♞Chapter Seven♞
Mikhail
I lean back against the leather of the car seat, rolling my sleeves up to my forearms, letting the cool air brush against my heated skin.
The driver weaves through the streets, past the old industrial districts where half the warehouses are under my family’s control.
It’s a route I know like the back of my hand.
Fifteen minutes later, we pull into a private underground parking garage beneath one of our clubs. The moment I walk into the room, I’m hit with the scent of expensive cigars and whiskey. The low hum of Russian conversations fills the air.
Roman sits at the head of the long table, broad shoulders relaxed.
It's unsettling how much he mirrors our father. The Bratva barely flinched when the old man’s heart gave out.
Father molded a leader, alright. A harsh, controlling bastard, yes, but you don't raise titans with a gentle hand.
We never knew 'soft.' Not from him, and certainly not from the woman who picked a needle over her own children.
She OD'd when we were too young to even understand what 'gone' meant.
“Mikhail,” he greets, gesturing to the chair beside him. “Glad you decided to show.”
The room is filled with familiar faces—our cousins, trusted men, enforcers. They talk, laugh, pour drinks, but beneath it all is an undercurrent of unspoken tension.
“How’s the laundering?” Roman asks, cutting straight to business.
I pour myself a drink. “Done.”
His lips twitch in approval. “Good. Our little side venture has been profitable.”
Little side venture. Like laundering millions through high-end businesses is some pet project.
“Would be more profitable if you weren’t so fucking absent all the time,” one of our cousins, Viktor, mutters.
“Stay in your lane, Viktor,” Roman warns, but there’s no bite to it. If anything, he agrees.
“You belong in this, Mikhail,” Viktor grumbles. “You always have.”
“I do my part.”
“That’s the bare minimum. We need you more involved,” Roman spits.
We’ve had this conversation before. I stepped back because I want to know if this is really mine, if this life is something I want or just something I was born into.
I don’t like being forced into anything.
Maybe I’m good at it, maybe it comes easy, but does that mean I have to dedicate the rest of my life to it?
I need to figure that out for myself. I’ve always felt like something was missing in my life, something that kept me from being fully committed to the Bratva.
“We have a problem,” Sergei grunts. “The art forgery ring is behind schedule.”
“How behind?” I ask.
“Three weeks.”
Roman scowls. “Because of Pyotr?”
“Because of Pyotr,” Sergei confirms. “The accident left him fucked up. He’s recovering, but he won’t be painting for a while.”
Pyotr was one of the best. He could recreate a masterpiece indistinguishable from the original. “I need a solution,” Roman hisses, looking between us. I don’t say her name. I don’t even let my mind form it fully, but the thought of her lingers like smoke in my lungs.
Lola is making this difficult.
I had control once. Restraint. Discipline.
But she’s testing me.
Last night I almost snapped. She pushed me, taunted me, pretending to be so innocent while doing the filthiest things. Licking the remnants of my own pleasure off her fingers. I barely held myself back. She doesn’t know how much further I’ll let her go before I give in.
But no one can know about her.
Not Roman. Not Sergei. No one.
If they find out, she’ll be pulled into this world, used, owned, the same way everything else is. They won’t see her as a person, but another asset to exploit.
And I won’t fucking let that happen.
“We need someone,” Sergei repeats, rubbing his jaw. “Someone good.”
I watch the amber liquid swirl in my glass. “Figure it out.”
“You already have a solution, don’t you?” Roman grunts.
I meet his gaze. “If I did, you’d know.”
“Lying to me now?”
Before I can bite back, the doors burst open.
One of our men stumbles in, bloodied, panting, gripping his side. “Pakhan,” he gasps, addressing Roman first. “There’s a problem.”
The room stills.
“Speak.” Roman commands.
“A shipment was hit. We have bodies.”
“What shipment?” Roman’s voice is deadly.
“The drugs,” the man wheezes. “The ones meant for the Moroccans. Someone knew and planned this.”
Fucking hell.
“Who?” Roman snarls.
The man hesitates. “Daniil.”
That fucker. I never trusted him. If word gets out that we lost control of a shipment, that we can’t deliver... it’s not just money at stake. It’s power. And power is everything.
“You still want to keep your distance?” Roman drawls, but he already knows the answer. Because just like that, whether I want to or not, I'm in.
The warehouse is too quiet when we arrive.
I exit the sleek black Range Rover first, adjusting my cuffs.
Roman moves beside me, Sergei and the others fanning out in a loose semicircle.
We push through the rusted doors, and the stench of blood hits me immediately.
Daniil is on his knees in a prayer position.
Our best enforcer, Vadim, stands beside him, a bloody knife twirling between his fingers.
“He talked?” Roman asks.
Vadim grins. “Oh, he screamed.”
The bastard’s one good eye lifts to mine.
There’s fear there, but also resignation. He knows he won’t leave this room alive.
I crouch in front of him. “Where is it?”
A wet cough. “I told them where it was. They have it already.”
“Who?” I snarl.
His lips split open. “The Albanian cartel.” That was bold. And stupid.
Sergei lets out a dark chuckle. “They really think they can play in our city?”
“They sure made a statement.” I say.
Roman cracks his neck. “Then we respond accordingly.”
***
The Albanian safe house is tucked between abandoned factories.
By the time we arrive, our men have already cut the power.
My pulse slows. My breathing evens out. Sergei moves first, scaling the side of the building.
Roman and I take the front. The guards outside never even see it coming. A silencer. Two shots. They drop.
I push the door open, stepping over their bodies.
Inside, chaos erupts. Gunfire cracks through the dark.
Men shout in Albanian. I move like a shadow, weaving between crates, dropping bodies.
I catch a glimpse of Roman. He’s brutally efficient, a blade flashing in the dim light as he buries it deep into a man’s throat.
He always preferred knives over bullets. Said it was more... primal.
Sergei takes a bullet to the vest but doesn’t even slow down. He slams a bastard’s head against the concrete until there’s nothing left but pulp. The air is thick with the scent of gunpowder and blood. Then silence. The room is littered with bodies.
Roman wipes a streak of blood from his cheek, breathing hard. “Check the shipment.”
We move to the back. The crates are there, untouched. I pry one open, running my fingers through the white powder inside. Pure. Uncut. It’s all here. Roman claps a hand on my shoulder. “Not bad, little brother.”
“You know,” I taunt, “people have gotten real comfortable testing us ever since I started slacking off.”
Roman doesn’t laugh at my joke, he scowls instead. “You know that sooner or later, you need to return, Mikhail,” Roman sighs. “And you like it, no matter how much you pretend otherwise.”