Chapter Sixteen
Aleksei
The call ends with Dr. Malhotra’s careful, measured voice still ringing in my ears.
“The brain heals at its own pace, Mr. Tarasov. These episodes of memory loss could persist for weeks, possibly months. Her recent trauma has exacerbated the condition. I’d recommend—”
I disconnect before he can finish. Another fucking recommendation. Another clinical explanation that tells me nothing I can use.
I slide the phone into my pocket, standing motionless in the dim light of my bedroom.
The curtains remain drawn against the early morning sun, casting the room in shadows.
Stella lies curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other stretched across the space where I should be.
Her breathing comes slow and even— the first peaceful sleep she’s had in days.
Last night’s screams still echo in my head. The way she thrashed against invisible enemies, eyes wide but seeing nothing. The way she didn’t recognize me when I tried to calm her.
I move closer, studying the curve of her shoulder, the wave of chestnut hair across my pillow. The bruise on her temple has faded to a dull yellow, but the sight of it still makes me want to kill the fucker who hurt her.
Lucky for him, he’s already dead.
My hand hovers above her hair, fingers spread. I want to touch her. To feel the silk of those strands between my fingers. To wake her and see recognition in her eyes.
I curl my fingers into a fist and pull back.
She needs rest more than she needs my touch.
I back away, careful to make no sound as I leave the bedroom and close the door behind me. The hallway stretches before me, silent and empty as I make my way to my office. I must get my shit together.
Control. Distance. Focus.
I’ve built an empire on these principles.
I won’t abandon them now, not even for her.
Years of blood and sacrifice have cemented my position.
Men fear me. Families respect me. The Bratva follows because I never waver, never show weakness.
One woman with green eyes and a smile that haunts my dreams won’t change that.
No matter how her presence makes my chest tighten.
No matter how much I want to claim her. Some lines can’t be crossed— shouldn’t be crossed— if I want to maintain what I’ve built and protect my family.
Reaching my desk, I sink into the tall executive chair and rub the stubble on my jaw as I scowl down at the latest figures.
The financial reports spread across my desk tell a story I can’t believe.
Numbers don’t lie, but these must be mistaken.
I scan each page again, searching for an error that isn’t there.
“ Chert! Etogo ne mozhet byt’, ” I growl. This can’t be right. Three major weapons contracts canceled within a week. Two European distributors suddenly refusing shipments. Four offshore accounts frozen. Six shell companies under investigation.
I reach for my coffee, find the cup empty, and set it down with enough force to crack the bottom. The numbers blur before my eyes, not from emotion but from sheer disbelief.
Maranzano’s death was supposed to solve this. The Italian’s betrayal had cost me millions, but eliminating him should have stabilized my position. Instead, the bleeding has accelerated.
This isn’t random market fluctuation. This is coordinated. Surgical.
I pull up the security feeds on one monitor, scanning the grounds of Blackwood Manor out of habit. The property remains secure— high walls, armed guards, surveillance covering every approach. My fortress stands untouched while my empire crumbles.
I reach for my phone and dial Vasya’s number.
He answers on the first ring. “I was about to call you.”
“Tell me you found something.”
A pause. The sound of typing. “It’s not Maranzano’s people. I checked every angle.”
“Then who?”
More typing. “The contracts with Germany and Turkey— they went to Novikov.”
My jaw locks tight enough to crack teeth. The name burns like acid in my veins. Novikov has been circling my territory for years, but this level of infiltration is unprecedented.
“James Whitmore’s daughter suddenly received a full scholarship to Oxford,” Vasya continues. “Coincidentally, the day after he canceled your Pentagon contract.”
“Novikov bought him. Pizda! ” I slam my fist against the desk, sending a jolt of pain up my arm. My most valuable American connection— turning against me for what? His cocaine-addicted daughter’s education? The pathetic simplicity of his betrayal makes it all the more infuriating.
“ Da .” The typing stops. “Aleksei, this is systematic. Novikov’s been planning this for months. The banking records show a pattern of—”
“Show me later,” I cut him off, already calculating. “What else?”
“Your Swiss accounts were frozen after an anonymous tip about money laundering. The signature matches previous Novikov operations.”
I stand, unable to remain still. Pacing to the window, I look out over the grounds, seeing nothing but Sofia’s face on our wedding day. The shock when I walked away. The hatred in her eyes. The enraged screams of her family.
“He’s still angry about Sofia,” I say.
Vasya makes a sound— not quite a laugh. “You left his daughter at the altar. In our world, that’s worse than killing her. As far as he’s concerned, you humiliated his entire bloodline.”
“It was a business arrangement. Nothing more.”
“To you, maybe. To Novikov, it was the merging of two families. The creation of a dynasty. You made him look like a fool in front of every major family in Russia.”
My fingers tighten around the windowsill. Months since I walked away from that farce of a wedding, and still, Novikov can’t accept that I refused to be a pawn in his stupid game. The man’s pride is more fragile than eggshells.
“He should have known better,” I mutter, more to myself than to Vasya. “You don’t build empires on marriages. You build them on blood and loyalty.”
Vasya is silent for a moment. I can picture those sharp eyes of his narrowing, calculating, always calculating. My brother may look like a bear, but he thinks like a chess master.
“Still,” he says, “the wedding was a shitfest. A man like Novikov won’t let that go easily.”
I rub the back of my neck, remembering. The church packed with Moscow’s elite.
Sofia in white lace, diamonds at her throat.
The weight of tradition and expectation.
The sudden, suffocating certainty that I couldn’t do it— couldn’t tie myself to a woman I didn’t want, to a family I didn’t trust. Especially not while another woman was carrying my child.
So I walked away. Broke the arrangement. Destroyed years of careful negotiation with six strides back down the aisle.
“He’s making his move now because he thinks I’m weak,” I say, turning back to my desk. “Maranzano’s betrayal, the issues with the Mexican cartel, the DEA investigation— he sees vulnerability.”
“And he’s right,” Vasya says bluntly. “You’ve lost thirty percent of your liquid assets in three weeks. Another two months like this, and the Tarasov Bratva becomes a footnote in history.”
I sink into my chair, mind racing through options. Each path leads to the same conclusion.
“What about Sofia?” I ask. “Is she involved?”
“No sign of her. She’s been in Monaco for months.”
At least there’s that. I may have taken her for just another social climber when we were together, but it’s clear to me now that Sofia was always the more dangerous of the two— calculating where her father was merely brutal.
After what she did to Stella, though, the urge to have her taken out has been building like a volcano about to erupt.
The thought of her hands on my woman makes my blood run cold, then boil with rage.
Sofia’s precision makes her lethal— she doesn’t waste moves or emotions like her father did with his drunken rages.
She waits, watches, then strikes exactly where it hurts most. But keeping her at a distance in Monaco might be the one thing preventing me from putting a bullet between those cold gray eyes of hers. For now.
“And Whitmore?” I ask. “Can we recover him?”
“Doubtful. Novikov offered his daughter the scholarship, a position on some humanitarian board, and probably a few million in an offshore account. You know how Whitmore feels about his daughter.”
I do. The man would burn down the world to give Katherine what she wants; spoiled little rich girl out of her head on crack cocaine half the time. His one weakness— the same weakness Novikov has now exploited.
Whitmore may be a shark in Washington, ruthless in politics and business alike, but mention his daughter and he becomes putty in anyone’s hands.
I’ve seen him cancel meetings with senators to take her calls.
Novikov knew exactly where to press to make him fold.
The powerful politician brought to his knees by a father’s love— a vulnerability I understand all too well, though I’d never admit it aloud.
“We need to move quickly,” Vasya says, his voice dropping lower. “I wouldn’t be merciful with him if I were you. The other families are watching. If they sense weakness…”
He doesn’t need to finish. In our world, weakness invites predators. Already, the lesser families will be circling, wondering if the Tarasov empire is ripe for dismemberment.
“I’ll handle it,” I say, my voice carrying a cold edge. “I know what to do.” I cut the call before he responds, then close my eyes, thinking of Stella asleep in my bed. Of Bobik in his room, unaware of the growing danger. Of Diana, who trusts me to keep our family safe.
When I open my eyes again, something has shifted inside me. The businessman recedes. The Pakhan emerges. I call Sasha.
“Tell Kostya to prepare the car,” I say, my voice cold even to my own ears. “And get me everything on Novikov’s current location and security detail.”
“You planning a meeting, boss?” he asks.
“Something like that.” I feel cold determination unfurling. “He’s messing where he shouldn’t. He needs to learn a lesson in humility.”
“You’re going after him personally?” Sasha sounds surprised. “Aleksei, we could send—”
“No.” The word falls like a stone. “Novikov made this personal. I’ll end it personally.”
A moment of silence. Then: “It will mean war. Open war between the families.”
“He declared war when he touched what’s mine.” I stand again, moving to the wall safe hidden behind a painting of the St. Petersburg skyline. “I’m just accepting his invitation.”
The safe opens with a soft click. Inside: passport sets, bundles of cash in various currencies, two handguns, and a file containing contingency plans in case of emergency.
Sasha exhales a breath. “I guess I should be ready for the fallout, then,” he says. He knows better than to question me.
“ Khoroshiy. ” I pull out the first gun, checking the chamber. “That’s what I pay you for.”
“You don’t have to pay me,” he mutters. “Sometimes loyalty is its own reward.”
The call ends. I set the phone down and continue my preparations, mind clear for the first time in days. There’s comfort in this— in action, in vengeance. This is the world I understand. The rules I know how to play by.
I load the second gun and tuck both into shoulder holsters. As I work, my thoughts return briefly to Stella. To the softness of her sleeping form. To the peace on her face that will vanish if she ever learns who I am.
I push the image away. Sentiment is weakness, and I cannot afford weakness now.
Novikov wants war.
I’ll give him war.