Chapter 1
Chapter
One
Dimitri
“Katya, stop lighting my bar on fire!”
This is the third time this week she’s pulled this shit. Flames dance across the counter in one continuous line, licking the air like mischievous sprites. A nearby patron yanks his hand back, his yelp ringing louder than the bass pumping through the speakers. He’s more surprised by her audacity than injured. And he’s also not a regular. If he were, he’d know better.
At the far end of the counter, my cousin Uri laughs into his glass, the amber liquid rippling with his amusement. He has one of those infectious laughs that spreads faster than fire… and in this case, both are crawling across my bar.
The night’s spilled alcohol and the shot glass of vodka she poured prior to lighting the match burn hot but fast, and no major damage is done. Last time she did this, the tourist in her crosshairs demanded I toss her ass out. Instead, his face met my fist. Repeatedly. Katya is my best employee. We triple the night’s profits when she’s on the schedule, so letting her go isn’t an option.
And she knows it.
I should’ve dealt with this at the beginning of her shift, but I got distracted watching a video Nadia sent me of Ian riding his bike. He’s getting so good at it. Maybe he could go pro someday. But since he’s six, that might be pushing it.
With a sigh, I head to my office and return moments later with a white box in hand. Katya is already pouring water on the fire, a small hiss rising from the wet stone. It smells like scorched liquor and faint chemical fumes. She wipes the mess away with a gray towel, her movements quick but annoyed, yet still slower than usual. Her once-neat ponytail has unraveled into loose strands sticking to her damp neck. She picked up an extra shift this week and the exhaustion is getting to her.
“Open.” I push the box toward her, nudging it closer when she doesn’t reach for it.
She gives me her patented side-eye, her lips pursed in suspicion. Her hands hover over the box—fingers twitching as if it might explode—before she unwraps it slowly, like it’s a precious artifact from a ten-thousand-year-old dig.
She opens it and makes the best happy sound in the world. It’s like a little otter—part laugh, part squeak, part cry. Her glower vanishes and transforms as her joy spreads across her face and her whole body. She bounces a few times on her toes before throwing her arms around me.
“It’s perfect! Thank you,” she says, her voice muffled against my chest.
What should I do with my arms? I know exactly what they want to do, but instead, they hang stiffly by my sides. “Go hang it up,” I say, stepping back.
She bounces a little more, the same way she does when she gets good tips, and props up the plaque that says in three different languages: Don’t touch the bartender. She doesn’t like it.
I was going to add She’s being nice. She doesn’t want to fuck you. But the guy at the shop said it wouldn’t fit.
When the customer who was giving her shit reads the sign, his eyes darting between Katya and me, his mouth opens and closes like a fish before he stammers, “Oh, shit, sorry. I didn’t realize you two were… together.”
Katya waves her hands frantically. “Oh no. No. No. He’s just my boss.”
Just my boss.
I’ve been stabbed before and it didn’t hurt as much as those three words.
Before I can recover, she twists the knife. “He’s engaged to Sveti.”
Huh?
Uri, who’s been snickering this whole time, pauses, looking as confused as I feel.
“Who?”
Katya wobbles her neck like I’m the insane one. “Sveti. Your fiancée. You know, the one you’ve been engaged to since puberty.”
Oh. “You mean Svetlana?” Sometimes I can’t tell if Katya says this kind of shit because of the language barrier or because she’s insane—or both.
She gives a dismissive flick of her hand and waves me off. “Yeah, her. She seems like a Sveti to me.” She pauses to pour a drink, all muscle memory with little conscious thought happening. “Why? What do you call her?”
“Svetlana.”
“All the time? That’s so many letters.” She hands me the drink and shrugs. “You should shorten it. Sveti works better.”
“That’s not a name.”
“Anything can be a name if you say it with the right emotion.” Katya smiles, but it fades when something at the door catches her eye. She stiffens, shoulders straightening and eyes narrowing, aware of what she gauges to be impending danger. “You’ve got company, Boss.”
Three men walk in. They look unassuming, average at best. But my hackles rise the instant their eyes meet mine. Uri stands from his spot at the end of the bar, his casual demeanor replaced by something cold and calculating. He’s silent, but having him near is the comfort I need.
“Evening, gentlemen,” I say, motioning toward the back. “Let’s have this meeting in my office.”
I’ve seen all three from time to time, lurking in the darker corners of my world. There’s no personal conflict here, this is all business.
We leave the bass thumping of the club and head through the dark back hallways to my office. The bright light in the small room is almost jarring when I come here during club hours. I replaced the old bulbs with LEDs a few months ago because I get a headache whenever I read in the low light. Getting old sucks.
Uri follows, leaning against the doorframe as he shuts the door with a soft click. The room feels smaller with our “guests” inside, the tension closing in like a thick fog.
I step behind my desk and motion for the others to take seats. Yullian Volkov sits first. He handles business with brute force when diplomacy fails. His reputation for violence is legendary, but I meet his gaze without flinching. He also has something hanging out of his nose, is it dry skin or dried snot? Either way, it’s hard to focus on anything other than what’s happening on his face, so I train my attention on the next man.
Ivan Petrov is leaner than Yullian, but no less intimidating. And there’s no questionable face debris, so it’s easier to look at him. He has that whole, I’m dangerous like a wolf and my back up plans have back up plans, vibe. But two years ago he locked his keys in a running car and almost got caught by the Omon. Of course, he doesn’t know I know that, so his self-important smirk makes me want to punch him in his face. He drums his fingers against the desk, but it seems to be a rhythm to a song. Whatever it is, Uri notices and hums along under his breath.
Viktor Smirnov stands between the other two because I don’t have any more chairs. Physically, he’s the least commanding, but he’s smart, having proven himself with a lifetime of scores and no record with the Omon to show for it. He’s slippery and stealthy, which makes him the most dangerous man in the room. He’s tapping his foot against my desk.
So much freaking tapping. Are these guys drummers or just annoying?
The one in the middle talks first. For the record, it’s always the one in the middle.
“Last month I spoke with your uncle in America. I didn’t like his response. I met with your father a few days ago.” His voice is smooth, but carries an edge.
I lace my fingers together and settle into my high-back chair, keeping my expression neutral. “Oh, really? And how did that go?”
Viktor frowns, the lines on his face deepening. “Not as good as we had hoped.”
“I see.”
He puts his hands on my desk and leans in. Ugh, his sweaty hands are already leaving prints on the varnish. “Your brother wasn’t helpful either.” Viktor’s eyes narrow, perhaps sensing the resolve in my posture. He shrugs, the movement slow and deliberate. “You’ve always been the reasonable one in your family.”
He reaches inside his coat pocket, and the shift is immediate. My hand slides toward my gun and Viktor freezes, raising an eyebrow at me before continuing, his voice calm. “I’m going to make a generous offer. You’ll be on the ground floor, the first family to get the product. You’ll be kings.”
“We already are,” I counter, my voice steady.
“With Majesty, you’ll be emperors.”
I exhale through my nose, the sound deliberate and unimpressed. “Russia is an awful place to start an empire.” I stand, pointing him to the door. “If my uncle in America rejected your offer, and so did my father and brother, why would you think my answer would be any different?”
Viktor’s jaw tightens. “You were your family’s last chance.” He straightens his shoulders and adjusts his jacket. “There will be consequences. People will get hurt.”
I shrug, unfazed. “There are always consequences, and there will always be more people. It’s not like there’s a shortage.”
Uri steps aside, opening the door without a word, and the men file out, their footsteps echoing in the hall.
Once we’re alone, Uri turns to me, his brow furrowed. “Are you sure about this?”
I glance at him and smirk. “Your father makes terrible choices. But if even he’s saying this is a bad move, well… even the dumbest guy in the room is right every once in a while.”
Threats are nothing new to me. I’ve been in this game my whole life, and I can smell a bad deal from a mile away.
My phone buzzes and rattles under some papers. The phone feels less comfortable in my hand than my gun. With my gun I always know what I’m going to get, but the phone has an element of mystery. Will it be an email? A game update? News?
Svetlana: Are you coming over tonight?
I frown, tossing the phone on the desk. Uri notices. “Is that Sveti?”
I smirk despite myself. “Don’t call her that. And yes.”
“Are you going over there tonight?”
I hesitate, running a hand through my hair. Look, she’s acceptable, I guess. I’ve known her since we were kids. Her family were our allies. But she was the sole survivor after one brutal night. We took her in.
As she got older, she wanted to be with my brother. He’s the heir to the family fortune, has all the power, blah blah blah. But my brother did two stupid things. One involved not paying a debt, and the other was falling in love. With someone not Svetlana.
So Svetlana was stuck with me if she wanted the family’s protection.
I sigh. “Maybe.”
I don’t want to go, but if I don’t, she’ll start cheating on me again. Not that I mind—it’s one less thing on my plate. Mafia marriages are loveless anyway.