Chapter Four
Damian’s POV
The hallway outside Elena’s room stretched before me like a condemned man’s walk to the gallows. My footsteps didn't make any decipherable sound, but they were heavy, weighted by knowledge I hadn’t wanted and couldn’t ignore.
The lawsuit wasn't random. It was a careful strike aimed directly at the Bratva’s throat.
I’d extracted just enough from Elena to understand the architecture of the plan—to know it was more than what it looked like.
Taking out my phone, I sent the messages I had to send as I went into my room to change weapons. It was time to step out.
Twenty minutes later, I was descending into one of our secure locations—a renovated warehouse basement in Red Hook that officially belonged to a shipping company and unofficially served as one of our secure locations.
The space was sparse: concrete walls, a single table, and chairs that had seen better decades.
No windows. One exit. Perfect for conversations that couldn’t afford interruption.
Viktor arrived first, his expression carved from stone, as usual.
“I invited Roman, too. He speaks papers more fluently than everyone else,” he informed, delving into business already before he even took a seat.
“Okay. Welcome, brother.”
He nodded in acknowledgement before asking, “You invited Mikhail and Konstantin?”
“Yes, I did,” I affirmed.
“Alright.”
Roman followed, carrying a leather portfolio that likely contained every financial record we’d need.
Mikhail came through the door with Konstantin at his side—they were probably handling something together in one of Mikhail’s warehouses when they got the message.
Our pleasantries were remarkably short, even for us.
I waited until they were all seated before I disclosed, “Elena Vasiliev’s lawsuit isn’t what we thought it was.”
Viktor was still. Of course, he wasn’t surprised. He was our Pakhan for a reason.
Opening his portfolio, Roman revealed, “I pulled the initial filings two hours ago. The named defendants are interesting.” He spread documents across the table. “GreenPoint Holdings. Baltic Imports LLC. Meridian Real Estate Trust.”
“Shell companies,” Viktor said flatly.
“Correct, brother. But, look at the registered agents,” Roman’s finger traced names I recognized with cold clarity, “Jonathan Kellerman. Marcus Chen. Dmitri Ivanovich.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Konstantin leaned forward, his knuckles white against the table’s edge. “Those aren’t soldiers. Those are—"
“Facilitators,” I finished. “The lawyers who file our paperwork. The accountants who clean our money. The consultants who make us look legitimate.”
“She’s not attacking our strength. She’s attacking our infrastructure,” Mikhail pointed out, nodding slowly.
“If the wrong name surfaces, it doesn’t just expose a traitor. It implicates half the old guard,” Konstantin stated.
“Worse,” Roman said, his voice carrying that particular quality it took on when he’d identified something truly catastrophic. “If discovery proceeds, if depositions happen, if even one of these men decides cooperation is preferable to prison…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
“We must act before discovery reaches critical mass,” Viktor declared, his steel gray eyes fixed on me. “You know what this means. She must be taken out.”
“Or we could move motions in our favor without necessarily eliminating the lawyer,” Konstantin suggested.
“Still on to this leverage potential idea of yours, Konstantin?” Mikhail inquired.
I didn’t say anything as my brothers argued about Elena’s fate.
“What I mean is, since this is most likely going public, if we can tweak the narrative, it could work for our legitimate side,” he explained, his gaze on Roman.
Roman was the Lobanov brother in charge of the Bratva’s legitimate businesses—the clubs, charity, and all—so he was the right person for Konstantin to look at.
“It’s too late for that now,” Viktor countered. “She must be silenced. Immediately.”
With the ultimate decision being made, I found that I couldn’t stay silent. A feeling of urgency and unease crept up my insides as I blurted out, “Killing her now would be catastrophic.”
Four pairs of eyes locked onto me.
“Explain,” Viktor demanded.
I swallowed, tamping down the funny emotions and allowing only logic to remain.
“The lawsuit’s already filed. She’s already made contact with federal prosecutors—she admitted as much. If she dies now, suspiciously, after being kidnapped by unknown assailants, what happens?”
I knew my angle made sense. But, internally, my thoughts betrayed me. Elena was no longer a variable; she was a fulcrum.
“Hm. It might intensify the investigation. Federal resources get allocated. Every name in those documents gets scrutinized regardless, “ Roman answered.
“Exactly. Dead lawyers make better martyrs than living ones,” I remarked, meeting Viktor’s stare. “We need to know what she knows. Who else has copies? What safeguards has she put in place? Killing her blind is suicide.”
Konstantin added, “He’s right. This requires precision, not brutality.”
Viktor was silent for another minute before he said, “We’ll put that on hold. Roman, what do we know at the moment?”
I felt a kind of relief that I never felt about a hostage’s death being put on hold.
As Roman went through connected pieces of information concerning the lawsuit, I found myself replaying that calm voice of hers.
I thought of how she always stood her ground every time I tried to assert dominance or even intimidate her.
I thought of the heat in her gaze when she challenged me.
And, damn, I couldn’t get that cool ‘thank you’ out of my head.
Again, desire coiled beneath my restraint—and again, it was totally unwanted. Just that it was persistent this time.
The meeting continued for another hour, dissecting contingencies and assigning surveillance to the names Elena had exposed. By the time we adjourned, night was approaching.
*****
I entered her room without knocking, intent on reasserting dominance.
Elena sat by the window in moonlight that turned her platinum blonde hair to something brighter, more silver. She’d changed into a silk robe that clung to curves the previous night’s clothing had only suggested. The deep green fabric made her eyes look even more impossibly blue.
The idiot I sent to get her clothes would explain why that was part of what he got. I had asked him to go with Anna, the cook’s daughter, for a feminine set of eyes or whatever. I clearly made a mistake.
“The family is divided,” I said without preamble. “Some want you dead immediately. Others want answers first.”
She listened without an iota of fear in her expression.
“And you?” She tilted her head fractionally. “Which camp claimed your vote?”
I clenched my jaw.
When I didn’t respond, she stood and folded her arms loosely across her chest—not that it didn’t still make the swell of her breasts visible.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she said.
“You’re not in a position to negotiate terms with me.”
“Oh, I am,” she answered, her tone sharp. “I built a conspiracy case, linking several organizations to one another. More importantly, linking them to the Bratva. Emphasis on built. It’s already documented and drafted.”
She went on. “So, as I was saying before, I had to explain myself…” She took a few steps towards where I stood by the door.
I had to restrain myself from laughing at the way she framed her words.
Great! Now I find her funny, too.
“I will guide the exposure carefully. I’ll ensure Bratva survives intact,” she offered before I interrupted.
“Now you’re passionate about the Bratva’s wellbeing?”
“I’m talking about the big picture,” she clarified. “The Bratva as a whole. In return… I won’t be silenced.”
Pinning her with my gaze, I stepped closer to her, not stopping until our bodies were almost touching. She didn’t step back, just like I’d half-guessed. The tension between us was electric; it was a mix of anger, desire, and a hint of danger.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” I told her, my voice lower than I had intended.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” she started, looking up at me. “I’m the danger already.”
In that charged moment, the only need that filled me was to touch her. My right hand seemed to move on its own accord as it moved towards her, to claim something I had no right to. Her eyes remained locked on mine as my fingers moved almost touched the side of her face. Then I regained control.
Jaw tight, I stopped myself and dropped my hand.
Fuck.
I pivoted and left the room, the sound of the door a welcome silence breaker. The fact that she didn’t make any attempt to move or stop me was practically driving me crazy.
She was probably plotting to hit me with a hard slap.
As I walked away from her door, I realized, with brutal clarity, that Elena Vasiliev wasn’t my hostage.
She was my responsibility. And possibly, my undoing.