Chapter 14 Petyr
PETYR
I step through the doors of the White Russian Club with a dark face and an even darker mood.
The sound hits me first. The thump of the bass through the floor, the hum of voices and clink of glasses.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
A hostess stands by the podium. She lifts her head as soon as she sees me. “Good evening, Mr. Gubarev. So good to see you again.”
I don’t answer.
She approaches with a smile despite that. By now, the staff here knows not to test me when I’m like this. “This way, please.”
I shove my hands in my pockets and follow her into the crowd. She’s short, petite, with generous curves, the kind of woman that would have had my head turning if this had been a year ago.
But it’s not a year ago. I can’t even think of looking at another woman now. Not after Sima.
As we weave through the bar area, the air grows thicker with perfume and the sharp bite of alcohol. The neon lights sweep across bare skin. The dance floor is a mess of warm bodies in scant, expensive clothing. The same as always.
Just like we designed it.
Once, this club was ours. Mine and Dimitri’s. Lev’s, too, in a way, since he handled the day-to-day more than either one of us. We built it out of an empty industrial husk and turned it into the most exclusive place in Manhattan.
Soon, every major city in the country wanted a White Russian of their own. Our first solo business venture, and our biggest success.
We spent countless nights here, at our table, perfecting the formula. Closed deals in the back of this place more than in our own offices. The music was loud enough to rattle our bones, but we didn’t give a shit back then. We were young, reckless.
We used to go back home with a different woman on our arm every night. Before Dimitri married, we were the most eligible bachelors in New York, and there wasn’t a single girl who wouldn’t have traded her mother for a diamond ring from any one of us.
Our table is on permanent reserve now, but it’s been ages since anyone occupied it.
I don’t like to call it sentiment. It’s nothing like that. I prefer to think of that table as property I don’t always need, but want to be ready for me at the snap of my fingers.
The fact that I’d been saving it so we could all toast to Dimitri’s full recovery there isn’t something I like dwelling on.
My jaw tightens. Lev turned traitor and I killed him for it. Dimitri lies half-dead in a hospital bed, a tube jammed down his throat. The last time I saw him truly alive, he was brash, defiant. A young pakhan at the top of his game.
But that man doesn’t exist anymore. What’s left of my brother is a shell, and what’s left of my best friend is rotting at the bottom of the Hudson.
Those nights with Dimitri and Lev are gone. Now, I run the place alone. No partners.
I never thought I’d have to miss those days. Nostalgia isn’t a feeling I like dwelling on. A pakhan can afford to feel only two things: anger and satisfaction.
Until recently, I was satisfied. When Sima was mine, I barely cared about going out, let alone paying a visit to my usual hunting ground for women. I didn’t need any of that. At the end of the day, I just wanted to go home to her.
When I did go out, it was to show her the world and hand it all to her on a silver platter. I liked seeing her taken care of. I got a kick out of giving her more than she even knew how to ask for. She didn’t think she deserved it, but I knew it wasn’t true. She deserved the world.
Or so I fucking thought.
But she wasn’t the girl I thought she was. That part of our lives feels like a joke now.
She ran off on me. And last night, she tried to run again.
I should have seen it coming. No—I did see it coming. Every precaution I took was precisely to stop her from running.
But she still found a way.
I don’t want to think about what would have happened if Luka hadn’t been there. The idea of her slipping off into the night, with my child inside her, is enough to make rage rise through me again. I told myself she couldn’t be trusted, and she proved me right.
Dragging her back was the only choice. She looked at me like I was a monster. She doesn’t realize I’m still guarding her best interests, that I’m doing this for her as well as myself. For our child. If she leaves, there’s no telling who’ll find her.
As we cross the last stretch of the club, Sima’s words replay in my head.
“I’m not your pet. I’m your wife.”
Even now, I hear the desperation in her voice. But I can’t let it weaken me. She chose her side, and it wasn’t mine.
When she unbuttoned her blouse, though—I almost gave in. Part of me wanted to let go of my anger, tear down the distance between us and make her mine again.
But I stopped myself. If I touched her, I’d be the fool again. And that’s not a part I can afford to play twice.
The only true thing she showed me last night is our baby. I felt her kick. Solid, real. My child. For as long as it lasted, I wasn’t the ruthless pakhan of the Gubarev Bratva, or the scorned husband with a runaway wife.
I was just a man feeling his daughter move for the first time.
I should have pulled away. Instead, I lingered. Let Sima manipulate me with the one weapon I can’t neutralize. She looked at me like she wanted me to admit the truth: that we’re bound together in a way neither of us can escape.
So I left. Locked the door behind me, put as much distance between us as I could.
It was the only way. If I gave in to her demands and let her roam free, she’d have vanished again.
Whatever else happens with us, that child is mine. And no matter how much Sima fights me, no one will take her—or the baby—from under my roof.
I force myself to snap out of it. Tonight isn’t about thinking in circles. It’s about making alliances.
I don’t trust easily. After Sima, I trust even less. But I’m not stupid. In this line of work, no one survives long without the right hands at their side.
Without Lev and Dimitri, I’m exposed. I need to solidify what’s mine.
And the man I’m meeting tonight might just help me do that.
The hostess guides me to the velvet curtain at the back, where my private table sits in its own private room. She pulls it aside with a practiced hand. “Your guest is expecting you, sir.”
I give her a curt nod and step past her into the privé.
The noise cuts off. In here, polished hardwood gleams. Rare bottles line the shelves. I glance at the man sitting at my table. He returns my gaze.
“Petyr Gubarev.” He doesn’t stand. His legs are wide, his posture commanding, like he’s used to being in charge of every room he walks into.
“Misha Lykov. Hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
“Not long.” His voice is calm as he gestures for me to sit, like he owns this place instead of me.
I settle back into my chair and don’t break eye contact.
The description Ivan gave me was dead on. Tall, lean, hard lines to his frame. His hair brushes his shoulders, unkempt in that way that young women find sexy and mothers can’t wait to attack with scissors. He’s got green eyes so pale I wonder for a second if he’s wearing contacts.
The hostess interrupts our staring contest. “Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?”
“Macallan 25,” Misha says without looking at her. “Neat.”
“Great. And the usual for you, Mr. Gubarev?”
“No.” I study Misha for a moment. “Bring a bottle of Macallan for both of us.”
“Right away, sir.” She smiles and leaves with a bow.
Misha’s eyes follow her out. I can see the old me in him—eyeing women, planning his conquest for the night. They say my future business partner is never seen with the same woman on his arm twice, and I believe it.
His reputation precedes him in other fields as well. His past, for one. They say he used to be special forces back in Russia, and that’s where he got his weapons dealing connections. Rumors cling to him, each darker than the last.
That suits me just fine. I don’t need a saint—I need someone ruthless and reliable. If half the stories are true, Misha Lykov is both.
“Heard a lot about you,” I say. “Most sounded like bullshit, though. Hard to know what sticks.”
He tilts his head with a faint smirk. “Right back at you. They say you tear your enemies apart with your bare hands.”
“Do they, now?”
His gaze turns a shade colder. “They also say your wife ran out on you.”
I curl my fist under the table. He’s testing me—I get that. If I lose my shit over such a lukewarm jab, he’ll know I can’t handle his business.
And yet the mention of Sima is enough to make my control fray.
“People say a lot of things,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“That they do.”
Our bottle arrives. The hostess gracefully pours us a glass each. Her eyes keep darting to Misha’s face.
“Thanks, milaya,” he purrs at her.
She blushes a pretty shade of pink.
When she’s out of earshot, I turn to Misha. “Should I give you two the room?”
“Not at all.” He takes a swig of his Macallan. “The night is young.”
“So is my staff.” Though that hostess was probably around Sima’s age. “I suppose Mrs. Lykov isn’t the jealous type.”
“Mrs. Lykov isn’t any type at all,” he retorts. “Because she doesn’t exist. I ride alone.”
“Smart.” I take a swig, too. “No ugly marital rumors chasing you, then.”
We stay like that for a moment. He watches me; I watch him. Both of us are here to find out what the other is made of. Every word we trade, no matter how seemingly innocent, is a test.
Finally, Misha leans back. “I believe you have a pitch for me.”
“You don’t beat around the bush.”
“I hate wasting time.”
“Good. So do I.” I straighten up a fraction. “You’ve seen what I can move in this city. Drugs, tech. Black market goods.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Then you know I can handle more.”
“How much more?”
“However much you need to move,” I say. “You partner with me, and your weapons will slide into the city unnoticed.”
“Sounds almost too good to be true.” He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Where’s the catch?”
“Exclusivity. You bring your shipments to me and only me. I push them through my network and make sure they reach their buyers.”
“What about your exclusivity to me?”
“Anybody else tries to bring stock into New York, it’ll vanish,” I say. “No weapons but yours make it through.”
He leans back, pensive. His fingers start tapping on his glass. “What do you take?”
“Twenty percent. In exchange, you get secure storage, smuggling, and clean distribution. No leaks, zero heat from the cops.”
His brow lifts. “That’s a heavy slice.”
“It buys you peace of mind. You won’t find better.”
Misha studies me for a long time. I can’t be the first person to come to him with a deal for his guns. No doubt he’s got other offers on the table. But I’m the only one who can make good on my promises, and he knows that.
“Say I buy in,” he replies eventually. “Say I trust you. There’s one problem.”
“What would that be?”
“You’re at war.” He doesn’t mince words. “The Danilos want your head. They’re a big family.”
“They’re nobodies without Anatoli.”
“So you say, but word on the street is different.” His gaze hardens. “I don’t walk into burning buildings unless I lit the match myself. And you, Gubarev, are on fire.”
I don’t blink. “Wars end.”
“They do. But I won’t be found on the losing side.” He tosses back the rest of his drink. “I hear Nikolai Danilo himself is in New York. Word is he came to handle you personally.”
“You seem to put a lot of stock in rumors.”
“I don’t dismiss them.” He shrugs. “And neither should you. If their pakhan is here, your streets are compromised. Partnering with you makes me a target. I need to know if you’re a man who’s about to fall or the one who will still be standing when the smoke clears.”
I set my glass down hard. “If Nikolai thinks he can set foot on my streets, he’ll regret it.”
“I believe you.” He regards me with an even look. “The thing is, I think he believes you, too. Which makes me wonder what it is that he wants so badly that he’d risk your wrath.”
My jaw tightens. “Something that belongs to me.”
“Your wife,” he guesses.
“She’s mine.” The words rip out of me. “They’ll never take her. Not while I still breathe.”
One eyebrow floats up, but all he says is, “What does she think of that?”
“It doesn’t matter.” My fingers tighten around the glass. “She gave me a child. That makes her mine.”
Finally, Misha barks out a laugh. “You’re stone-cold, Gubarev. I like that. You really believe you can win this war?”
“I don’t believe—I know.” My voice turns steely. “I’ve cut their ranks, gutted their leadership, and strung up their prince from rafters. If Nikolai really did come, then he’s walked into a trap he doesn’t yet see. That’s what I know.”
Silence stretches, thick with tension. I don’t appreciate Misha bringing up Sima again. But the pakhan in me knows that, in his shoes, I’d be asking the same exact questions.
I need this alliance. It’ll make me the most powerful player on the board. Strong enough that the Danilos will look like ants.
Misha runs a hand over his stubbled jaw. Then he nods. “Exclusivity, then. Twenty percent to you. Storage and smuggling under your roof. If your war doesn’t burn me, we make a lot of money together.”
“Good.” I refill both glasses and lift mine. “To business.”
He raises his own. “To alliances that don’t waste my time.”
We shake hands, and the deal is done.