my trigger finger itching.
The blonde one—Stephanie—with her passive-aggressive bullshit about Mary’s blouse, her fake concern about “confidence” and “horizontal stripes.” And that other bitch, Janice, snorting like a fucking pig at her own cruelty.
I could end them both. Walk into that bank, grab Stephanie by her bleached roots, and introduce her face to the marble counter until she understands what happens when you talk down to what’s mine. Janice could watch, maybe learn something, before I dealt with her, too.
But that’s not the only reason my left eyelid twitches.
Through my earpiece, I can hear Lev’s voice.
“Hi. I’m here to open a checking account or ruin someone’s day. Dealer’s choice.”
What the fuck?
I sit bolt upright in my chair.
When did I authorize this? When did Lev decide to go cowboy and walk into the goddamn bank without clearance?
I can hear the shift in the bank’s atmosphere even through the tiny microphone: conversations stopping, chairs creaking as people turn to look. Lev has that effect. He walks into a room like he’s collecting debts or souls, depending on his mood.
“Lev,” Mary whispers, and I catch the mix of relief and exasperation in her voice.
“Sweetheart,” he replies, casual as breathing.
Sweetheart?
Yob tvoyu mat. I know what Lev is doing.
He knows me too well. Twenty years of brotherhood, and he can read my tells like a map.
The bastard went rogue, and he’s enjoying this.
I can hear it in his voice, the way he’s deliberately stirring up chaos when he knows I like clean operations.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, and worse, he knows what it’s doing to me.
I close my eyes, but that’s a mistake. My mind conjures images I don’t want: Lev’s massive frame crowding her space, those scarred hands of his gesturing as he speaks, Mary’s lips parting slightly when she laughs. The way she might look up at him through those long lashes, the way she might—
She’s going to ruin everything. I can feel it like a fault line under my ribs. Maybe I should’ve ended this the moment she touched my world. Maybe I still should.
Lev says something stupid, and I swear I hear her laugh.
Laugh.
What the fuck is she laughing at?
This isn’t normal. None of this is normal. We don’t do this. We don’t flirt. We don’t giggle in fucking banking lobbies with women wearing pantyhose and trauma. We don’t keep women. Not unless they’re leverage. Not unless they’re bait.
And she… she was supposed to be bait. Disposable.
But now she’s living in my head. And I’m getting fucking emotional with Lev.
This is what happens when you let your guard down for thirty seconds. When you let a woman with doe eyes and a bleeding lip crack something inside you that’s been sealed shut for two decades. She’s not even here, and I can still smell that vanilla perfume clinging to my jacket.
My jaw aches from clenching. The muscles in my neck feel like steel cables about to snap.
Focus, Malikov.
I should be tracking Viktor Kozlov. That’s why I came to Vegas. A clean job. Viktor was a snake in the books, skimming two million from the Bratva’s casino operations like no one would notice. Igor wanted him found, wrung out, and buried somewhere the desert can rot what’s left.
And I would’ve done it. Quick. Clean.
But then the numbers didn’t add up. The trail didn’t just point to greed. It pointed to something deeper. A second ledger. A shell corporation in Cyprus. An account opened under a name only a Vetrov would dare use.
Timofey Volkov.
Igor’s golden nephew.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just cleaning up a theft. I was holding a live wire. One that sparked all the way back to the Pakhan’s family table. Now, everything I touch feels wired to explode.
And that’s before the girl.
Before she wandered into my world by mistake. Before I had to decide whether to clean it up. Or keep her in it.
She wasn’t supposed to matter. She was a loose end. An inconvenience.
But now? She’s more than that.
She might have something. Might not. I’m not betting on miracles, but if there’s even a chance the system she has access to can spit out something useful, I need her in it. She gets the files in, Boris starts digging. That’s the job. Quiet. Fast. No more surprises.
She’s also the only one who might be able to help me prove what I already know: that Timofey is the real traitor, and Kozlov is just the puppet dancing on his dirty little strings.
The Pakhan has total trust in that smug little bastard.
I tap the table once. Then again. It’s either that or put my fist through something. Timofey Volkov, always dressed to impress, always talking like he invented charm. Always five seconds late, just enough for the drama. Igor eats it up. Calls him family.
But blood lies. Bleeds just the same.
Igor doesn’t see it. Won’t. He’s too fucking paranoid about everyone else—especially me.
Always watching me for signs of ambition, like loyalty and competence are threats now.
And Timofey knows that. He’s using it. Sabotaging me from the inside out, while flashing that golden-boy grin and pretending he’s not the one pissing on the empire from the penthouse balcony.
Probably thinks Kozlov will take the fall. That the evidence won’t lead back to him.
He doesn’t know what I know.
And Igor? He’s about to invite the wolf to dinner.
I get the ping.
I glance at the screen. Thumb it open.
A message from Ksenia, Igor’s secretary:
Tomorrow. 3 PM. Pavilion Room. Mirage Penthouse Suite.
Of course it’s the fucking Mirage. Gaudy, overlit, bloated with ego. It fits. That’s where Igor holds court when he’s on this coast, like some washed-up Caesar with too much cologne and not enough clarity. “Family meeting,” Ksenia wrote. Translation: bloodbath with catering.
Suka.
Igor wants “absolute transparency.”
But if history’s any clue, what he actually wants is confirmation bias in a designer suit. If I walk in there without rock-solid proof, I’m not just risking exposure. I’m putting my head on the chopping block while Timofey holds the axe.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Lev.
He steps out of the bank like he didn’t just cause a minor HR crisis, whistling like a man who’s never been punched in the face for being annoying—though he has. Repeatedly. And every time, he smiled through it.
He strolls across the sidewalk like Vegas is his runway. The tailored coat, the scuffed boots, the wild curls like he forgot to comb his hair and dared anyone to mention it. People move for him without realizing it. Always have.
He heads toward the café, zero urgency. Typical.
Lev’s been derailing my life since we were kids. Back then, it was explosives and bad ideas in abandoned buildings. Now it’s charm and timing. He never grew out of the chaos; he just got better at hiding it behind a grin.
He walks in. Goes straight to the counter.
“Turkey on rye. No tomato. And a coffee. Black.”
The kid behind the register looks about sixteen. Blinks slow. “Uh. Yeah. Sure.”
Lev drops a folded bill on the counter. “Keep it.”
“Thanks, I— Wait, is this a—?”
Lev’s already walking.
He heads straight for my booth and slides in across from me like he’s early for something I invited him to.
“Two cups of coffee?” he says, nodding at the table. “You softening, or am I just that lucky?”
I don’t respond. I just watch him settle like this is normal. Like he didn’t just stroll into a bank where my asset is under surveillance and possibly being hunted.
He leans back. Cracks his knuckles. “So, how’s the coffee here?”
He knows exactly how the coffee is. He ran three jobs out of this strip mall five years ago. Got shot in the ass one floor up.
My jaw tightens. “Why are you here?”
He shrugs. “It’s public. Bright. You already swept it for bugs. And she looked like she was about to bite her own tongue off just to keep from crying, so…” He motions vaguely toward the bank’s direction. “I figured I’d grab lunch. Maybe insert myself into a conversation. Like old times.”
“You’re going to get her killed.”
“She was already circling the drain. I gave her a side rail to grab.”
I lean forward just enough. “You pull something like that again, I won’t warn you next time.”
Lev shrugs like I just threatened to cancel his lunch, not realign his teeth.
“She was spiraling,” he says. “I redirected it.”
“She’s bait. Not your charity case.”
“She’s also not as disposable as you want her to be. Which is probably your problem, not mine.”
That lands harder than I want it to. I ignore the heat rising in my jaw.
“She’s not yours to play with.”
Lev snorts. “Right. Because you’ve been so hands-off.”
I don’t answer. He knows better.
The kid from the counter arrives, finally, with a sandwich wrapped in butcher paper and a coffee in a paper cup. No plate. No tray.
Lev thanks him with a grin. “You’re doing great, champ.” Then, to me, peeling back the paper, “See? Service with a smile.”
He takes a bite like we’re just two guys catching up. Like he didn’t just drag a live wire into my operation and dare me to let it spark.
He chews, swallows, gestures with the sandwich. “Anyway. She seemed happy to see me. Thought you’d want to know.”
I don’t react.
But my jaw clenches hard enough that I hear it click.
“She likes me,” Lev adds. “What can I say? I’m charming.”
“You’re reckless.”
“Same thing, in the right lighting.”
I run a hand down my face.