Chapter 2
PAVEL
Surprises are rarely pleasant. They arrive wrapped in blood, betrayal, or paperwork from the federal government, and sometimes all three at once.
So when Igor told me there would be a meeting and that the man insisted on waiting in my office rather than one of the conference rooms, I knew immediately the news would not improve my morning.
Now the man sits across from me, explaining why.
He calls himself Guy, which is dubious. I doubt that is his real name. Men who trade in information rarely give away things of value for free, and names are valuable.
The man himself is unimpressive to look at—tall with the kind of face that would vanish in a crowd before you could remember it.
That is precisely why Igor uses him. The best informants are forgettable.
Loud men with big personalities attract attention.
Quiet men disappear into the background and hear everything.
He speaks carefully, like someone measuring every word before it leaves his mouth. I’m listening, but I watch the city through the glass wall behind my desk as he speaks. I prefer a view while learning the worst possible news.
Manhattan is only beginning to wake. Sunlight slides between the towers and spills across the streets far below, turning the Hudson into a strip of pale silver.
“…so the paperwork cleared last week,” he says.
I hear him. I simply do not answer right away.
Technically, this man belongs to Igor. My sovetnik has cultivated his own network over the years—informants, smugglers, brokers of quiet favors. Igor is a brilliant man who worries about everything, so I understand why he arranged this meeting.
I wish he hadn’t needed to.
“What you are saying,” I reply after a moment, turning my attention back to him, “is that a man serving two life sentences is leaving prison after seven years.”
Guy shifts in the chair across from my desk. The leather creaks softly beneath him. “There were… arrangements.”
Bribes, he means.
Fedor Vinogradov was sentenced for four murders. A bombing. Four men were reduced to smoke and rubble because he believed one of them had betrayed him to Interpol. The courts called it terrorism. The newspapers called it a gang execution.
I called it predictable. After all, I’m the one who made him believe it was his only course of action.
He should be sitting in a concrete box somewhere in upstate New York for the rest of his life. Yet here we are.
“He paid the right people,” Guy continues quietly. “Judges, administrators… anyone who could move things quietly. Anyone he couldn’t pay, he threatened.”
I absorb the information without reacting outwardly. Seven years. That’s how long Vinogradov has been off the board. Seven years for my organization to expand. Seven years for old enemies to grow comfortable and new alliances to form.
Seven years for him to plan whatever comes next.
“When?” I ask.
Guy hesitates before answering. “Soon.”
My patience thins slightly. “That is not a useful answer.”
He shifts again, clearly aware that he’s standing very close to the edge of my tolerance. “Within days. Maybe sooner. Possibly today.”
It’s been a long time since I expected a bullet.
Every pakhan knows their existence is a target. But when you’ve made the right alliances and hurt the right people, you start to believe a certain amount of safety exists in your world.
My father used to say that safety is an illusion.
Seven years of radio silence from that bastard has left me comfortable with my position in the city.
Perhaps too comfortable. Men like Vinogradov rarely arrive quietly.
Old grudges will wake up. Old alliances will test themselves.
Some will decide the balance of power in this city has changed while he was gone.
He will want to prove them wrong as soon as possible, which means he’s coming for me.
My gaze drifts briefly toward the closed office door.
Beyond it sits Molly Bennett, organizing the chaos of my day with relentless optimism and the sort of cheerful competence that continues to surprise me. She is sunshine in human form—curvy, warm, constantly smiling at people who do not deserve it, and baking the occasional brownie.
I hate chocolate. But I’ll never tell her.
I keep her close because she’s efficient and intelligent, because she understands the rhythm of my business better than most men who claim to be part of it. She’s a living reminder that good exists in the world. I need that because, doing what I do, it’s too easy for me to forget my humanity.
But that is all I can ever have with Molly. Boss and employee. Professional only.
No matter what I want.
Guy finishes speaking and falls silent, clearly hoping the worst of the conversation is behind him. Unfortunately for him, that is rarely how these things work. Information like this is never simple. People who survive in my world do not rely on the first version of the truth they are offered.
He avoids my eyes for a moment, glancing toward the window as if the view of Manhattan might somehow rescue him from the conversation. It will not.
“You are certain that Vinogradov is leaving prison.”
Guy nods immediately. “Yes. The documents were processed through three different offices. I verified them myself.”
“That is not what I asked.”
The correction is quiet, but it has the desired effect.
His shoulders stiffen slightly, and this time he meets my gaze more carefully before speaking again.
“I’m as certain as I can be without watching the prison gates open.
But everything points to the same outcome.
Someone paid a great deal of money to make the process happen. ”
I consider that. Money can move many things in this country—politicians, judges, entire regulatory agencies, if the price is high enough. Vinogradov was always ambitious, but ambition alone does not purchase early release from two life sentences.
Someone helped him. Someone with influence and resources.
“He has been incarcerated for a long time. The authorities have watched his organization since before he was sentenced. Which means he had help. Do you know who arranged the bribes?”
Guy shakes his head. “Not yet. But the payments moved through accounts connected to people who have worked with him before.”
Which means the network that supported him seven years ago still exists, waiting quietly for his return. Still operates beyond the authorities’ radar.
Or it operates with them.
When Vinogradov disappeared into prison, the balance of power in this city shifted quickly.
His territory fractured, smaller crews scrambling to claim pieces of what he left behind.
Some of those pieces eventually found their way into my organization.
Others simply vanished as men decided they preferred to work under someone more stable.
Vinogradov will not see it that way. In his mind, everything he lost still belongs to him.
“Has he contacted anyone in the city yet?”
Guy hesitates, then shakes his head again. “Unsure. But if he’s getting out early, he’s probably been planning his return for a long time.”
That much is obvious.
The thought irritates me more than it alarms me. Disruption is an unavoidable part of business. Still, I prefer to know exactly where the disruption is coming from before it reaches my doorstep.
“Continue watching. If you hear anything about where he goes after his release, tell Igor immediately.”
Guy nods quickly. “Of course.”
I study him for another moment before adding, “And if you learn who helped him leave prison, that information becomes your highest priority.”
“I will see to it you are informed the moment I am.”
The conversation pauses again, though this silence is less tense than the one that followed his original announcement.
The essential facts are on the table now.
Vinogradov is coming back to the city, and that means the careful structure I have built over the past seven years may soon face a challenge.
Men like Vinogradov do not limit their attention to direct rivals. They look for leverage wherever it exists. Secretaries, accountants, assistants—anyone close enough to the center of power to be useful.
Molly is very close to that center. And far too visible.
I shift my attention back to Guy, forcing the thought away before it grows into something more complicated. “Is there anything else I should know?”
Guy clears his throat and shifts in the chair again, though this time the movement looks less like discomfort and more like careful preparation. “It may not mean anything, but when the paperwork for Vinogradov’s release moved through the system, a few other names appeared in the same channels.”
“What names?”
“People connected to his old organization,” he says. “Men who disappeared after the bombing. Some of them are active again.”
That is unfortunate.
When Vinogradov went to prison, his structure collapsed almost overnight. The men who had followed him scattered quickly, some leaving the city entirely while others tried to reinvent themselves under different leadership. Most of them understood that the world had moved on without them.
If they are resurfacing now, it means someone has been contacting them. Which means Vinogradov has been preparing for his return for longer than anyone realized.
I lean back slightly in my chair and let that possibility settle into place. A man rebuilding his network before he even leaves prison is not acting out of desperation. He is acting with a plan. With help on the outside.
“What kind of activity?”
“Meetings,” Guy says. “Small ones. Quiet ones.”
I consider the situation for a moment while Guy waits for my reaction.
It’s not the first time an old rival has attempted to reenter the city after a long absence.
Most of them discover quickly that the world they left behind no longer belongs to them.
Still, memories have a way of motivating foolish decisions.
I study the skyline again for a moment, watching a ferry move slowly across the river. Seven years ago, Vinogradov’s explosion forced several powerful people in this city to pay attention to a conflict they would have preferred to ignore. That mistake cost him everything.
If he has learned anything during his time in prison, his return will be quieter. Which makes him more dangerous than before, and he was a thorn in my side back then. If he’s worse now…
Vinogradov’s return may not change the balance of power in this city, but it will create turbulence. Turbulence spreads outward, affecting everyone close enough to the center.
Everyone close enough to matter.
He will look for leverage when he arrives. Bratva returning from prison always do. They study their enemies for weaknesses—family members, trusted employees, anyone whose presence suggests an emotional attachment.
I have spent years making sure I do not possess such attachments.
Unfortunately, Molly Bennett has begun to test that discipline in ways I did not anticipate.
Those tight pants. Her low-cut sweaters that showcase every bit of her ample cleavage.
The damn dress she wore today, that I swear she wore only to test me.
Strawberry blonde waves that would look perfect fanned out on my pillow.
Warm brown eyes that practically glow with sweetness.
It’s not only her body, though, that would be enough to garner my focus.
It’s her.
She’s quick to laugh or to put people at ease.
She tap-dances through the day, managing every issue I throw her way.
There’s no artifice to her. After three years of working for me, she hasn’t changed, hasn’t become embittered.
She came with a sense of discretion—knows when to ask questions and when to shut the hell up.
In short, she’s perfect. That’s the problem.
I return my attention to Guy before the thought can develop further. “You will continue watching. If Vinogradov contacts anyone directly, or if his people begin making aggressive moves toward territory currently under my control, I want to know immediately.”
Guy nods quickly. “Of course.”
“Do not speak about this conversation to anyone.”
Guy nods again, this time more firmly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I tip my head to the door, and he takes his cue to leave. When it shuts behind him, I breathe in the silence. Molly will check on me. She always does after meetings. Do I need anything? Is there anything she can do for me?
Lurid things come to mind, but I would never ask them of her. I cannot cross that line. The safest thing for both of us would be to maintain the distance that has existed between us since the day I hired her.
Unfortunately, that distance has been narrowing. Each time I pass by her, it takes restraint not to reach for her. Not to smell her hair or grab her round ass. When I think of her, a low ache persists in my balls.
I ignore it as I always have. There are practical matters at hand. Vinogradov’s return will require preparation, and preparation demands clarity.
If Molly Bennett is becoming a weakness, then the solution is simple.
Weaknesses must be controlled.