10. Artem
Artem
The Nero name continues to echo in my head three days later. He might not have recognized me, but he's still a loose end that could ruin everything, and while I might have eliminated him in the past, that is not currently an option.
I pour vodka into a crystal glass and stare out at the city from my penthouse. Forty floors below, New York pulses with its usual chaos, oblivious to the careful web I've been spinning.
The Nero family controls most of the Italian operations in this city. They're powerful, connected, and we've come up against one another more than once.
Sipping my drink, I consider how to handle this situation. Luc is genuinely protective of Katya, which means he won't back down. Katya is sweet, and they've been friends forever, which means she will forgive him.
And then I'm operating with a ticking bomb in my vicinity.
I need to move faster. Toward what Katya now wants as much as I do. I could have taken it the other night, and yet I didn't. That's another reason I'm up here, looking down at the city, drinking.
I'm contemplating the very messy situation I've created for myself.
My phone buzzes against the desk. It's a text from her.
I keep thinking about dinner. When can I see you again? I hope work is going well.
I stare at the message and smile—a genuine smile, not a smirk.
I've replayed that night over and over again, taking my cock into my hands every time as I think about the sweet little noises she made.
How, despite her innocence, she pressed me against her clit, grinding herself against my tongue.
She was exquisite, responsive, trusting, and completely mine in that moment.
I could have had her. She was right there, eager and panting, and yet I wasn't ready.
I want her primed for addiction, unable to live without me. I want to break her.
I type back: Work is boring. I'd much rather be finding solace between your thighs.
I close my eyes, imagining the way the flush on her cheeks would travel down her neck and to her breasts. Her sweet nipples were probably quivering for my touch.
I continue: Let's have dinner this weekend. How about at my home?
Her response is immediate: Can't wait.
I set the phone down and take a sip of vodka, letting the burn distract me from the uncomfortable direction my thoughts are taking. Because I want her. Badly. And yet, I know the second I have her, things change. Because she will know the truth, and she will hate me for it.
Good, I think, finishing my drink. She should learn not to be so trusting.
Katya Popova is a means to an end. A beautiful, intelligent, captivating means to an end, but still just a tool in a larger plan.
The fact that I enjoy her company, that I find myself genuinely entertained by her observations about ballet and art and literature, that I actually look forward to hearing her laugh—none of that changes what she is.
What she has to be.
But Christ, it's difficult not to like her. It's difficult not to fall into the trap I've created because it's so close to what I would have once wanted for myself.
I need to finish this, and soon.
Sentiment is a luxury I can't afford. Not when I'm this close.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Pyotr.
Everything set for tonight. Our guests are expecting quite a show.
Tonight. I groan, wanting nothing more than to pour myself another drink. I refrain, needing to be clearheaded. This is the monthly gathering at Eclipse—the club I inherited.
Normally, I avoid the place like the plague, but tonight, if my intelligence is correct, a special visitor will arrive—right on time.
Placing my glass back on the bar cart, I prepare myself. Everything is going to plan.
I should be happier.
Eclipse sits in the heart of Queens, all black glass and steel, looking like any other upscale nightclub from the outside. Inside, it's pure Russian opulence—dark wood, red velvet, and crystal chandeliers that cost more than most people's cars. Alexei had expensive tastes, I'll give him that.
He also had terrible security, and I'd needed to shut the place down to redo the entire system. I wanted to raze it to the ground. The very sight of this building makes my blood boil because I know my sister's life was traded for this piece of shit.
And yet, I show up and do my duty. I arrive at eleven PM, when the legitimate crowd is thick enough to provide cover but not so late that business can't be conducted. Pyotr meets me at the private entrance, his expression tight with concern.
"They've been arriving for the past hour," he says in Russian as we walk through the back corridors. "More than usual."
"How many more?"
"Nearly double. Representatives from families we haven't seen in months."
I nod, not particularly concerned. Fear brings people out of hiding.
They want to take my measure, see if the former intelligence officer can really run a criminal enterprise.
I'd been able to hold on to things at first. A public execution will immediately get people in line, but that fear eventually dissipates, and they need reminders.
Ones that I will happily provide.
The VIP level of Eclipse is reserved for Bratva business—soundproofed, swept for surveillance devices twice weekly, with sight lines that allow for both privacy and tactical awareness. Tonight it's filled with the crème de la crème of New York's Russian underworld.
A bunch of old leeches who I'd gladly eliminate if given the chance. And yet, I must make nice.
Conversations pause when I enter, and I savor the taste of fear in the air. I'm an unknown, and they are scared of me. They are prey and I'm the predator, and they all know it. They also fucking hate it.
"Artem." Boris Kozlov, one of Alexei's former lieutenants, approaches with his usual oily smile. "Profitable evening?"
"Every evening is profitable, Boris."
"Of course, of course. Though some of the men are wondering," he clears his throat, pretending to be uncomfortable with the question, "with so many changes lately, perhaps it's time to discuss territorial adjustments?"
I take a sip of my drink and smile at him. "The only thing being adjusted will be your life expectancy if you keep pushing me."
His smile falters. Good.
Pyotr appears at my elbow, whispering in my ear. "They're coordinating something. Testing your reactions, your security. This feels like preparation for a move."
"Let them prepare," I say, looking out at them all. My kingdom. The one I don't want but desperately need. "They can coordinate all they want. In a few weeks it won't matter."
"Weeks?"
"By then, I'll have what I need."
Pyotr frowns. "You're sure?"
"Yes."
"And after? Are you sure that you can seal the deal?"
I snort, unable to help myself. "Please, Pyotr. Be reasonable."
He rolls his eyes. "I've seen the way you stare at her."
I freeze, a nerve in my jaw ticking.
"Besides, there's more to this than just the girl. If there wasn't, you would have made your move long ago."
"I'm aware," I remind him, "but she is the key to it, which means I need to handle this with delicacy."
A commotion near the entrance draws our attention. The conversations have stopped entirely now, and men are standing, straightening ties, checking weapons.
Someone important has arrived.
The crowd parts like water, and through the gap walks a man in his seventies, distinguished and silver-haired, carrying himself with the authority that comes from forty years of absolute power.
Viktor, head of the Moscow Bratva. The Pakhan. The king.
Every man in the room shows respect—bowed heads, hands visible, the careful deference of wolves acknowledging their alpha. He acknowledges them with small nods as he makes his way across the room.
Directly to me.
He's smirking, likely because he thinks he has caught me off guard. It takes all my strength not to remind him that pride cometh before the fall.
I've known about this visit long before he booked the ticket. After all, I orchestrated it.
"Artem," he says in Russian, extending his hand, as though we are old friends. "It's been too long."
"Viktor." I clasp his hand, meeting his eyes. "I wasn't expecting you in New York."
I see a shiver of pleasure go through him. He thinks he has me. I allow it.
"Business brings me here more often these days. The American operations require... oversight." He glances around the room, taking in the assembled crowd. "You've certainly attracted attention since taking over Alexei's territory."
"Power attracts attention."
"Indeed." He smiles, and there's genuine warmth in it.
Viktor is one of the old guard. He respects the power that comes with the Orlov name, and I suspect he's much happier to deal with me than Alexei.
"When I heard you'd left intelligence work, I was shocked.
But you always did have a nose for power, and there's no power in politics anymore.
Your father learned that the hard way, didn't he? "
The reference to my father lands exactly as intended—a reminder of old debts, old loyalties, old failures.
Viktor was there when my father fell from grace, when his political connections couldn't save him from his enemies, and when my father gave him my sister in an effort to save his life and legacy.
That was the worst move he could have ever made. It led to his untimely demise.
"My father made his choices."
"As we all do." Viktor's eyes are sharp despite his age, assessing. "It was a shame to hear he'd passed."
"Indeed."
Viktor's eyes narrow slightly. "And your choices have been impressive. Taking over from Alexei so smoothly, expanding operations, maintaining discipline. I approve."
Around us, the other men strain to hear every word. An endorsement from Viktor is worth more than territory or gold.
"I've always learned from the best."
He laughs, a sound like grinding glass. "Flattery, Artem? You've changed."
"Perhaps. I'm no longer a hotheaded young man."
"No?"
"I've learned to appreciate the value of allies."
"Allies," he repeats thoughtfully. "Yes, allies are important. Especially family allies."
Something in his tone makes me pay closer attention. "Family?"
"Blood ties, marriage ties, bonds that go deeper than business." His eyes hold mine. "A man needs roots, Artem. Connections that matter beyond profit and territory."
His words give me pause, and I wonder what he knows. Has he had Katya watched? No, there's no way he knows what she's doing with me. He'd already be at me. I suspect he's speaking more about tradition than his own granddaughter.
Viktor likes his Pakhans married. He likes the collateral a wife and family bring.
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Good." He claps my shoulder, the gesture almost paternal. "We should speak privately before I leave the city. There are... opportunities we should discuss. Money."
"Of course."
He moves away then, working the room with the ease of a born politician, leaving me with the distinct impression that our conversation was about more than business partnerships.
Pyotr appears at my side again. "What was that about?"
"I'm not sure yet." I watch Viktor glad-hand with the other bosses, noting who seeks his attention most eagerly. "But it doesn't change anything."
"Artem—"
"It changes nothing," I repeat firmly. "One more move, Pyotr. One more move and I'll have everything I need."
By the end of the week, Katya Popova will give me her virginity, her trust, and her complete emotional surrender.
And then I'll use all of it to destroy the man who killed my sister.
One more move.
That's all I need.