Chapter Eighteen
Arkady
“Arriving in ten,” the driver announces over his shoulder as the limo eases through the Vegas traffic.
“Tulikov got in an hour ago,” Stefan says without looking up. “Three men with him—two inside, one watching the entrance.”
“Only three?” The number doesn’t fit a man as paranoid as Sergei.
“Could have more stationed around the place. I’ll sweep on arrival.”
I nod, checking my watch—a heavy steel Hublot, understated compared to Sergei’s flashy gold abominations.
“Stay within sight but out of hearing,” I tell Stefan as the car glides to a halt. “I want this conversation private, but if he moves wrong—”
“I’ll be there.” Stefan’s hand shifts toward his holster, a movement so natural it appears choreographed.
Vegas throbs around us, unaware of the war brewing beneath its artificial skin.
Moscow Nights sits just off the Strip—Russian-owned, high-end, discreet.
The kind of place where people with our specific backgrounds can speak freely, knowing every server, every busboy, every valet understands exactly when to become selectively deaf.
Stefan exits first, scanning the perimeter.
I follow, adjusting my jacket, feeling the Makarov’s familiar weight against my ribs.
The gun should be unnecessary—this meeting is meant for diplomacy, not violence—but old habits and older fears die hard.
Especially when dealing with snakes like Sergei Tulikov.
Inside, crystal chandeliers glitter overhead. The hostess recognizes me immediately—a flash of awareness behind a professional smile.
“Mr. Laurov,” she murmurs. “Mr. Tulikov is waiting in the private room.”
I follow her through the main dining area, conscious of conversations dropping as I pass, of glances tilting toward me then away—people who recognize power when it enters their space. Stefan takes a position at the bar where he can monitor both exits and the hallway leading to private rooms.
Sergei sits at a table by the window, vodka in hand, a plate of caviar untouched before him. He doesn’t stand when I enter—a calculated insult… but I don’t really give a fuck about his insults.
“Arkady Laurov,” he says, gesturing with his glass. “You came a long way for this meeting. I’m flattered.”
“I’m here to come to an agreement.” I take the seat across from him, not bothering with pleasantries. “I know you bought the building next to Empire Royale.”
A smile crawls across his face, slippery as a snake. “Oh, do you?”
“Yes.” I keep my voice level despite the acid building in my stomach. “And here’s my offer: I’ll buy the building from you.” I name a figure that’s twice the property’s worth, three times what he paid. Extortion money, but cheaper than war.
His eyes flare at the number—a momentary crack in his facade—before narrowing again.
“Very tempting,” he says, draining his glass.
“But it’s not for sale. Especially not if you’re the buyer.
” He leans forward. “That casino will only be there to destroy your business, Arkady, just like you destroyed the alliance between our families and my daughter’s life.
And my daughter is more valuable to me than anything else in this world. ”
Lies. If he valued Rosanna that much, he wouldn’t have spent the last twenty-five years using her as currency in his power games.
“Your concern for your daughter is touching,” I say coldly. “But this isn’t about her. This is business, Sergei. Let’s keep it that way.”
His face darkens, blood rushing beneath the skin.
“Business? Business?” He slams his palm against the table, making the glasses jump.
“Rosanna has been depressed since the wedding. No medication helps her. She spends all her time in her room, unable to function because of you. She will be a single mother. You humiliated her in front of everyone who matters!”
The rage building behind his eyes shifts into something more calculated. He leans closer, voice dropping to something more toxic.
“I saw how you looked at the registrar when her dress split. And I know she’s now in your house. You were probably fucking her while you were with Rosanna, and you have the balls to tell me Rosanna cheated on you!”
Something snaps inside me. The blood in my veins turns to fire, then to ice. My vision narrows until all I can see is Sergei’s face, all I can hear is Mirabel’s name in his mouth.
How dare he speak of her? How dare he even think about her. The intensity of my reaction stuns me—this isn’t just anger. This is ownership. Possession.
And it’s totally fucked up.
Blyad.
Get it together, Laurov.
I take a slow, deliberate breath, forcing the rage back into its cage. “Okay,” I bite out. “What do you want then?”
He leans back, savoring his momentary advantage. “Send out an email of apology to everyone on the guest list. Marry my daughter. Acknowledge the child.” His eyes narrow with cruel precision. “Get rid of the registrar chick.”
“Fuck you,” I growl.
He shrugs, then reaches for a forkful of caviar and shovels it in his mouth. “Then you’re screwed,” he says around a mouthful of dark sludge.
My lip curls in disgust.
Pizda.
“I guess we’re done here.” I stand, pushing the chair back with enough force that it scrapes across the floor. I reach for my wallet, extracting enough cash to cover his meal. “Lunch is on me.”
His eyes track the money as I slap it on the table, the gesture dismissive. His mouth contracts into a tight line.
I walk away before he can respond, feeling his stare digging between my shoulder blades. Stefan materializes at my side as I reach the main dining room, matching my stride without a word.
The air outside is cold compared to the rage still burning beneath my skin. I head to the parking lot, where the driver is waiting in the limo. I’m reaching for the door when I spot him—Sergei, moving toward his own vehicle, parked just two spaces from mine. Bad fucking luck.
He notices me at the same moment. Our eyes connect across the asphalt, and his expression transforms, satisfaction hardening into something malevolent.
“It’s still not too late to make the right choice, Arkady,” he calls, just loud enough to reach me.
His hand touches his car door, but instead of opening it, he steps closer, voice lowering.
“And I can make your decision easier. I know about your dark little secret, about killing your little brother. How do you think your reputation would be affected if that little piece of information got out?”
The world stops.
My vision tunnels. For one devastating moment, I’m fifteen again, the weight of the pistol unfamiliar in my hands, the crack of the unexpected shot thundering through the room. Mishka’s blood staining his shirt. My mother screaming, “What have you done?”
Sergei watches my face, consuming my reaction like he’s getting off on it.
“So it’s true,” he says, smirking. “You did kill him. And now you have to live with that mistake for the rest of your miserable life.”
Something dark rises in me—black, volcanic rage that burns through rational thought. I remain silent, but my hands curl tight enough that my nails break skin.
Sergei lights a cigarette, the flame illuminating the sadistic pleasure in his eyes.
“I wonder. What would the other Bratva families think if they knew that?” He inhales deeply, blowing smoke that hangs between us like fog.
“What would happen to your precious casino business if they knew the owner murdered his own underage brother?”
“Don’t push your luck, mudak,” I growl the warning.
He smiles, sensing I’m about to snap. “You fucking threatening me? You’re not really in a position to do that, are you?
” He invades my space, the vodka on his breath making me recoil.
“Let’s face it. As long as I know your dirty little secret, I own you.
I can take everything—your casino, your reputation…
” His smile twists into something vicious.
“Or maybe I start with that pretty little housekeeper? How would you feel about her accidentally getting shot, just like your little brother?”
My world goes dark.
The mention of Mirabel—the threat carved into his words—spikes my frayed temper. My vision bleeds red at the edges, blood roars in my skull, and I taste metal on my tongue.
The careful control I’ve maintained since Mishka died, the boundaries I’ve set for myself, the line I’ve drawn between my father’s brutality and my own moral code—all of it incinerates in an instant.
Sergei Tulikov has signed his own death warrant.
He just doesn’t know it yet.