Chapter 2
Iskander
T he rain has stopped by the time I reach my car, but the memory of Willa Reynolds lingers like expensive perfume.
I slide behind the wheel of the Bentley and sit for a moment in the silence, replaying every detail of our encounter, recalling her composure under pressure, the way she didn’t cower when Richardson invaded her space, and how her hands trembled only when she thought I wasn’t looking.
Most women in my world fall into two categories—those who fear me and those who want to use me.
Willa fits neither mold, and that intrigues me more than it should.
She assessed me with the clear-eyed precision of someone who’s learned to read danger, yet she didn’t retreat.
She’s smart enough to recognize what I am and brave enough to stand her ground anyway.
I start the engine and pull into Charleston’s evening traffic, but my mind remains fixed on the tailor shop.
I can’t stop thinking about how she moved through that space with quiet authority, or the passion that flared in her voice when Richardson insulted her work, and how she looked at me with caution and interest.
The phone buzzes through the car’s speakers, interrupting my thoughts.
“Iskander?” Timur’s voice fills the cabin. “We still on for dinner?”
“On my way.” I navigate through the historic district, past gas-lit streets and antebellum mansions that seem frozen in another century.
Charleston maintains its veneer of old-world charm, but beneath the surface, it’s like any other city.
It’s a territory to be controlled, with money to be moved, and power to be exercised.
Twenty minutes later, I walk into Czar’s Table, the Russian steakhouse that serves as our unofficial headquarters.
The ma?tre d’ nods respectfully and leads me through the dining room without a word.
There are a sea of mahogany tables and plushy cushioned seats, where business deals disguised as social dinners play out nightly.
The scent of aged beef and expensive vodka mingles with the low murmur of carefully modulated conversations.
Timur occupies our usual corner booth, positioned with a clear view of both entrances, maintaining old habits from our Moscow days.
He’s already nursing a glass of Stolichnaya, his weathered face impassive as always.
We’ve known each other for fifteen years and fought side by side in territorial wars that left lesser men dead or broken.
He’s the closest thing to family I have left.
“You look relaxed.” His pale blue eyes study me as I settle into the booth.
I order my usual Macallan 25, neat, and consider how much to reveal. Timur has protected my interests for over a decade, but some thoughts are better kept private.
“The tailor shop went well, I take it.”
I nod. “Henri Laurent’s protégé is talented. She’ll handle the commission.”
Timur raises one eyebrow slightly. “She? Henri mentioned his apprentice was promising, but not that she was female.”
The server brings my scotch, and I take a sip before responding, savoring the pleasant oaky depth of it. “Miss Reynolds has been working under Laurent for years. Her skills are impressive.”
“I’m sure they are.” His tone remains neutral, but I catch the undercurrent of caution.
He’s seen what happens when I take interest in things outside the business, and he’s always naturally cautious of anything that could distract from the life-or-death decisions we make daily the way some choose which pair of socks to wear in the morning. “How impressive?”
I ignore the inference and shift the conversation to safer ground. “What’s the situation with our southern routes?”
He accepts the deflection without comment by pulling out his phone to show me a series of photos. There are shipping manifests, warehouse receipts, and customs documents. “Volume is up twelve percent from last quarter. The Port Authority contact is performing as expected.”
I nod, impressed. “Any complications?”
He lifts one shoulder. “Minor. One of the longshoremen got curious about container weights. Dmitri handled it with a little green and a little brown.”
I nod, understanding he combined money with a couple of bruises to ensure the curiosity died quickly. Dmitri’s methods are efficient if not subtle, but sometimes direct action sends the clearest message. “What about our other operations?”
He scrolls to a different image. “The restaurant chains are clean. Money flows through them like water through a sieve, unremarkable and untraceable.” Timur closes his phone and leans back. “Which brings me to why I called this meeting.”
Something in his voice sharpens my attention. “Problems?”
“Mikhail Balakin.”
The name makes me flinch inside, though I keep my expression neutral. Years of practice have taught me to hide reactions that could be perceived as weakness. Still, my hand tightens imperceptibly around the glass. “What about him?”
Timur’s jaw tightens. “He’s making moves. Atlanta first, now Miami. Word is, he’s consolidating the smaller crews and offering them better terms than what they’re getting from the established families.”
I set down my scotch with deliberate care.
Mikhail Balakin represents unfinished business from another life and another continent.
We came up together in Moscow’s underworld, two ambitious lieutenants carving out territories in a city where violence was currency and mercy a luxury few could afford. “How solid is the intelligence?”
“Dmitri confirmed it through three separate sources.” He drains his vodka in one swift motion. “Balakin’s definitely stateside, and he’s not here for vacation.”
The server approaches with menus, but I wave him away. My appetite has vanished, replaced by the familiar cold focus that settles over me when business turns serious, or I hear Mikhail’s name. “Timeline?”
“Hard to say. It could be weeks or maybe months.” He signals for another vodka. “He’s being careful and taking time to build alliances before making his play. There’s more.”
I wait.
“One of our watchers spotted someone casing Henri’s shop yesterday. It was professional surveillance, not a casual window shopper.” His voice drops lower. “The description matches known Balakin operatives.”
I mull over the revelation. Laurent’s establishment serves multiple purposes in our organization.
It launders significant money through high-end clothing sales, provides a legitimate front for meetings, and maintains our reputation among Charleston’s elite.
More importantly, Henri is a friend of mine, and Willa works there. “How certain are you?”
Timur’s expression remains impassive, but his tone carries conviction. “Certain enough. The question is whether Balakin knows about Laurent’s true function, or if he’s just probing for weaknesses.”
I consider that while Charleston’s evening sounds filter through the restaurant’s windows.
Traffic, distant music, and the low hum of a city settling into night are all normal sounds from a world that has no idea men like Mikhail and I exist in their midst. “He knows.” The certainty surprises me with its clarity but comes from deep instincts.
“Mikhail always did his homework. If he’s targeting Laurent, it’s because he understands what it represents. ”
My second nods his agreement. “Which means?”
“He’s not just expanding territory. He’s coming for me specifically.”
Timur nods once more, slower this time. “The brother.”
Alexei Balakin was twenty-two years old, newly married, and full of the reckless courage that gets young men killed in our line of work.
The territorial dispute had been escalating for months, with stolen shipments, sabotaged operations, and the slow dance of dominance that defines criminal enterprise on both sides.
When Alexei crossed into our territory with four armed men, planning to hit one of our warehouses, I had to respond.
The confrontation lasted less than ten minutes. Alexei died along with two of his men, while the other two escaped to carry word back to Mikhail. That was eight years ago, but blood debts don’t expire.
“I warned you this day would come.” Timur’s voice holds no accusation, only the practical acceptance of consequences. “Mikhail loved that boy more than his own life.”
I sigh softly, feeling regret for Alexei’s fate even now, though the young fool brought it on himself. “I know, but I had no choice. Alexei would have kept pushing until someone was dead. Better him than me.”
Timur leans forward, lowering his voice. “Maybe, or maybe you could have found another way.”
I meet his stare directly. “Are you questioning my judgment?”
“Nyet. I’m simply pointing out how Mikhail will view it, and I’m questioning whether we’re prepared for what’s coming.
” He spreads his hands on the table. “Mikhail spent eight years building his network. He’s not the same impetuous lieutenant you knew in Moscow.
He’s patient now. His need for revenge has made him systematic rather than impulsive. That makes him more dangerous.”
The server returns, clearly hoping to take our order, but one look at our faces sends him retreating without a word. The restaurant continues its evening rhythm around us, oblivious to the conversation taking place in the corner booth. “What do you recommend?”
He straightens. “Strike first. Hard and decisive. Take out his key people before he can establish a foothold.”
It’s the logical choice, the one my heavy-handed father would have made without hesitation.
My style is somewhat different. “That would mean war.”
“War is coming whether we start it or not.” He pulls out his phone again and scrolls through messages. “The only question is whether we fight on our terms or his.”