Chapter Four
Nikolai
The reception has died down a little, but I still hear the viola melodies and the buzz coming from the court.
I recline in my chair and stare at my desktop like it holds all of the answers to my burning questions. Trouble is, when it comes to Ronan Aslanov, there are no answers. No obvious ones, anyway.
A part of me thought he would make a move on the chessboard tonight.
He’s been quiet for too long, and that always raises my suspicions.
That’s the thing about Ronan. He’s like a shark lurking beneath the surface of the water, watching, observing.
Waiting for the perfect moment to show his teeth, destroy, and then submerge again.
He’s been plotting a coup for years, trying to steal my empire from me. I know he won’t stop biting.
A knock at the door jolts me out of my thoughts.
“Enter.”
Timur walks in, tie loose and the top button of his shirt undone. This looks more like the man I work with every day.
“I didn’t think you’d be disappearing this early. Something going on?” He quietly closes the door behind him. “Or, should I say someone?”
I tilt my head. “What are you talking about?”
He pulls his mouth into a sly grin. “The woman from earlier. Sophia’s friend. You two seemed to be getting on well.”
“Not the way you think, mudak. She wanted to shut down the wedding.”
Timur’s expression shifts. He strides over and sets his hands on the desk. “Why the fuck would Lauren want to do that?”
“Lauren?”
Timur nods, but doesn’t say anything.
“I’m looking into it now.” I return my eyes to the screen and actually make use of the computer instead of staring at it. That’s when it hits me.
Lauren.
I bring the keyboard to my hands and search her up. I only know of two Laurens. One was a hookup that happened some years ago. The other is Charles Watson’s daughter. A money-hungry old fucker with complicated ties to our world.
I type ‘Lauren Watson’ into the search bar, and blyad…
there she is. She looks just as good in her LinkedIn photo as she does in person.
She stares directly into the camera, wearing a bright red shirt, hair styled the same way it was today.
Loose, brown curls. Ones I’d like to bury my hands in as I take her from behind.
I bring up the image. Captioned underneath: Lauren Watson, Vice President of Portfolio Investment at Watson and Co. Holdings.
So she works at her father’s business.
I scoff. Charles fucking Watson’s offspring. The guy’s a liability. He’s been illegally shifting money through shell companies for years. Some of the companies connect back to my father’s old businesses, so the two bastards definitely had some past dealings together.
I just wish I knew this earlier.
Maybe Lauren could answer some age-old questions for me about my old man and hers.
But given that she’s Charles’ daughter, we must tread carefully from now on. Charles Watson is one shady mudak who could easily have connections to Ronan Aslanov. For all we know, Lauren could be their pretty little spy.
“What is it?” asks Timur, probably seeing the shift in my expression.
“She’s Charles Watson’s daughter.”
His face sours. Looks like that piece of information is just as new to him as it is to me.
Besides, if he knew who his wife’s friend is, he would have told me already.
I know he’s thinking the same as me. This isn’t just some overprotective best friend causing mayhem at a wedding.
Lauren is a liability, just like her old man.
“Blyad. That complicates things.”
“Da.”
Charles Watson has a past track record of tangling himself up with the wrong people, so it’s possible he’s doing the same again. His daughter could easily be involved in whatever the old bastard is doing now.
Timur straightens his posture. “Speaking of Watson, he has been more careful lately. Probably wants to keep his name clean.”
“And his daughter?” I ask. “You know anything about her?”
Timur shrugs. “I didn’t even know she was Watson’s girl. Just knew of her as Sophia’s friend.”
“She said something about Sophia marrying a monster.”
“Charming.”
“She thinks we killed someone close to her, and she thinks the killer was you. Any idea who she’s talking about?”
Timur folds his arms over his chest and furrows his brow in thought. “Must be her mother. Watson’s wife died four years ago when her husband got into some shit with Popov. I was there. The whole thing was a colossal fuckup.”
“You do her?”
Timur shakes his head. “Nyet. She got in the way of a stray bullet. Fuck knows where it came from. You know how it is.”
I recline in my chair and exhale a breath.
“Look, boss.” Timur shifts his weight. “It doesn’t really matter what Lauren knows or if she’s working with her father. If she decides to poke around our shit, she’ll become a problem.”
I nod.
“I’ll keep an eye on her. Maybe she’ll calm down, now that her friend is married to this monster.”
Timur smirks. “I’ve been called much worse. Any news about Aslanov?”
I shake my head. “Security was tight tonight. Too many people, too much attention. If he had tried something, he would’ve failed.”
Timur nods, but the sour expression doesn’t leave his face. “You know it’s only a matter of time before he makes his move.”
Of course, I know. Ronan Aslanov has been a thorn in my side since the day I took control of the Bratva, testing my patience and my power at every opportunity.
And the worst thing about him is that he’s smart and resourceful.
He’s not like other syndicate leaders, violent and hot-headed.
He’s calm and pragmatic, making carefully calculated decisions, always staying a step ahead of his competitors.
Multiple attempts were made on my father’s life back when he was pakhan. And when my old man survived each one with the help of his personal bodyguards, Aslanov decided to tear us Rogovs apart another way. He killed someone who didn’t have a defense team covering them twenty-four-seven.
My mother.
I thought my father would be easy prey after that, that the pain would break him, but I was proven wrong. He never even shed a tear. It was the principle of Aslanov killing somebody close to him that got to him, not the fact that his wife was dead.
I never saw him the same way after that.
Father passed away when I was twenty-five.
There was a territorial fight between Italians and Russians, and he ended up being burned alive.
Not exactly the most pleasant way to die.
But the syndicate needed a new leader, so I stepped up and claimed the Rogov Bratva as my own before Aslanov could step in.
My father and I didn’t have the best relationship after my mother’s death, but it was still my empire, named after my surname.
It was my birthright. My duty.
And I still carry that duty on my shoulders every day.
The Rogov legacy is mine, not Aslanov’s.
So, whilst he wants me dead, I want him dead even more.