Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
M IKHAIL
I step away from the bed, gesturing for everyone to leave me alone with Artyom and Konstantin in the recovery suite.
I wait until they leave and shut the heavy wood door behind us, cutting off the soft murmur of my sisters' voices.
"The factory in Queens is a total loss," I say, leaning my hip against the night table. "The Germans are already calling. They want to know why their shipment is currently a pile of melted steel."
Artyom nods. "Tell them it was an electrical malfunction. Offer them a ten percent discount on the next three runs. We can't let them think we've lost control of our own transit points."
"They aren't stupid, Artyom," I grunt. "They know what a C4 signature smells like. Someone hit us from the inside."
"The internal audit is already underway," Konstantin says. He stands near the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "The guards at the gate were paid off through a shell company in Delaware. The trail is clean, but it has Boris Petrov's style all over it. Sophisticated, but damn greedy."
"We can't prove it yet," Artyom rasps, his jaw tight. "And until we do, the Council won't back us if we start a war with the Petrovs. We're losing ground. First the warehouse, now the primary transit hub. If we can't move our inventory, the smaller crews will start looking for a new Pakhan."
I run a hand over my face. "We need options. And we need them now. I'm not going to Boris with my hat in my hand."
"You don't need Boris," Konstantin turns from the window. "And you don't need the legacy families who are still waiting to see if Artyom is going to bleed out. There are other players in this city. Ambitious men who have been waiting for the old guard to make a mistake."
"What kind of men?" I ask, my eyes narrowing.
"Smaller operations," Konstantin explains. "Men with their own independent supply chains. They don't have the name, but they have the hunger. And more importantly, they have the reach we need to bypass the North Docks entirely while we rebuild."
"Ambitious men are dangerous," Artyom warns from the chair. "They’re not loyal."
"They are loyal to profit," Konstantin counters.
"Which is much easier to manage than family pride. There is a private game tonight. A casino in Brooklyn, run by a man named Vance. It’s a closed circle.
The legacy families aren't invited, which makes it the perfect place to talk without Boris’s spies listening. "
I look at Konstantin. He’s right, and I hate it. We’re being choked out of our own city, and if we don't find a new line of credit and new routes, the Morozov name won't be worth the paper the deeds are printed on.
"Where is this game?" I ask.
"A warehouse near the navy yard," Konstantin says. "It's high-stakes. Only five seats at the table. If you want to show them you’re still in the game, you need to play, Mikhail. And you need to win."
"I don't plan on losing," I say. "I'll handle the game. You find the leak, Konstantin.”
"I'll find them," Konstantin says simply.
I open the door, my eyes instantly searching the room until they land on Irina. She’s standing near Milana, her shoulders tense, her fingers twisting the hem of her cardigan.
My beautiful, troublesome wife.
The anger in my gut softens just a fraction.
IRINA
I can’t believe this is happening.
I look at my phone screen, my heart doing a wild, erratic tap-dance against my ribs. It’s him. Again. I slide my thumb across the glass, my voice a quiet hiss in the hospital bathroom.
"I told you not to call me here," I say.
"And I told you that you don't dictate the terms of our relationship anymore, Irina," Boris rasps. "I heard about the factory in Queens. A tragedy. It seems the Morozovs are having a run of very bad luck lately."
"You did it," I whisper, my eyes stinging. "You almost killed him, Papa. You almost killed Artyom."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, though I can hear the smirk in his voice. "But the disruption is quite convenient, isn't it? The Morozovs have to move their toys somewhere. They can't keep their weapons at a burnt-out factory."
"I don't know where they're keeping them."
"Then find out," Boris snaps. "The primary inventory has to be relocated. They’ll use a secondary warehouse or a private estate. I want the address, Irina. And I want the security codes for the new site."
"No," I say, my voice trembling. "I won't do it. If they find out, Mikhail will kill me."
"He won't kill you if he doesn't know," Boris says. "And he won't know unless you tell him. But if you don't give me the location of those guns by tomorrow night, I’ll call him myself and tell him everything and make sure he knows exactly what kind of snake he’s been keeping in his bed."
"You're a monster," I choke out, a tear finally escaping and tracking down my cheek.
"Don't be dramatic. Don’t make me wait long for the information or the next explosion won't be at a factory."
The line goes dead.
I slide down the wall of the bathroom, my chest heaving as I try to breathe . He’s threatening him . He’s telling me that if I don't help him destroy the Morozovs, he’ll hurt him .
I can’t do this.
I press my face into my hands, the taste of salt and fear hot in my mouth. But what other choice do I have?
I wipe my face with a paper towel, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are red, but I try my best to slip my mask into place. I can't break down now. Not here.
I walk back out towards the suite. Mikhail is already standing by the door, his jacket on, looking like he’s ready to leave. He looks at me, his eyes narrowing as he tracks the slight flush on my cheeks.
"Where were you?" he asks, his voice low.
"The bathroom," I say, my voice steady.
"We're leaving," he says, grabbing my arm firmly, but softly. "I have a meeting."
My heart feels heavy and I feel tears threaten to start again.
I can’t do this… I need to tell him.
We get into the Aston Martin, the drive back to the estate quiet and very tense. I watch his hands on the wheel—his knuckles are bruised, the skin raw from yesterday. I want to touch them, but I don't dare.
I can’t, the guilt of it all is eating me alive and I don’t know if I can survive it.
"Where is this meeting?" I ask as we pull onto the highway.
"A private game," Mikhail says, not looking at me. "In Brooklyn. Some smaller players who want to talk business."
"A casino?" My ears perk up. A casino. That means people are talking. That means there’s information. "I’m coming with you."
Mikhail lets out a dry, irritated laugh. "No, you aren't. It’s a closed game, Irina. I don't need you in a room where they’ll be watching you more than they listen to me."
"They'll be watching me because I'm beautiful," I snap, rolling my eyes as I try to fight the smile threatening to spread on my face.
"And that's exactly why you need me. Men in those rooms are stupid, Mikhail.
They see a pretty face, and they think the brain behind it is made of cotton candy.
They speak more freely when a woman is in the room. "
"I don't need your help to read a room," he growls, his grip on the wheel tightening.
"Yes, you do. You're the Madman. People look at you and they expect a fight. They're guarded. But me? I'm the Petrov bride. I know how to play poker, Mikhail. I’ve been sitting at my father's tables since I was eighteen. I can read a bluff before the cards are even dealt."
"I said no, Irina."
"And I'm saying you're being stupidly prideful," I push back, leaning toward him.
"Wives and companions talk. While you're at the table flexing your muscles, I'll be in the lounge listening.
I can find out who is backing these 'ambitious' players.
I can find out if any of them are whispering to Boris. "
Mikhail shifts gears, the car surging forward with a violent growl. He’s silent for a long beat, his chest expanding in a ragged breath. I can see the battle behind his eyes—the grumpy enforcer fighting the man who likes having me on his hip.
I like seeing him like this, it makes my heart skip.
"If you come," he says, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register, "you stay close to me. You don't talk to anyone unless I tell you to. And you don't play unless I give you the buy-in."
"I don't need your buy-in. I have my own money."
"You have my money," he corrects, his eyes flashing as he looks at me. "And in that room, you are my wife. That means you follow my lead. Do you understand?"
"I understand," I say, though we both know I’m not built for obedience.
We arrive at the Brooklyn warehouse two hours later. The exterior is a derelict brick building overlooking the river, but the interior has been converted into a high-end, underground casino.
Mikhail kills the engine. He turns to me, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, his thumb dragging across my lower lip.
"Don't make me regret this, dorogaya ," he whispers.
"I won't," I say, my heart doing that wild, hopeful beat again.
We step out of the car. Mikhail wraps his arm around my waist, his palm hot against my silk dress, pulling me close until there isn't a single millimeter of air between us. He leads me through the heavy metal doors.
We walk into the casino and all eyes turns to us.
Well, shit.