Chapter 4 Yuri
YURI
The adrenaline burns through my veins as I pace the slate floors of my office, each step reverberating off the paneled walls.
The taste of victory sits bitter on my tongue because it came from cornering a woman whose world collapsed twelve hours ago.
When she spat that she would rather die than marry me, the words ignited a fire I thought had died years ago.
I wanted to wrap my hands around her throat and prove her wrong, wanted to show her exactly how wrong she was about preferring death to my touch.
The urge was immediate and vicious, rising from some place I keep buried beneath layers of control and calculation.
Her defiance awakened a hunger that has no place in business arrangements.
But this is business. Nothing more.
My phone vibrates on my mahogany desk.
Oleg's number appears on the screen, and I answer it, wondering what on earth he needs this time of night.
"Yeah…."
"The Kozlov crew made a move on the docks tonight. Three of our men were hospitalized."
The fatigue in his voice tells me just how bad it got.
"They're testing us, Boss. Seeing how we respond."
I close my eyes and press my thumb against the bridge of my nose.
Dominic's death has opened cracks in our foundation, and every rival family in St. Petersburg can smell the weakness.
They circle closer each day, probing for soft spots in our defenses.
I have no heir.
If they take me out, what will my line of succession be now?
"Double the security at all our locations. Anyone who gets within fifty meters of our territory gets their knees broken."
"Already done," he says, and I grunt in approval.
"Then hold the line. Give me the night to think."
My head throbs and my voice is hoarse.
I need a drink.
The line goes dead, and I set the phone back on the desk.
My reflection stares back from the black screen—silver hair disheveled, lines carved deeper around my eyes.
At forty-four, I look older than my years, worn down by decades of violence and the pressure of keeping an empire intact.
Another call comes through, this one from St. Petersburg.
Dimitri's name flashes across the screen, and my jaw tightens before I answer.
"Brother, I say gruffly. I'm in no mood for this, and after everything that's happened today, I'm ready to draw blood. My patience is worn so thin I could use it like razor wire to cut people's throats.
"Yuri." His voice carries its familiar warmth, but I'm not encouraged by it.
My brother is a snake charmer. "I heard about Dominic… Tragic loss."
"Yes."
"These things happen in our line of work. Young men take risks."
I open my desk drawer and pull out a bottle and a crystal tumbler, pour three fingers of vodka into it, and take a long swallow before responding.
"What do you want, Dimitri?" It's my way of calming my angry beast before I let loose on my own brother.
"I want to discuss the future. With Dominic gone, there are questions about succession. The other families are asking who leads after you."
He won't come right out and say it, but that's a direct threat to my leadership.
Dimitri has always resented my position as head of the family, always believed the leadership should have fallen to him when our father died.
Now, with no clear heir, he sees an opportunity to challenge my authority.
"The leadership question is settled."
"Is it? You have no sons, Yuri. No one to carry the name forward."
His voice drops to almost a whisper.
"Perhaps it's time to consider other arrangements."
I end the call abruptly and pour more vodka.
The clear liquor burns down my throat, but it does nothing to ease the rage building in my chest.
Dimitri will make his move soon, probably within the month.
Other rivals will follow, sensing discord within our ranks.
The marriage to Inessa isn't just about honoring contracts anymore.
It's about the survival of my bloodline and my empire.
I open my desk drawer and pull out a small velvet box.
Inside, Dominic's cufflinks rest against black velvet—platinum inlaid with onyx, purchased for the wedding as a gift from me to him.
He'll never wear them now, and I can't bring myself to even take them out, let alone put them on.
Dominic was reckless.
Impulsive.
He made decisions without thinking through consequences, and those decisions would've caught up with him eventually.
But he was mine, the only person in this world who carried my blood and my name.
The loss tears through me with claws and teeth, but I swallow it down because grief is weakness and weakness gets you killed.
The office door opens and Oleg steps inside, one of the only men in my ranks who can walk right into my office without knocking, and he knows when to use caution.
He carries a manila folder under one arm.
"The reports from tonight's meetings."
I close the velvet box and set it back in the drawer.
Oleg's eyes follow the movement, but he says nothing.
He understands the weight of loss better than most, having buried two sons of his own in this business.
"What did you learn?"
"The Kozlov family is mobilizing. They're calling in debts, consolidating resources."
He sets the folder on my desk and opens it to reveal photographs and typed reports.
"They think Dominic's death makes us vulnerable."
I study the images—men in expensive suits meeting in dark restaurants, money changing hands, alliances being forged in shadowed corners.
The Kozlovs have always been ambitious, but they've never had the strength to challenge us directly.
Now they see opportunity in our grief.
"How many soldiers do they have?"
"Forty, maybe fifty. But they're recruiting."
I close the folder and lean back in my chair.
The leather creaks under my weight as I consider our options.
We could strike first, eliminate the Kozlov leadership before they gain momentum.
But that would mean war, and war brings attention from authorities we've spent years avoiding.
"The marriage will stabilize things."
Oleg nods slowly. "The girl agreed?"
"She will."
"And if she doesn't?"
I reach for the vodka bottle and refill my glass.
"Then I'll convince her."
Oleg's expression doesn't change, but I see understanding in his eyes.
He's been with me long enough to know what my persuasion looks like, how far I'm willing to go to protect what's mine.
"She's young. Inexperienced."
"She's tougher than she looks."
The image of Inessa in her bloodstained dress rises in my mind—the way she held herself upright even as her foundation crumbled, the fury in her gray-green eyes when I delivered my ultimatum.
"She built her company from nothing while other women her age were playing dress-up. That takes steel."
"Steel can shatter under enough pressure."
"Then I'll make sure the pressure comes from the right direction. We'll bend her to our will."
Oleg closes the folder and tucks it back under his arm.
"The ceremony arrangements?"
"Thursday morning. Daria has already sent the notice to Dominic's guests about the change. There will be plenty of witnesses."
I drain the rest of my vodka and set the glass down with finality.
"Have the documents prepared. Full marriage contract, business merger clauses, protection agreements."
"And if the other families object?"
"They can object from their graves."
Oleg nods and moves toward the door.
He pauses with his hand on the handle, his back still turned to me.
"She reminds me of Yelena."
My dead wife's name still brings a pinch of pain.
Yelena, who died years ago from cancer that ate through her bones while I watched helplessly.
Yelena, who never once backed down from a fight, even when the fight was with me.
"Don't."
"The same fire in her eyes. The same refusal to bend."
"Get out," I order, and I feel the swirl of alcohol beginning to warm the spot between my shoulder blades.
Oleg leaves without another word, closing the door behind him.
The office falls silent except for the tick of the antique clock on the mantelpiece—a gift from my father before he died, back when I still believed in legacies and honor.
The grief tries to claw its way up my throat, but I force it down with another mouthful of vodka.
Mafia men don't weep.
We plan.
We execute.
We survive.
Dominic died because he was careless, because he trusted the wrong people and made himself a target.
I won't make the same mistake.
Every decision from now on will be calculated, every move designed to strengthen our position.
Including my marriage to Inessa Mirova.
She thinks she hates me now, but hatred can be transformed into other things with the right application of pressure and patience.
I've seen her fire, the way she burns beneath that cool exterior.
When I touched her outside her studio with those flashing lights surrounding us, she didn't pull away immediately.
For one brief moment, she leaned into the contact before catching herself.
Thursday morning, Inessa Mirova will become my wife.
She'll stand beside me and speak the words that bind her to me legally and permanently.
And once the ceremony is complete, once the documents are signed and filed, I'll begin the slow, careful process of making her understand that her hatred is wasted energy.
She could learn to crave my touch instead.