Leon
The Romanian's hands shake when he opens the first crate.
Not much. Just enough that I notice. Enough to tell me he's either nervous about the deal or stupid enough to think he can fuck me over.
I'm betting on nervous.
Valentin, the Romanian, runs his tongue over his teeth.
His suit is too tight across the shoulders, cheap fabric straining.
He thinks dressing like a businessman makes him legitimate.
It doesn't. It makes him look like what he is—a mid-level arms dealer trying to play in a league he doesn't understand.
"The price we discussed—" he starts.
"Hasn't changed," I cut him off. "Two million. Half now, half on delivery of the next shipment."
His jaw works. "That's more than I’d pay elsewhere."
"Then go elsewhere." I keep my face flat, my eyes cold. If he doesn’t know where he stands right now, he will before the end of the night.
I don't raise my voice either. The four men standing behind me, silent and still, are explanation enough. So is my reputation. If he doesn’t know where he stands right now, he will before the end of the night.
I don't negotiate. I don't haggle. I procure what people need, and they pay what I ask, or they deal with someone less reliable. Someone who might sell them faulty merchandise. Someone who might tip off the authorities. Someone who doesn't have the Dubovich name backing every transaction.
Valentin swallows. "Of course. No disrespect intended."
"None taken."
He nods to one of his men, who steps forward with a briefcase. My guy, Slav, intercepts it, checking the bills with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times because he has. He pauses, then gives me a slight nod.
One million. Clean. Perfect for laundering through my brother’s club on the other side of these walls.
"We'll arrange the second delivery within the month," I say. "My people will contact yours with the location."
"And discretion is—"
"Guaranteed." I let the word hang there, cold and final. "I haven’t built this business by talking."
The truth is, I don't stay in business by caring either.
Valentin could take these guns and start a war, or he could sell them to someone who will.
Not my problem. My problem is procurement.
Acquisition. Making sure the Dubovich Bratva has the connections, the resources, the leverage to operate without interference.
I've been doing this for eight years. Started at twenty-two, working under my uncle Yury, learning the trade from the ground up. Now I run the largest procurement network in the city. Weapons, documents, vehicles, information…if someone needs it and can't get it legally, they come to me.
The club is just the front. A very successful front, admittedly. High-end, exclusive, the kind of place where the city's elite come to pretend they're dangerous. They're not. But they pay well for the fantasy, and the profits get laundered back into operations that actually matter.
Like this.
Valentin's man is already moving toward the crates when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out, glancing at the screen.
Vitali: Charlotte's pregnant. Early days. Thought you should know.
I stare at the message longer than I should.
My brother's been married to Charlotte for not even two months, and he's already knocked her up. Efficient. Exactly what I'd expect from Vitali.
Exactly what Uncle Yury demanded.
The mandate sits in the back of my mind like a low-grade headache that won't go away. One year. Each of you will marry and produce an heir.
It's been two months since he issued it. Two months of watching my brothers and cousins scramble, panic, pretend they're in control. Vitali handled it the way he handles everything, by making a transaction. Marriage contract, terms negotiated, problem solved.
Avros is losing his fucking mind over some ballerina. I've seen him three times in the past month, and each time he looks more unhinged. Obsessed. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with the work and everything to do with whatever's happening in his head.
Iosif sits in his office drumming his fingers, thinking he can puzzle his way out of this somehow while he runs the club with me.
Zakhar's refusing. Outright. Saying he won't be bred like livestock, won't be forced into marriage and fatherhood for the sake of legacy. He'll come around. Or he won't. Either way, our uncle doesn't make idle threats.
And me?
I've been treating it like another procurement job. Find a suitable woman. Someone appropriate. Someone who understands what this is. A business deal, not a romance. Get her pregnant, fulfill the mandate, move on. Maybe Vitali has it right after all.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and refocus on Valentin, who's inspecting the guns like he knows what he's looking at. He doesn't.
"Satisfied?" I ask.
"Very." He straightens, attempts a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Dubovich."
"Likewise."
We're almost done. Another thirty seconds and they'll be out of here, and I can get back upstairs to my office and figure out what the fuck I'm going to do about the family legacy.
The door slams open.
Everyone freezes.
A woman stumbles through, heels clicking on concrete, eyes wide and unfocused like she's still expecting to find an alleyway or parking lot or anything other than what's actually here.
She's small. That's my first thought. Delicate, dark hair spilling over bare shoulders, a black dress that hugs curves I have no business noticing right now. Her lips are parted, breath coming fast, and for one suspended second, she just stands there, staring at us.
At the guns.
At the money.
At me.
Her eyes lock on mine, and something in my chest tightens in a way I don't recognize.
Then she processes what she's seeing.
"Oh fuck," she whispers.
The room explodes into motion.
Valentin's men draw weapons. My men move to intercept. Slav steps in front of me, hand already reaching for the gun at his hip.
"Who the fuck is she?" Valentin snarls, his earlier nervousness replaced by the kind of panic that gets people killed.
One of his men raises his weapon, finger already on the trigger.
"Kill her," Valentin snaps. "Now. Before she—"
I'm moving before I finish the thought.
Three long strides and I'm in front of her, my body between her and the guns, my hand already reaching for her face. She flinches, but I don't give her time to pull away.
I grab her jaw, tilt her face up, and crash my mouth against hers.
She goes rigid. Shocked. Terrified.
I don't care.
"She's my wife," I say against her lips, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Then I kiss her harder, my other hand sliding to the back of her neck, holding her in place. Her hands come up between us, palms pressed against my chest, but she doesn't push me away.
I break the kiss just enough to whisper, my lips still brushing hers, my voice low and deadly calm.
"Play along, or you die."