Chapter 2
Mikhail
Another dead end.
I set down the PI’s worthless report and rub my temples, wondering why I keep paying him, when a firm knock reminds me the day isn’t finished disappointing me yet.
Music blasts through the gap as the door cracks open, and I have to bury my recoil. Fucking obnoxious.
My second stands motionless at the entrance, hands clasped behind his back, waiting.
“How was your witch hunt?” I stretch my arms behind my head, settling into the chair.
“Uneventful.” Ivan breaks his typical solemn expression with a playful smirk. “I’ve brought him to you, as you asked.”
The little shit thinks he’s about to get a show.
Not that he’s completely wrong.
“What does he know?” I ask, shuffling the report on my desk and stowing it in the cabinet below.
“Not a thing, boss.”
Ah. The corner of my lip curves up.
“Send him in.”
Ivan slips out the door, returning in seconds with baggage in tow. Two of my enforcers push through the narrow entrance, an older, lanky man stumbling between them. Misplaced confidence leaks from his posture as he struts into my office, a cocky grin on his scruffy jaw.
As one of the few remaining pillars of my father’s reign, it’s not at all surprising that the fucker thinks he has a leg to stand on in this arena.
That’s what my father did best, after all.
He fed his higher ranks with limitless money and power, covering up each rogue slip-up and legal dispute until they grew gluttonous and sloppy in every facet of their lives.
It’s no wonder they refuse to give up on his legacy.
“Mikhail, it is rather late, and I wish to be home with my wife. Why have I been summoned here?”
Bullshit. Like I don’t know the man has a standing appointment at the nearest strip tease every damn night of the week. I make it my business to know where every member of my Bratva communes.
“Dennis. I appreciate your presence. As you know, I’ve made quite a few personnel changes in the past few months. You see, I’ve had to take on some…abnormal roles in the company during the adjustment.”
His brows curl in poorly hidden annoyance as he listens to my spiel. Fair enough. I suppose we all have shit to do tonight.
My fingers drag across the desk, gripping the gold-engraved letter opener on the far edge. The cool handle rests loosely in my palm.
“You see, usually I’m not much of a numbers guy. I outsource.” I flick the dull end of the handle, pointing to Dennis. “To people like you.”
His face tilts a fraction, but his features still read confusion. Still not getting it. I sigh.
“Maybe you’ve noticed, there’s been quite a bit of turnover in that department these days.”
“There has?”
“Oh yes,” I flip the tool in my hand carelessly. “Say, when’s the last time you heard from your old friends…Pavel and Igor, was it?” I glance at Ivan.
My second confirms with a knowing glint in his eye.
“I do try my best to remember my staff’s names, but there are just so many. Anyway, it seems those two had assembled some sort of alliance against me. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? A couple of middlemen skimming off the club income behind my back?”
My face is a blank slate as I devour the look of realization that drips over the bastard’s expression. Then his weight shifts. A twitch to the right. Instantaneous tension floods the room. My enforcers respond in kind, edging closer. That’s right. Nowhere left to run, traitor.
“You must know my reputation well enough to know you’re not leaving here intact, Dennis.”
His face contorts, shedding its false gallantry like molting skin. Disgust and hatred blaze in his eyes as they find mine, the tension winding tighter until it breaks with that satisfying snap.
“Your reputation means shit to me! I served your father, not his pathetic spawn.”
There it is.
“My father is dead,” I say slowly, standing from my seat. He shrinks back like the coward he is, but my men stand behind him, blocking his exit. “And his Bratva died with him.”
“You were never supposed to be in line for Pakhan in the first place. You’re a pathetic choice for this organization! After the Italians got to Nikolai, your family’s line of power should have been terminated.”
I don’t give him the flinch he’s searching for at the mention of my brother. He doesn’t deserve even to utter his name. Instead, I make my way around my desk, stepping up to his sweaty, red face. He’s starting to shake, his bravado already faltering.
“Look around, Dennis. Does it seem like my power has been terminated?”
His trembling only increases. Because he suddenly sees what everyone else in the room already knows.
There’s only one way out.
“Look, Mikhail—”
My movement is quick. A smooth slice across the wrinkles of his throat. The pointed letter opener in my grip carves through his skin like a hot knife through a stick of butter.
A soft choke breaks the silence.
The finality of the thud vibrates through the room as I turn, but I don’t even feel the usual thrill of relief from eliminating yet another hidden defector in my ranks.
I’m just fucking tired.
I wipe the blood from the sharp metal and return to my desk.
An hour later, the floor is empty once more. The only sign of the messy exchange is the dark red splotch that’s currently being scrubbed from my carpet. I suppose they should just replace the whole thing. I tend to go through a lot of carpets.
The door has been left open as they clean, leaving the godawful beat of the music to pierce through the opening, assaulting my ears once more.
The club serves its purpose—laundering money, providing legitimate cover for less savory operations.
I’ve built an empire that functions in the locked back rooms of some of the most exclusive clubs and restaurants in the city, paying my people to handle the external details while I orchestrate from above.
Physical proximity to the chaos below holds no appeal.
The press of bodies, the overwhelming assault of music and alcohol-fueled stupidity is everything I’ve structured my life to avoid.
My fingers drift unconsciously to my collar, seeking the familiar raised ridge of scar tissue beneath the starched cotton. The bullet wound has healed, but the memory it carries remains sharp.
Always, it brings me back to her.
Grey eyes like drops of rain. Dark curls framing a face that belonged in a painting, not a blood-soaked alley. The delicate dragonfly tattooed on her wrist as she reached for my gun, her movements steady while my life slipped from my fingers.
I should have died that night. Would have, if not for some misguided sense of mercy that compelled a stranger to kneel in my blood and press her palms against the hole in my chest. The rational part of my mind understands she was likely just another witness in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But rationality has never been my strong suit when it comes to obsession.
Fight a bit longer.
Four words that rewrote my entire existence.
Before that night, I had been ready to let the Solokov name die with me.
A fitting punishment for my failure to protect Nikolai.
My father’s final manipulation had poisoned the crown before my brother ever wore it, filling our ranks with traitors loyal to the old ways.
Trafficking, infighting, behavioral anarchy; you name it, he ran it.
My big brother, visionary that he was, saw the potential for a better Bratva.
A unified organization. Unfortunately, he couldn’t enact his plans before being punished for our father’s feud with the Mafia.
And I, in my arrogance, thought I could single-handedly eliminate the bastard responsible for putting a bullet in Nikolai’s skull.
Instead, I nearly joined him.
The emptiness that followed my brother’s death had been absolute. When that shot tore through my chest, part of me welcomed it. The thought of the empire crumbling with its most unworthy heir felt like a morose sense of justice. Fuck them all. Let them pick up the jagged pieces in my wake.
Then she appeared. Materialized from the shadows like some avenging angel, except angels don’t typically steal weapons from dying men or speak with such quiet authority to someone bleeding out in an alley.
She made me survive. Offered no other alternative.
And that alone is how I endured the agony of surgery, the months of recovery, the painstaking process of purging the Bratva of every last traitor. Her voice became the drumbeat that carried me through it all.
Choosing to fight isn’t peaceful. It’s not easy, and it’s not natural. Especially when you’re surrounded, foaming at the mouth, backed into a corner. But surrender is infinitely more terrifying. It’s choosing to stop existing while you’re still breathing.
My demise wouldn’t have been some waving white flag, just as my brother’s murder wasn’t some noble sacrifice. His death was fucking meaningless. And mine would’ve been too.
Months of purging my organization and consolidating power should have satiated me. Instead, I’m hollow with a different hunger. The compulsion to find her consumes me beyond all reason.
I’ve deployed the best investigators money can buy.
Scoured hospital records, surveillance footage, and missing persons reports.
I’ve had my people canvas every hospital, clinic, and underground medical facility in the city.
The search for one small woman with gray eyes and a dragonfly tattoo has consumed resources that should be dedicated to expanding territory.
It’s irrational. Dangerous. Exactly the kind of emotional attachment that gets men in my position killed.
I don’t care.
I know what I am. I know the darkness that lives behind my carefully controlled exterior. I know that finding her likely means destroying whatever innocence compelled her to save a dying criminal in an alley.
But I’ve built an empire on taking what I want, and what I want most is answers.
What I want is to understand why a stranger would risk everything to save someone like me. What I want is to know if the connection I felt in that moment was real or simply the desperate delusion of a man facing his own mortality.
What I want is her.
And God help us both, I always get what I want.