Chapter 13
T he barrel of Andrey’s gun dug into the side of Reuben’s head, a cold circle of certainty against the chaos of the moment.
The metal pressed harder with each ragged breath Andrey took, sending nauseating pulses through Reuben’s skull. Broken glass crunched as Andrey dragged him backward toward the elevator, the spilled vodka spreading across the floor of Alexei’s conference room like a flood of lost family traditions.
Reuben’s gaze locked with Nikon’s across the room. In those blue eyes, he saw something he’d never witnessed before... raw fear. Fear for Reuben.
“Nobody follows,” Andrey’s voice pitched higher than normal, a warning sign of escalating panic. “Or I paint the walls with his fucking brains.”
Grigorii’s hands flexed at his sides, his body weight redistributing subtly. Like a veteran fighter reading the rhythm before making his move. “Consider what you’re doing, Andrey. This family can still—”
“Family?” Andrey’s laugh scraped against Reuben’s ear. “The same family that put dad’s vodka on the table? The same family ready to execute me?” His arm tightened around Reuben’s throat. “Don’t talk to me about family.”
Alexei took a careful step to the left, his movements fluid and deliberate. “Every problem has a solution if we approach it rationally. This doesn’t have to end with—”
“With what? A bullet in my head?” Andrey’s breathing grew more erratic against Reuben’s neck. “You always think you’re so fucking clever.”
Reuben estimated the distance to the elevator at twelve feet, while Nikon stood roughly eight feet away diagonally. He registered the slight tremor in Andrey’s gun hand where it pressed against his skull. Though his heart hammered against his ribs (each beat a countdown to what might be his last moment), his mind refused to surrender to panic.
Instead, Reuben clung to numbers and angles, finding control where chaos threatened to overwhelm him. As seconds stretched into eternity, he worked through variables, probabilities, and outcomes—the same defense mechanism he’d relied on since childhood.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep me alive until you’re safely away?” Reuben struggled to keep his voice neutral. “I’m your only guarantee out of here.”
Nikon’s eyes narrowed, then cleared. A silent acknowledgment of Reuben’s strategy.
Their eyes met again, a connection more intimate than words could express. Three rapid blinks from Reuben—their private code developed over late-night whispers, when they’d discussed what to do if the worst happened. A nearly imperceptible nod from Nikon— I’ll catch you . A language created in moments stolen between danger and desire was now their lifeline.
Now.
Reuben let his knees buckle, adrenaline sharpening every sense as he dropped his weight while twisting left. His stomach lurched with the violent movement, and the sour taste of fear flooded his mouth.
The movement caught Andrey off-guard, his grip slipping just enough for Reuben to wrench free. The gun discharged once, the sound exploding near Reuben’s ear, then twice, as bullets embedded themselves in the wall. The acrid smell of gun fire burned Reuben’s nostrils as dust from the impacted wall floated in the surrounding air.
A solid mass slammed into Reuben from the side. It was Nikon tackling him to safety, just as a final single, precise shot rang out. It was quickly followed by a cry of pain and the clatter of Andrey’s gun hitting the floor.
Reuben looked up to see Grigorii standing with his weapon extended, smoke still curling from the barrel. Andrey clutched his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers, shock etched across his face.
Grigorii’s perpetual stone mask cracked for the first time in Reuben’s memory. The fissure started at the corners of his eyes—a tightness that spoke of decades of contained emotion—then spread to his jaw, his lips, until the facade shattered. His voice, always so controlled, broke open like a wound.
“Why?!”
The question hung suspended, raw and primal. It was not the demand of a Matvei enforcer. Instead, it was the plea of an older brother who had carried the family since childhood. Reuben had never witnessed anything so frightening as this glimpse of humanity beneath Grigorii’s armor.
Andrey staggered backward until he hit the wall, sliding down to a seated position. His eyes, wide with shock, darted between his three brothers.
“They weren’t supposed to be there,” he mumbled, his voice small, almost childlike. Blood seeped through his fingers where they pressed against his wound, each pulse pushing out more crimson. His skin had gone pale, the color of surrender. “Nikon and Alexei. At the south casino.” His eyes darted between his brothers, searching for some fragment of understanding. “You weren’t supposed to be hurt.” Not an apology, Reuben noted, but a justification. The distinction spoke volumes about the man bleeding on the floor.
Nikon’s weight lifted from Reuben’s body, though his hand remained gripped around Reuben’s arm, helping him to his feet while keeping him partially shielded behind his broader frame.
“So you admit it.” Nikon’s words landed like ice against steel, brittle and cutting. He positioned himself in front of Reuben, one hand still maintaining contact. “You helped orchestrate the attack with Dmitrii.”
Alexei stepped forward, his usual reserve thinning as he dropped down beside Andrey. “Our own people died in that attack, Andrey.” The twin bond that had once connected them seemed to stretch and warp between them.
Grigorii remained silent, his rage having transmuted into something darker. The weapon in his hand had become an extension of his will.
Reuben observed the tableau before him—three brothers surrounding the fallen fourth—and recognized the ancient pattern of it. Cain and Abel multiplied, playing out in this conference room.
Andrey’s fingers danced against the floor beside him, tapping the floor even as blood continued to seep through his jacket. “I said not to kill anyone. Not family. It was just supposed to be business.”
“Business?” Grigorii advanced, gun still trained on Andrey, his footsteps leaving impressions in the clear vodka on the floor as he approached. “You call betraying your own blood business?”
Alexei pressed a hand against his twin’s uninjured shoulder. “We need to stop the bleeding before we decide what happens next.”
Grigorii’s expression hardened further. “I know exactly what happens next.” He pressed the barrel of his gun against Andrey’s forehead.
Reuben caught the internal battle raging behind Grigorii’s eyes, the duty to family honor clashing with sibling bonds. The eldest Matvei’s brother’s trigger finger tensed.
“No.” Nikon stepped forward, placing his hand over Grigorii’s that held the gun. “Not like this.”
“It’s our way.” Grigorii didn’t lower his weapon. “He knew what would happen when he chose to sell us out.”
Nikon shook his head once, a sharp, decisive motion. “We exile him.”
Reuben watched the subtle shift in the room’s energy. It was the moment when execution transformed into something else. Something that, from Andrey’s widening eyes, might be worse.
“Exile?” Grigorii’s brow furrowed. “After what he’s done?”
“Nikon’s right.” Alexei moved to stand beside his older brother. “This way, he serves as a message. A living reminder of what happens to those who betray the Matvei name.”
A strange sound escaped Andrey’s throat—half laugh, half sob. “Just do it, Grinch.” He used Grigorii’s childhood nickname for the first time in Reuben’s presence. “Finish it. Pull the trigger.”
Blood continued to pool beneath Andrey, mixing with the spilled vodka in a grotesque communion. The towering glass walls of the conference room reflected the grim scene: four brothers at a crossroads, with Reuben as the unwilling catalyst for their fracture.
Grigorii lowered his weapon slowly, deliberately. Each centimeter it dropped seemed to add years to his face, carving deeper lines into his forehead and around his mouth. He holstered the gun, then straightened his jacket.
“Andrey Matvei.” His voice took on a formal cadence that raised the hairs on the back of Reuben’s neck. The words seemed to emanate not just from Grigorii, but from generations of Matvei patriarchs. “From now on, you no longer have the protection of the Matvei’s.”
The atmosphere in the room crystallized into something cold and absolute. Even in Alexei’s ultramodern executive tower—with its sleek furniture and digital displays lining the walls—they were enacting a scene as old as organized crime itself: the severing of a family member. “Your territory is forfeit.” Grigorii continued, each syllable heavy with finality. “Your protection withdrawn.” He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his posture embodying the authority of his position. “Anyone who offers you shelter, resources, or aid will face the full consequence of Matvei retribution.”
Andrey’s face drained of what little color remained. His lips moved silently, forming words that wouldn’t come. His eyes darted toward the elevator—his failed escape route—with an animal desperation that made Reuben’s stomach twist.
“You will be monitored.” Grigorii’s voice had returned to its customary granite hardness. “You will be watched. You will live knowing that every step you take happens only because we allow it.” The eldest brother delivered each sentence like the closing of a door. Or the sealing of a tomb.
Nikon stepped forward, his posture shifting from protective to predatory. His hand finally left Reuben’s back as he circled his younger brother. “And all the operational details you knew will be changed.” His voice was colder than Reuben had ever heard it, even in his most ruthless business negotiations. “All contacts and routes altered. Your passwords, access codes, safe houses—all will vanish.” Nikon’s tactical mind methodically stripped away every layer of Andrey’s future. “Your knowledge expires at this moment.”
“Every account will be emptied,” Alexei added softly, “including those you thought were safely hidden behind shell corporations in the Caymans and Singapore.” His fingers traced patterns in the air, as if manipulating invisible strings of data. “I’ve already set in motion the liquidation of all your assets. Your lines of credit are being severed as we speak.”
“Do it!” Andrey suddenly screamed, his voice shattering into something feral and wounded. Spittle and blood sprayed from his lips as he convulsed forward. “Just kill me! Finish it!” He lunged toward Grigorii despite his wound, reaching with bloody fingers that left crimson streaks on the polished leather of his brother’s shoes. “They’ll all come for me now. Without protection, I’m just a walking target!”
His desperation transformed him from the cocky, defiant Andrey who had held a gun to Reuben’s head into something broken and pitiful. Reuben found himself both repulsed and transfixed by the deterioration. The gun had never made Andrey as dangerous as this raw, exposed nerve of a man now thrashing on the floor.
Grigorii stepped back, avoiding contact with Andrey. “You chose this, Andrey. Now you live with the consequences.”
Grigorii signaled to his two men already posted in the conference room with a subtle twitch of his fingers. The guards responded immediately, one of them the same man Andrey had disarmed earlier. The men moved quickly, lifting Andrey from the floor, one on each side. Blood from his wound left a smear on the wall behind him.
“Take him downstairs. Have Dr. Rayner treat the wound.” Grigorii’s instructions emerged, clipped and precise. No emotion colored the words, as if he were talking about removing office furniture rather than his youngest brother. “Then release him.”
“Release him where?” One of the men asked, confusion momentarily disrupting his professional mask.
Grigorii’s expression remained impassive, but something terrible moved behind his eyes. “Anywhere. Nowhere.” A dismissive flick of his wrist. “I don’t give a fuck. He no longer matters.”
Andrey’s face contorted in a mixture of rage and despair as he was dragged toward the door. His eyes found Reuben’s for one fractional moment. It was a look that promised this wasn’t over. “You think this is mercy?” His voice cracked. “This is worse than death! This is—” His words cut off as the door closed behind them, the hydraulic mechanism sealing with a soft hiss.
The silence that followed pressed against Reuben’s ears. Four men left standing in a room stained with blood and vodka—symbols more powerful than any words that had been spoken.
Nikon moved to Reuben’s side, his hand finding the small of Reuben’s back. The touch grounded him, pulled him back from the analytical distance his mind had created as a shield.
“Are you hurt?” Nikon’s voice was low, private.
Reuben shook his head. His body felt strangely disconnected, operating on some separate circuit from his racing mind. He leaned into Nikon’s solid body, drawing strength from the contact as the adrenaline began to ebb.
Grigorii turned to face them, his expression inscrutable as his gaze settled on Nikon’s hand against Reuben’s back. For the first time, Reuben witnessed something like acceptance in the eldest Matvei’s eyes.
Grigorii addressed Reuben directly. “You created the opening we needed to get in the shot.” It wasn’t a thank you—the Matvei brothers rarely trafficked in gratitude—but it was an acknowledgment.
All Reuben could manage—with adrenalin still coursing through his veins—was a curt nod of acknowledgment in return.
Alexei moved to the intercom panel on the wall, pressing a button. “Send a cleaning crew to the conference room. Discretion protocols.” He turned back to his brothers. “I’m starting the financial takedown now. I’ll be up all night making sure he’s left with nothing.”
Grigorii nodded once, then pulled out his phone, stepping away to issue orders in rapid-fire Russian. The machinery of the Matvei empire was already shifting to adapt to the removal of one of its limbs.
Nikon’s arm slid around Reuben’s waist, pulling him closer. “I need to take you home.” Nikon’s words were simple, but the weight behind them was not.
Reuben leaned deeper into the contact, allowing himself to feel everything once again. The emotional wall he’d built had protected him during the crisis, but now he let it crumble.
He had been a hostage. He had almost died.
The elevator doors opened, revealing the cleaning crew; efficient, anonymous figures who would erase all physical evidence of what had happened here. But some stains couldn’t be wiped away.
As Nikon guided him into the elevator, Reuben cast one last glance at the conference room. The spilled vodka. The blood. The broken glass. Symbols of tradition shattered and remade into something else; something he was now irrevocably part of.
The doors closed with a soft chime, isolating them from the scene. Nikon pulled Reuben against his chest, his arms encircling him completely now. As he cupped Reuben’s face with trembling hands, their foreheads touched for one breath before their lips met.
A beat later, Nikon was kissing him with a desperate hunger, his fingers threading into Reuben’s hair. And Reuben tasted salt—his own tears or Nikon’s, he couldn’t tell—as they clung to each other, the tight knot of adrenaline and fear finally unraveling between them.