Chapter Eighteen
Lorenzo
As we step into the business suite, I can’t help but notice the way Andreas is eyeing Sienna.
He better not fuck her. The last thing I need is Serena hovering around us more than she already does.
If Andreas gets involved with her friend, it’s only a matter of time before she becomes a recurring problem in my space, and I don’t have the patience for that.
I’m the last to arrive, as usual.
What can I say? I like to keep them waiting. Let them stew, let them wonder. It keeps the power where it belongs, with me.
I’m ten minutes late, and judging by the looks on their faces, they’d probably kill me for it if they thought they could. I should be scared. Any sane man would be, sitting at a table like this.
Is she trying to ruin my night on purpose, or did the universe decide to send her here just to fuck with me?
Look at me, talking about the universe. When the hell did I become so fucking pathetic?
I’m in a room full of killers dressed in suits, men who smile while cutting throats, who’d burn empires to ash for a bigger slice of the pie. Every word spoken here carries weight, every silence an unspoken threat.
And yet, I’m not listening. Not really.
Because across the smoke-filled table, she’s there. A woman who doesn’t belong in this world of blood and shadow. A woman who shouldn’t even be here. And still, she’s the only thing pulling my focus, the only distraction I can’t afford, and the one I crave the most.
And that white mini dress? It’s a fucking problem. The way it clings to her curves, the way it highlights her long blonde hair and that sinful, naughty ass, I should look away, but I don’t.
I can’t.
Her soft hair would fit perfectly in my hand, wrapping around my fingers while I pull her close. Her lips, full and teasing, are made to be wrapped around me, her mouth sweet and eager as I—
Fuck.
Now I have a boner. In the middle of a meeting. Fantastic.
I shift slightly in my seat, forcing my expression to remain unreadable as I take a slow breath.
She’s nothing but a distraction, and distractions are dangerous. I can’t afford to let her derail me, not here, not now.
But she’s here, and no matter how much I tell myself to focus, my mind keeps circling back to one thing:
She’s mine. Whether she knows it or not.
The room feels more like the setting for deciding the fate of the world than a simple business meeting. Maybe that’s exactly what we’re doing.
The table is massive, round and built for ten, though only five of us are here tonight. Or at least, that’s how many were meant to be here. Turns out, we’ve got an intruder.
A girl.
She’s sitting next to Kirill at the head of the table. Russian, undoubtedly. By little girl, I mean she looks barely nineteen, fresh-faced and completely out of place. What the hell is she doing here? Since when did Volkov start training his daughter for Bratva?
Volkov, the Pakhan, sits at the head of the table. His expression is cold, unreadable. The girl, his daughter, I assume, is perched to his right, her posture straight and composed. Next to her is a man whose very presence makes my skin crawl. Creepy bastard.
The quiet one.
No name, no real details, only the code they call him by: Ice. Part of the infamous Three who run Bratva. He’s not much of a talker, but his silence is louder than most men’s words.
Next to Ice sits Lev Roman Morozov, the owner of this club and my longtime associate. We’ve been in business together since I was 24, and I trust him as much as you can trust anyone in this world. He’s sharp, ruthless, and never lets his guard down.
Andreas, our fifth, sits across the table, looking as relaxed as ever.
He’s our best contact for the flour we sell, though calling it flour is just for the sake of politeness.
He also runs the largest “security” company in New York.
Security, of course, meaning men who’ll kill without asking questions.
The little Russian girl glared at me, her icy blue eyes sharp enough to cut. I suppose someone was bothered by my tardiness.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I say, my voice amused as my gaze lingers on her.
She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she glares harder, and with a flick of her middle finger, she scratches her nose, just subtle enough to seem innocent but deliberate enough for me to notice.
She’s definitely a Volkov.
Gorgeous, though. Blonde hair, big blue eyes. A face that could fool anyone into thinking she’s harmless. Too bad my mind is elsewhere.
Because there’s another pair of eyes I can’t forget.
Drunk, brown eyes, likely somewhere downstairs right now, dancing and laughing. I bet some fucker’s watching her, MY brown eyes, trying to make his move.
I push the thought away, locking it up where it belongs.
“Apologies for being late,” I say finally, my tone flat, offering only the bare minimum of politeness. That’s all they’ll get from me. One apology. Nothing more.
Kirill stands from his seat, his imposing figure commanding the room. He steps toward me, his expression softening as he pulls me into a brief hug.
“Happy birthday, son,” he says, patting my shoulder before returning to his place at the head of the table.
The gesture hits harder than I expect.
Kirill Volkov is the closest thing to a father I’ve had since my own father passed away. My father was an honest man, a man who lived by the rules, who worked hard and stayed on the right side of the law. Everything he did was by the book.
When he died, I didn’t follow in his footsteps. I didn’t want to.
I became something else entirely. A fighter. A man who craved chaos and blood.
My descent began in Volkov’s illegal fight club, where I met Andreas. We became his best fighters, his most reliable assets in the ring. It didn’t take long before he started pulling us into his other businesses, trusting us to handle the dirtier side of his empire.
And now? Now, we make business together.
How does it work? Easy.
I have my own men, people who do nothing but spy on every single person worth watching. They dig up dirt, uncover secrets, and compile files so detailed that even I would blush. Those secrets? They’re currency. We use them to make people our bitches, bending them to our will when the time is right.
On top of that, I run a gun business. Not the kind you read about in the news, the kind where my men and my business partners are the only ones driving around with a Heckler & Koch G36 in their back seat and a SIG Sauer P320/M17 tucked into their pocket.
Then there’s Andres. The man’s a wild card, but he’s essential.
He’s got an army of killers under the guise of his so-called Security Company.
Let’s be clear: they aren’t bodyguards or bouncers.
They’re the kind of men who will kill you, your neighbor, and your dog without asking a single question. And yeah, he’s Colombian.
Andres feeds us the slutiest shit we can sell. Where does he get it all? I’ve never asked, and I don’t care. He’ll tell me when he’s ready, and until then, I’m not about to pry.
“Happy birthday, you sick fuckkkkk!” Lev shouts as he jumps up from his seat, his arms wide open like he’s about to crush me.
Before I can react, he’s hugging me. For four. Whole. Minutes.
He’s fucking drunk.
What the hell happened to the meeting? This was supposed to be business, not a Russian vodka festival. Speaking of which, here comes Lev again, lugging four bottles of vodka like they’re the Holy Grail. One for each of us.
Fucking hell.
The bastard drinks vodka like it’s holy water, and I know where this is going.
I hug him back begrudgingly, but before I can let go, his hand smacks my ass. Hard.
For fuck’s sake.
He’s lucky I love him like a brother, or the walls of this suite would have a fresh coat of red Russian blood decorating them.
“Happy birthday, brother,” Andreas says, stepping forward. His tone is steadier, more measured, but there’s warmth in his eyes. He pulls me into a quick hug, the kind of hug that doesn’t need words to back it up.
Andreas is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real brother.
I’ve always been an only child, and I’ve never wished it to be any other way. I didn’t need anyone growing up, and for the most part, I still don’t. But Andreas and Lev? They’ve earned their place in my life.
“Papa, ya polagal, chto eto delovaya vstrecha,” the little Russian girl says to her father, her tone sharp.
Not sure what the hell that means, but her words carry an edge that’s hard to miss.
Kirill meets her gaze, his expression heavy with disappointment, like he’s just realized he’s wasted her time.
“I’m sorry, darling. I forgot today is Lorenzo’s birthday.
Our tradition is not to work on the birthday of someone from the Council but to celebrate it.
We’ll talk business tomorrow. You’re flying to Moscow in the evening anyway. ”
She looks like she’s biting back irritation, her jaw tight, but after a pause, she nods. Clearly, she knows when to pick her battles.
“Kirill,” I interject with a smirk, leaning back in my chair. “Have you tried teaching her English? It would be more productive if she understood what we’re saying, what we’re discussing.”
Not that I give a fuck about her understanding us. But I respect Kirill, and I enjoy poking the bear when it comes to his daughter.
Ice looks at me from across the table, a rare flicker of amusement crossing his otherwise cold expression. He smirks but says nothing, as always.
The little Russian’s head snaps toward me, her piercing blue eyes narrowing into daggers. If looks could kill, I’d be bleeding out on the floor right now.
“Did you just call me illiterate?” she hisses, her accent sharp and her voice filled with venom.
I stare back at her, my own smirk widening.
Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting her to switch to English, considering she was speaking Russian with her father two minutes ago and didn’t even bother saying hello, just flashed me her middle finger like the brat she is.