Chapter 4
DANTE
Viktor gets to his feet glaring at me.
My knuckles are still stinging from the impact. Blood streams from his nose. I feel a savage satisfaction at the sight.
"What the fuck, Dante?" Viktor spits, cupping his broken nose. "Over some redhead?"
I don't answer. Can't explain why hearing him talk about her like she's a piece of meat made me see red. Can't explain why the thought of his hands on her makes me want to break more than just his nose.
She's gone now. The rational part of my brain knows that's for the best. Hannah. I knew her name already. Before I left the hotel that night, I checked her purse. I took a picture of her ID—just in case. In my life, I couldn’t afford to blindly trust anyone. I had to be aware. I didn’t think she knew who I was.
But just in case, I kept her identity as a weapon. Information was key.
"Clean yourself up," I tell Viktor, straightening my jacket.
He nods quickly, probably more concerned about his broken nose than my warning. So much for being the guy that’s supposed to be guarding my body.
"Let’s go,” Bogdan says. “He’s waiting.”
My Uncle Radimir had called this meeting.
Said there was something urgent. My cousin Bogdan was the guy that got me to where I needed to be.
He wasn’t my assistant, but he was the guy that helped me run my empire.
He knew the business. He understood the stress of running a powerful Russian Bratva.
I was the pakhan. The Godfather, so to speak.
The don. I was one of the younger ones in our world.
The position landed on my shoulders far earlier than I was prepared for.
Without Bogdan, I don’t know that I could have managed it.
The Russian restaurant is one of ours. It’s a small place that serves as both a legitimate business and convenient meeting place. The food is actually decent, which is more than I can say for most of our front operations.
When we step through the door, the manager nods as we file in.
"Mr. Sokolov," he says. "Your uncle is waiting in the back room."
I nod and make my way through the dining room, past families sharing dinner and couples on dates. Normal people living normal lives, blissfully unaware that they're eating in a place owned by the Chicago Bratva. Sometimes I envy them for their ignorance.
My uncle looks older than his fifty-nine years, silver hair slicked back, deep lines carved into his face by decades of violence and betrayal. Bogdan takes the seat beside him. My cousin's bulk filling his chair, beady eyes watching the area.
"Dante," Radimir says without looking up from the papers spread across the table. "Sit."
I take my place at the head of the table, the chair my father used to occupy. Five years since his heart attack. I still expect to see him there sometimes, cigarette between his fingers, weighing decisions that could mean life or death for entire families.
A server comes in, delivering food that I assume my uncle ordered. Another server, a young, busty blonde that should make my dick jump, but all I can see is Red. She delivers a round of drinks. They both leave, closing the door behind them and giving us total privacy.
"We have a situation,” Radimir says.
"I'm listening."
He slides a stack of papers across the table. "Someone's been skimming from the construction accounts. Small amounts at first, but it's been going on for months. Adds up to about five million."
Five million. Not a fortune by our standards, but enough to matter. Enough to require a response.
It’s the principle. No one steals from the Bratva. No one that keeps breathing.
"How long has this been going on?" I ask, flipping through the pages. The numbers are there, discrepancies that would be invisible to anyone not looking for them.
"Best guess? About eight months.”
"Inside job, then." It's not a question. External theft of this magnitude would require access we don't give to outsiders.
"Has to be." Radimir's fingers drum against the table. "Someone with access to the accounts, someone who understands how we move money."
I push the paperwork away, my mind already working through the possibilities. There are maybe a dozen people with this level of access, all of them trusted, all of them supposedly loyal. Finding the traitor won't be easy.
"I want you to look into it," I tell Bogdan. "Quietly. No one else needs to know we're investigating until we have answers."
"Already started," he says, producing a manila folder from beside his chair. "And I found our thief."
The certainty in his voice surprises me. I was a little pissed that they had already talked about this before it was brought to me. "That was fast."
"When you know what to look for, the trail becomes obvious." Bogdan slides the folder across the table. "Richard Quinn. Been with us for twenty years, worked for your father before he worked for you. Perfect position to know our systems inside and out."
Richard Quinn. The name is familiar, though I can't immediately place the face. One of the accountants, I think. Quiet, competent, the kind of man who fades into the background until you need him.
"You're certain?" I ask, though I'm already reaching for the folder.
"Certain enough," Radimir says. "Which means we have a problem that needs solving."
I open the folder and freeze.
Staring back at me from the top photograph is Hannah—my Red—laughing at what looks like a family barbecue.
The picture is probably a couple of years old.
Her hair is longer and her face softer, but there's no mistaking those storm-green eyes. I’m pretty sure I would recognize her in a crowd of a thousand women all wearing the exact same dress.
There was something about her that I knew. I felt.
Below her photo are others: an older man with graying hair and kind eyes, clearly her father. Surveillance shots and what looks like a complete dossier on the Quinn family.
"This is his family," I say, my voice carefully neutral even as my world tilts off its axis.
"Wife, daughter," Bogdan confirms. "The daughter works in real estate. The wife died twenty years ago—cancer."
I look at Bogdan. Does he recognize Hannah from the woman on the street? He doesn’t act like he does. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.
"The accountant has been stealing from us," Radimir continues, oblivious to my internal crisis. "Five million dollars. You know what that means."
I do know. In the Bratva, stealing from family is a death sentence. No exceptions, no second chances. It doesn't matter that Richard Quinn worked for my father for fifteen years before working for me. It doesn't matter that he's been reliable, trustworthy, almost invisible in his competence.
It definitely doesn't matter that his daughter is the woman I've been thinking about for a month.
"The evidence is solid?" I ask, though I'm not sure what answer I'm hoping for.
"Solid as concrete," Bogdan says. "Bank records, wire transfers, even video surveillance of him accessing the accounts after hours. He's been clever, but not clever enough."
I stare at Hannah's photograph, remembering the way she felt in my arms.
Did she know who I was? Was it really a coincidence she found me in that bar? I was second-guessing everything.
And that pissed me off.
"Maybe we should teach this thief a lesson about fucking with our family," Radimir says, his voice casual, conversational. He took a bite of his pickled herring. "Maybe we should mess with his doch first. Show him what happens when you steal from the Sokolovs."
Daughter. Radimir wants to go after Hannah. The suggestion makes my blood turn to ice.
"That won't be necessary," I say quickly. "If the man is guilty, we deal with him directly."
"But where's the lesson in that?" Radimir asks. "He stole from us. Showed us no respect. Maybe he needs to watch his precious daughter suffer before we put him out of his misery."
The casual cruelty in his tone is nothing new. Radimir has always believed that fear is more effective than respect, that the best way to prevent betrayal is to make the consequences so horrific that no one dares risk them.
Usually, I agree with him.
But the thought of anyone touching Hannah, of using her to send a message, makes something violent and possessive rear up in my chest.
"I said it won't be necessary," I repeat, letting steel creep into my voice. "We handle this clean. No unnecessary complications."
Radimir's eyes narrow slightly, but he nods. "Your call, nephew. But the accountant dies. That much isn't negotiable."
"I understand."
And I do understand. The Bratva has rules, and those rules exist for a reason. Let one person steal without consequences, and suddenly everyone thinks they can help themselves to our money. Richard Quinn signed his own death warrant the moment he decided to embezzle from us.
But Hannah doesn't deserve to pay for her father's sins.
Unless she was in on it. Was she sent to kill me that night? Gather information?
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur of logistics and planning.
When we finally part ways, I’m feeling unsettled.
Later that evening, I call Alexei and ask him to come over. My brother in everything but blood. One of the very, very few people I trust in this world.
I pour three fingers of vodka from the bottle and hand him the glass before pouring one for myself. "We have a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"The kind that involves five million missing dollars and a dead accountant."
“Yeah?” He sips his drink, not showing any emotion.
"My uncle found the evidence. Says it's solid."
“Radimir.”
There's something in Alexei's tone; a note of skepticism that makes me look up.
"You have a problem with the investigation?"
He shrugs. It’s supposed to look casual, but I know him too well.
“Alexei.”
“What’s the proof?”
“He showed me the proof. Bogdan helped investigate. He wouldn't frame an innocent man."
"Wouldn't he?" Alexei's gray eyes are serious.
"I need you to look into it," I say finally. "Quietly. Check Bogdan's evidence, make sure everything adds up."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then we have a bigger problem than embezzlement."
Alexei nods. "I'll need a few days. Maybe a week, depending on how deep this goes."
“Do it,” I say. “Quietly.”
Maybe I can delay the execution, buy Alexei more time to investigate. Maybe I can find a way to protect Hannah from whatever is coming.
Or maybe I'm just fooling myself, looking for excuses to justify wanting a woman I can never have.
"Dante, what aren't you telling me?"
I pause and consider my answer. I could tell him about Hannah. I could explain why Richard Quinn's guilt or innocence matters more to me than it should.
"Just make sure you're thorough. I want to be certain we're making the right call."
He studies my face for a long moment, those gray eyes seeing too much. "This is about more than money, isn't it?"
"It's about justice," I lie. "Making sure we punish the right person."
"Right." His tone suggests he knows there's more to the story, but he doesn't push. "I'll be in touch."