Chapter 7
DAMIEN
Night presses cold against the glass. The city burns below in orderly grids of white, amber, and blue.
My closest friend, Alex Durov, is in my office. He’s a cop on both my and the NYPD’s payroll. He stands at the window with his jacket off and tie loosened; wariness stitched into his posture. He never really leaves it at the precinct; it wears him like a second suit.
I pour two fingers of whiskey into tumblers, expensive but subtle, the way I prefer things that matter. No crystal peacocking. No shouting labels. He takes the glass without looking away from the city.
“The families are mostly on the same page,” he says. “Antonov’s in. Sokolov’s tired of the funerals. The Koretsky’s have stopped testing boundaries. They all like checks that clear.”
We’re not talking about street fights or body counts anymore.
This is about making the Bratva legitimate—warehouses running as shipping companies, hotels that keep clients safe and quiet, investments that no police raid can touch.
The families are tired of blood; they want steady money that lasts.
Alex backs me on this plan, even if his brother, Ivan, doesn’t.
I take a sip of whiskey. “Clean fronts bleed less and last longer. Logistics. Hospitality. Real estate. Money that doesn’t drip blood. Books that survive audits. If a man wants legacy more than legend, those are the things he prefers.”
“Some of them still love legend,” Alex says dryly. “But not enough to pay for a dozen funerals a year.”
He turns from the view and sits. The Intelligence Unit has added years to his face. He’s thirty but wears ten more.
“Obschak’s happy,” he continues. “Your new ventures fed on time. Dividends arrived like Christmas. Nobody’s complaining.”
“Somebody is,” I say. “Or you wouldn’t have had a second glass.”
He rolls the whiskey once, amber liquid turning slowly. “Ivan.”
Alex’s brother is high up in the Durov Bratva. Supposedly an ally, but at times, I wonder.
We let the name sit between us. I watch him in the reflection of the window instead of directly.
“What’s he doing?” I ask.
“Courting the old guard,” Alex replies. “He says the pakhan should be getting his hands dirty, not blathering on in a boardroom.”
“He hasn’t seen my boardroom. It has a good view.”
“He’s not interested in the view.” Alex’s mouth is a tired line. “He wants the chair. I told him the future is clean. He gave me that empty Durov smile and asked if I was happy living as a domesticated, housebroken puppy.”
I take a slow sip. “Charming.”
“Some of the old men listen because he plays the role they miss,” Alex goes on.
“They’re not traitors. They’re bored. Nostalgia makes them feel young again, like the gangsters they signed up to be all those years ago.
” He lifts the glass to his lips, taking a measured sip.
“He leaves out aboveboard payroll. He leaves out clean docks. He leaves out lawyers that end things before they start. He leaves out everything that allows us to be rich as gods with none of the needless bloodshed.”
“Stories are cheap,” I say. “City fees are not.”
“He thinks he can stir up enough smoke to rouse them into action. And if he can’t, he wants to make your life as hard as it can be.”
“If he pulls, I cut the rope. I’m moving my house into daylight. Legitimate business. We hold the line.”
“It’s the right play,” he agrees. “Men who care more about building a legacy tend to outlast men who put more emphasis on a dramatic, memorable death.”
“I don’t need glory.” I tip my chin at the city. “I need a solid, money-making empire—one that won’t get broken up by RICO charges.”
He takes that in. It’s our typical way. I arrange, he observes, the room goes quiet as decisions click into place.
“What does he want from you?” I ask.
“Nothing he’ll say out loud,” Alex replies. “But he wants the status quo, the bloody status quo. And he thinks I’ll choose our name over any other loyalties.”
Loyalties like me.
I move closer and rest a hand on his shoulder. Touch is a language in itself, saying things that words sometimes cannot.
“You and I picked our family a long time ago,” I tell him. “Different names. Same goals. Same dreams. Remember the stairwell.”
A long time ago, a bullet meant for me found him instead. We may not be blood, but we are still brothers.
“We aren’t going back,” I say. “We aren’t selling our soldiers stories about Bratva glory earned in blood when what they need are good schools for their children and quiet households. I protect the pivot. Anyone who threatens it gets corrected.”
He nods once. He knows what corrected means.
I take another sip. “But I’m not in the business of making widows. I’m in the business of removing risk. Preferably without noise.”
“Preferably,” he repeats, not mocking, just honest.
We go over the current items. A lease closing in Red Hook—legit waterfront property this time, not a cover.
A hotel group nosing around because our brand of discretion is better than any security system they can buy.
A port official nearing retirement who might be persuaded to consult once he’s free of his badge.
All things that can make us money legitimately. All aboveboard, all profitable.
The conversation runs smooth and tight. Alex and I share the same brain when it comes to business.
My phone lights up on the desk. It’s a text from Mrs. Koval.
Miss Hewitt is still out.
It’s a quiet insult.
Heat moves through my chest, fast and involuntary. Possessive. Protective. Inconvenient.
I keep my face expressionless while Alex finishes a point about warehouse insurance and “random inspections” that are anything but. He pauses when he notices the temperature change. He always does.
“Housekeeping?” he asks.
“About the girl.”
“The new one.”
I nod. “She left a note. Errands.”
“First day,” he says. “Testing the fence.”
“Until she learns it’s electrified.”
He studies me before draining his glass and setting it down. “You want me on Ivan tonight? See who he allows to be close when he wants to be seen?”
“Yes.” I grab my keys.
He stands and slides into his jacket, then pauses at the door. “You sure about this new girl?” he asks without turning. “You don’t usually bring civilians inside before you sandbag the house.”
“She’s not in the storm,” I say. “She’s in a suite in a house I control.”
He glances back. “Don’t let her smile make you forget where the doors are.”
“I know my own floor plan.”
He gives me a crooked smile and leaves.
I text Koval.
When did she leave?
Just before one. She said she’d be back by six. It’s five past.
I put on my coat and prepare to leave, a thought needling. Alex’s smile was as easy as ever, but behind it I saw Ivan. They share blood. Alex says the right things and has saved my life more than once. But blood has its own loyalty.
If Ivan pushes hard enough, where will Alex stand?
I file that doubt away.
For now.