Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Dmitri
The security feeds cast blue light across my desk, twelve screens showing every corner of Nexus.
Main floor packed with bodies grinding to bass that vibrates through the building's bones.
VIP section glittering with champagne and secrets.
The hidden stairwell to the third floor is empty, as it should be.
I don't watch the screens for pleasure. I watch because in my world, the moment you stop paying attention is the moment someone puts a bullet in your skull.
Igor stands across from me, his face carved from years of Bratva service. Ex-military. Loyal to a fault. The only man besides my father I trust with information that could destroy us.
"Show me." I don't look up from the report in my hands. Numbers. Shipments. Distribution routes we've controlled for six years.
He slides a phone across my desk. Photographs. Plastic bags stamped with our signature mark. Τhe double-headed eagle that tells every dealer in Chicago this product belongs to the Baganov Bratva.
Except these bags aren't ours.
"Found them in Pilsen," Igor says. "Three street corners. Same stamp, same packaging. Product's shit quality. Cutting it with something that's already killed two users."
My jaw tightens. "Someone's counterfeiting our brand."
"Making us look sloppy. Making us look weak."
I set down the report and finally meet his eyes. Pale blue, almost colorless—people say we look related. We're not. Just two men shaped by the same brutal world.
"The Sartori alliance finalizes next month.
" I keep my voice level, controlled. The way my father taught me.
Never let them see the rage building in your chest. "We're expanding into territories we've wanted for years.
Distribution doubles. Revenue triples. And now some mudak thinks he can use our name to sell poison? "
Igor nods slowly. "Bad timing."
"There's no such thing as coincidence in our business." I push back from my desk and stand, moving to the window that overlooks the dance floor below. Bodies writhing. Lights pulsing. None of them knowing that above their heads, men discuss who lives and who dies.
"Find them."
"Already have feelers out. Might take a few days—"
"You have forty-eight hours." I turn to face him. "Bring them to the warehouse on Ashland. I want to have a conversation."
Igor's mouth twitches. He knows what my conversations look like. The ones that happen in soundproofed rooms with plastic on the floor.
I crack my knuckles. "The Sartoris are watching how we handle our territory before they commit fully. Pietro Sartori didn't become Don by partnering with men who let rats steal from them."
The alliance has been months in the making. Careful negotiations. Mutual respect. The Sartoris control the docks and construction. We control the product and the clubs. Together, we'll own Chicago in ways neither family could alone.
I won't let some street-level counterfeiter destroy what I've built.
"There's something else," Igor says.
I wait.
"The facial recognition flagged someone interesting downstairs." He pulls up a feed on his phone, angles it toward me. "Arrived twenty minutes ago."
The air leaves my lungs.
Dark hair over bare shoulders. A black dress that should be illegal. Lips painted red, curved in a smile as she leans toward her blonde friend at the bar.
Vittoria Sartori.
One month since I saw her across the room at a gala. I kissed her hand like some old-world fool and watched her flee like I'd burned her.
I've thought about her every day since. Tracked her movements through our intelligence networks. Learned she barely leaves the Sartori compound, but tonight she’s ventured to my club of all places.
And tonight, she's in my club.
Fate is a strange thing.
"She came with one guard," Igor continues. "Elio Benedetti. Competent. Currently stationed by the east wall, trying to look casual."
"He's failing."
"He is."
I watch her on the screen. The way she throws her head back when she laughs. The way her fingers trace the rim of her glass. The way she moves to the music.
"Move her to VIP. Her and the blonde. They don't pay for anything. Not a single cent."
Igor's eyebrow twitches. The only sign he's surprised. In six years of working together, I've never given special treatment to a woman. Not once.
"Consider it done." He pockets his phone. "Anything else you need?"
I keep my eyes fixed on the screen where Vittoria sways to the music. Her hips move like she doesn't care if anyone's watching.
"I'm taking it from here."
Igor doesn't question me. He never does. That's why he's still alive.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm alone with twelve monitors and one obsession.
I scroll through camera feeds until I find her again. Main floor, near the bar. The strobe lights catch the curve of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone, the way that dress hugs every inch of her body like it was sewn specifically to destroy men's sanity.
Bozhe moi.
I've seen photographs of Vittoria Sartori. Studied her file until I could recite her daily schedule from memory.
My hand moves to the control panel. I zoom in. Just slightly. Just enough to watch the flush spreading across her chest. The way her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip between songs. The thin sheen of sweat making her skin glow under the lights.
If I believed in signs from God, this would be one.
The counterfeiter problem fades to background noise. The alliance negotiations, the distribution routes, my father's failing health. All of it becomes static. White noise. Nothing.
There's only her.
I watch her friend lean in to say something. Vittoria laughs, her whole face transforming. Then her friend points toward the VIP section. A hostess in black approaches them. She shakes her head, clearly refusing.
Stubborn woman.
The hostess gestures again. Shows them something on her tablet. Probably the note I send usually to people I want a close eye on.
Compliments of the house. Please enjoy.
Vittoria's spine straightens.
Her guard moves closer. Says something in her ear. She waves him off with an irritated flick of her wrist.
Finally, she nods. Lets the hostess lead her and the blonde toward the velvet rope.
I switch camera feeds. Track her through the crowd. Up the stairs. Into VIP.
She settles into a curved booth overlooking the dance floor. Champagne arrives within minutes. The good stuff. Cristal. Because if I'm going to spoil her, I'm going to do it properly.
Her friend squeals and grabs the bottle. Vittoria looks up. Scans the room.
Looking for me.
Keep looking, solnyshko. You'll find me soon enough.
I lean back in my chair. Study the way she crosses her legs. The way the hem of her dress rides up her thigh.
I've killed men for less than what I'm thinking right now.
The Bratva heir shouldn't be obsessing over a woman like a lovesick boy. I have territories to protect, enemies to eliminate, an empire to inherit. My father is dying. The alliance with the Sartoris requires careful diplomacy.
But watching her smile at something her friend says, watching her finally relax into the booth like she's allowing herself this one small pleasure...
Ya yeyo ne otpushchu. I'm not letting her go.
Not tonight. Not ever.
I stand. Adjust my cufflinks.
She came to my club looking for fun.
I'm about to show her she walked straight into a trap.
Vittoria
The champagne bubbles pop against my tongue. Forty minutes in and I'm already feeling that familiar warmth spreading through my chest, loosening something that's been wound tight for a long time.
When did I become such a lightweight?
Amanda throws her head back, laughing at something on her phone. Platinum waves catch the purple VIP lights, and she looks like she belongs here—in this world of bass drops and beautiful people and zero consequences.
"Okay, but look at his profile pic." She shoves her screen in my face. Some guy with abs and a boat. "He literally has a boat emoji in his bio. A boat emoji, V. That's a red flag."
"The boat or the emoji?"
"Both. Men with boats have main character syndrome." She takes another sip. "Also, he's probably compensating for something."
I snort into my glass. God, I missed this. The stupid jokes. The easy laughter.
My gaze drifts to Elio standing at the edge of our booth. Poor bastard. He's supposed to be watching me, but his eyes keep sliding toward Amanda like she's magnetic north. The way his jaw tightens when she laughs. The subtle lean in his posture whenever she moves.
He's so fucked.
The guilt twists in my stomach, mixing uncomfortably with the champagne buzz.
Elio is the only reason I have any semblance of a life outside that compound. Anyone else Pietro assigned would have me on a shorter leash than a show dog. But Elio... Elio is in love with my best friend, which means he does whatever we ask.
Including looking the other way.
Two years without sex. Two whole years of the crushing weight of grief that made the idea of being touched feel impossible. Before that, there were a couple of one-night stands. Quick, anonymous, forgettable.
Elio stood guard outside hotel rooms while I pretended to be someone else for a few hours. If Pietro ever found out, Elio would lose more than his job.
Stop thinking about it.
I drain my glass too fast. The bubbles burn going down.
"You okay?" Amanda leans in.
"Perfect." The lie comes easy. "Just thinking."
"Stop that immediately." She refills my glass from the bottle chilling in the ice bucket. "No thinking allowed tonight. That was the deal."
"When did we make that deal?"
"Just now. I'm making it now." She clinks her glass against mine. "To bad decisions and zero regrets."
I drink to that.
The bass vibrates through the leather seat, through my bones. Bodies move on the dance floor below us, all grinding and heat and temporary connections. Everyone here is looking for something. Escape. Pleasure. Someone to make them forget.
What am I looking for?