Chapter 33
YURI
Istep out of Ivanov Tower into the sharp sting of the late afternoon air, my thoughts already half a block ahead.
Still no response from Astrid.
I check my phone again. Nothing. I sent a message nearly an hour ago.
We should talk. Let me know when you're back.
Simple. Open.
It’s probably nothing. She’s likely deep in the weeds with Elena. When those two get into a zone, hours can pass with no response. I’ve learned not to take it personally.
I could text Elena, but she has a habit of biting heads off when interrupted mid-hack. And if I distract them and something slips through the cracks, I’ll only have myself to blame.
I pocket the phone and start walking.
The day’s bright in that Chicago way, the sun high, the air cold, casting long shadows between high-rises. My thoughts continue to spiral. A knot is forming behind my eyes, and I haven’t been able to shake it since early this morning.
I need to be at the mansion when they come up for air. Need to be sharp when they bring me what they’ve found.
I only make it half a block before I hear my name.
“Yuri!”
I turn. Tatiana’s crossing the street toward me.
I suppress a sigh. “Tatiana.”
“Don’t look so tense,” she says, brushing a hand through her honey-blonde waves. “I’m not here to bite.”
“What’s going on?”
She slows beside me, falling into step. “Just got off the phone with my father. It’s... been a complicated few days.” She pauses. “Thought maybe we could clear the air.”
I arch a brow.
“A drink?” she adds, voice light. “Just one. Civil.”
It feels like a peace offering. And maybe that’s exactly what it is—her way of stepping back, giving space, accepting things as they are.
I nod once. “Fine. One drink.”
There’s a sleek little bar around the corner—quiet, high ceilings, polished brass. We slip inside and find two seats at the bar. She shrugs out of her coat. Underneath, she’s wearing a little black dress—tight, sexy, intentional.
And just like that I know. This isn’t a peace offering.
She shifts in her seat, the dress hiking up her leg. Her smile curves with practiced ease. Tatiana catches me looking.
“If you wanted to,” she says, voice velvet-soft, “you could see me in something like this whenever you like.” She pauses. “Or out of it,” she adds with a wicked grin.
I don’t smile back. “Tatiana, I spoke with your father, too. About your behavior.”
Her brows lift and she sighs. “I never should have said a word to him.” She tilts her head, pout forming. “Let me guess. He’s worried I’ll embarrass the family name again?”
“He’s worried you’ll cause problems you can’t clean up. For me. For yourself. You reached out to him and asked for help.”
Tatiana scoffs. “No, I didn’t. I may have mentioned a few dissatisfactions to him, some of them regarding you.
But I didn’t ask for his help.” She sighs again.
“He thinks he still controls me, but he doesn’t.
Not anymore.” She picks up her drink and swirls the contents lazily.
“If it were up to him, I’d be back in Moscow.
Married off to some fat oligarch with a private zoo and a failing liver. ”
“Not the worst life,” I reply. “You’d be taken care of.”
Her eyes flash. “By an old man who smells like cigars and thinks he can buy obedience with jewelry? That’s your bar for happiness?”
I lift a brow. “Some people would call that stability.”
Tatiana leans in. “That’s my worst nightmare, Yuri. Being a bird in a golden cage. I want more for myself than being someone’s ornament.” She sets her glass down. “I want to make my own fortune. Build something. Be someone who matters. Not just a daughter or a wife. Not just a name.”
I study her for a beat. “Is that what this is really about?”
She smiles again, and it’s almost sad. “We could be more,” she says. “You and me. King and queen of the Bratva. You know we’d be unstoppable. You’d never have to look over your shoulder again.”
I exhale through my nose. “You’ve said that before.”
She touches my wrist, caressing it gently with her fingertip. “And it’s still true.”
I pull my hand away. “Tatiana,” I say, cold and controlled, “that will never happen. You know why. We’re not a match. Not in business. Not in romance. And not in bed.”
For a moment, she’s still. Then she laughs, sharp and sinister. “Fine,” she says, standing and putting on her coat. “Reject me again. But you’ll regret this, Yuri.”
Without another word, she grabs her purse and starts toward the exit, shoving the door hard as she walks out.
Tension coils in my gut. I finish my drink, throw down some cash, and head out. I check my phone again as I step outside. Still nothing from Astrid.
The street’s darker now, the sky bruised with the evening hues. Whatever that little performance with Tatiana was, it wasn’t just about me. That much is obvious.
She’s circling something. And I don’t like not knowing what it is.
I call for a driver. Within five minutes, one of our sedans glides up to the curb, sleek and black. I slide into the back seat, tell the driver to head to the mansion, then lean back and watch the city slip by.
Tatiana’s never been predictable, but she’s also never been desperate. Her little act felt desperate.
She’s worked beside us for years. She’s always flirted with me, but this was different. The dress. The drink. The timing. It wasn’t just seduction.
It was a distracting disruption. And the timing points straight to Astrid.
My jaw tightens.
By the time the gates open and the car turns up the long drive to the mansion, I need to see my woman. My bright, infuriating, brilliant Astrid. I want to see her face. Hear her voice. Feel her skin under my hands. Tell her everything I haven’t said yet.
Tell her I love her.
Because I do. It’s in the way she looks at me without fear. In the way she fights. In the way I see my future when I look at her—not abstract, not someday. Now.
Tonight, I’ll tell her. Tonight, we’ll become united against whatever comes our way.
The car stops and I step out. Elena’s in the hall when I enter the house, fingers smudged with ink, a half-empty mug of coffee in her hand.
I don’t waste time on pleasantries. “Where’s Astrid?”
She glances up. “Downstairs, last I knew. Still working.”
We both move toward the computer room. She taps in the code and pushes the door open.
Empty.
My pulse spikes. “Elena, something’s wrong.”
I turn back, heading for the hallway, intercepting one of the maids. “Have you seen Astrid?”
“Yes, sir,” the girl says, bright and unaware. “She went out for a walk with Miss Ibramova. They haven’t returned, so I imagine they’re still out in the garden.”
Elena’s voice cuts in behind me, taut. “Yuri, what is it?”
I turn, pulling out my phone.
“Our brothers,” I say. “Get them on the line—now.”
“What’s happening?”
“War.”