Chapter 14
JULIAN
The bar was Alexander’s choice. It was one of those places in the Meatpacking District that charges twenty-eight dollars for a cocktail and prefers to call itself a “speakeasy.”
Low lighting washes over a bartender-slash-mixologist with a waxed handlebar mustache, who prepares each drink with the seriousness one might expect from a soldier defusing a bomb.
The place is trendy, expensive, and flashy—right up Alexander’s alley.
He’s already there when I arrive, a bourbon, neat, in front of him, one leg crossed over the other, a cocky smile on his face.
Part of me wanted to reject him outright when I’d received the text. He said he wanted to meet and come to an arrangement based on “brotherly love and respect.” But I’m here hoping that he’s coming to his senses and seeing how goddamn stupid it would be to continue fighting.
“There’s my big bro,” he says with a grin as I slide into the booth.
The bartender approaches, as if he’d been waiting for me to arrive. He places a glass of something dark and amber in front of me. I lean forward to catch the scent.
“Macallan 18. Not even here for thirty seconds, and you’re already trying to butter me up.”
“We’re here for drinks, so I ordered you a drink. And your favorite, I might add.”
“And our father’s favorite.”
“That makes it even easier to remember.”
I regard the glass for a moment but don’t take a sip.
“You wanted to meet so we could talk—talk.”
Alexander sighs, sets down his drink, and folds his hands on the table. It’s a move I’ve seen before, a pose that suggests he’s being sincere. He’s been doing it since he was twelve, and though he’s gotten better at it, I can still see right through him.
“I’ve been thinking about the council,” he says, “about what happens if we go in divided.”
“Good. So have I.”
“Then you know it’s a problem. Dobrov’s already using it. I assume that’s why he was in your office today.”
I don’t bother to ask how he knew that. It’s irrelevant.
“I’m aware of what Dobrov said.”
“Then you’re also as aware as I am that if we show up fractured and fighting, Yang’s people will pull his support, the Filipinos soon after that. Neither of them is going to offer international agreements to an unstable house.”
“You’re saying this as if I haven’t been spending a great deal of my time preparing for the potential fallout of your behavior.”
He waves his hands, as if this dismissing this as minor stuff that we need to get past.
“So we’re both aware of what’s going on and what’s at stake.”
“Tell me what you’re proposing, Alexander. Get to the point.”
“What I’m proposing is unity, real, visible, undeniable unity. I stand beside you at the council, publicly endorse your leadership. I tell every family I've built a relationship with over the past three years that Julian Volkov has my full support, and the Volkov house is whole."
He pauses and sips his bourbon, letting his words hang in the air, giving me space to reflect. Then, he sets his drink down and goes on. "Dobrov loses his leverage overnight. Yang sees stability. You keep your seat, I keep my dignity, and the family survives."
Now I need a sip of the scotch. I take the glass in my hand and sit back, turning Alexander’s words over in my mind.
It’s a good pitch—clean and logical—and delivered with just a touch of humility. This is Alexander at his best, not as some blustering narcissist, but as a man who knows what people want and how to give it to them giftwrapped and tied with a ribbon.
But there’s one piece we haven’t gotten to yet, and I don’t want to waste any more time.
“What do you want in return?”
He meets my eyes and the mask drops. I see the cold ambition behind his altruism. His smile fades.
“Get rid of Lyra.”
The air changes instantly.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Alexander leans forward. “Get rid of her.”
“What? Why?”
“Because she’s a liability, Julian. She’s my ex-fiancée, working at our family company, publicly attached to my brother.
It reads to our enemies as a power play.
It makes you look petty, and it makes me look weak.
It also makes the family look like it’s being run by personal grudges, instead of business strategies. ”
“That’s your take on the situation,” I say. “From my perspective, I’m retaining one of the most competent employees in the company after you tossed her aside. No one cares about our personal business, so long as we’re united where and when it counts.”
He narrows his eyes. “She’s a distraction, and you know it.
I’m not asking you to hurt her. I’m asking you to let her go quietly.
Give her a generous severance and a glowing reference.
Whatever and however you want to do it. She’s a damn good employee, and that’s all the more reason not to worry about her. She’ll land on her feet just fine.”
I take a slow sip of my drink and study him. Alexander, my little brother. Thirty-two years old, handsome, charming, and absolutely sure that everything in life is the equivalent of talking a woman into bed. Just say the right words in the right way and you have the keys to the kingdom.
But he’s wrong.
He thinks that I’ll trade Lyra for his loyalty, because in his world, people are currency. You collect them, use them, and toss them aside when they’ve served their purpose.
“No way.”
The words are simple and final.
Alexander blinks and cocks his head to the side, as if he’s not quite sure he heard me correctly.
“What?”
“No way. Lyra stays. The subject is non-negotiable.”
He sits back, a bit dumbfounded, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility that I would say no.
“You’re–you’re serious?”
“Yes.”
He rubs his chin. “Well, in that case, we have a problem.”
“Indeed we do.”
“But why?” he asks. “We could sort all of this out right now, get back on the same page. Everyone will get what they want.”
The answer to why is simple—I’m not going to allow Alexander to dictate terms. I’m not going to allow him to tell me what to do, not even for his loyalty. And it’s not simply a matter of pride; if he knows that he can pull my strings now, he’ll do it again and again.
He needs to fall in line, to respect the hierarchy, and not be under the impression that everything is a negotiation.
And there’s another piece to it; one I’m not quite comfortable thinking about.
I don’t want Lyra to leave.
I tuck that feeling away; it’s not going to help in this conversation.
Alexander drops the diplomatic act. The performance is gone, replaced by the petulant brat I so often saw as a child, the one who lashed out when he didn’t get his way.
“Well, then, this means war, brother.” He says it with a quiet, steady tone.
“It’s been war since the gala, Alexander. You’re just now catching up.”
He narrows his eyes, and I can see the pure hate burning within.
“Here’s my offer to you,” I say. I place my fingertips on the rim of the glass, turning it slowly.
“Fall into line. Recognize that I’m the one in charge—just as I’ve earned and just as our father intended.
You get all of the benefits of being close to power, and perhaps a little more responsibility and power of your own, if you prove worthy of it.
“But you don’t get to dictate terms. You don’t tell me who I can and can’t have in my organization. You respect the order of power.”
I let my words hang in the air. “Let me be clear, brother—this is good a deal as you’re going to get.”
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he slams his fist on the table. The noise is loud enough to cut through the low din of the bar and catch the attention of the other patrons.
Then he stands, straightens his cuffs, throws a hundred on the table, and leaves.
I watch him walk out, the door slamming behind him.
I shake my head. I’m confident I made the right decision. I’m the don. This isn’t a partnership. Alexander doesn’t dictate terms. He falls in line, or he gets cast aside.
Well, then, this means war, brother.
The words echo in my mind, and I find myself wondering just how far he’ll go. Does power mean that much to him? What would he do in order to be the man on top?
I suppose I’m about to find out.
I pick up the glass—it’s good scotch—too good to waste. I toss it back. Then, I set down the glass and take out my phone to dial Ethan.
“What’s up?” he asks, answering on the second ring.
“Is Lyra’s security doubled?”
“It is. I can assign more men if you like.”
“Not just yet. Pass a message down the line—war is on the horizon.”
“Meeting didn’t go so well?”
“It went exactly the way I expected.”
The call ends.
I stand and button my coat.
Alexander is in for a world of hurt.