Chapter 9 Arkady
Arkady
The tapping of my foot against the briefcase under my desk is pissing me off. Even though I’m the one doing it, I can’t stop. But it isn’t time.
Not yet.
Dima looms into the doorway of the office. The call button on his belt buzzes four times in quick succession. His jaw locks so tight I can practically hear the enamel cracking. He looks down at the device, then up at me with an expression that says he is considering a career change.
“She found the remote,” he says flatly.
“So it would seem.”
“She has pressed it eleven times in the last thirty seconds.”
I lean back in my chair and let the corner of my mouth lift. Eleven. She’s committed. It’s bordering on obsessive, and I can relate to that. I tap my foot harder against the case.
“Ignore it,” I say, turning back to the laptop screen where Vik has pulled up the CCTV from the streets surrounding my father’s Belgravia house.
The footage from inside was wiped, but the council cameras two blocks over still caught traffic patterns.
I’m looking for anomalies. A car that doesn’t belong. A face that lingers.
The buzzing continues.
Dima’s hand moves to his belt like he wants to rip it off and throw it at my head.
“Don’t. She’ll just find something else to destroy.”
He growls as the buzzing continues. She’s relentless, and despite everything—despite the fact that my father’s blood is probably still being swabbed from his desk, despite the fact that I have a body that has been removed from my basement, despite the fact that the entire Bratva hierarchy is about to descend on me like vultures on a carcass—I almost admire her persistence.
“When is dinner?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Speed it up. Escort her down to the dining room under a two-man guard and then get Kosta to rig the room with a cam. Single unit, with audio. Top far corner by the window. Doesn’t matter if there are blind spots. She’s not planning a coup, but I want eyes on her.”
“Yes, Pakhan,” he says and backs out.
I kick the case now and grimace at my phone as it buzzes again. My cousin, Seva, is as relentless as my houseguest. But he is someone I can’t ignore for much longer.
Snatching up the phone, I swipe the screen and answer, “What?”
“Is that any way to talk to your cousin, Pakhan Saranov?”
“Oh, fuck right off with that,” I growl.
He chuckles darkly, but it cuts off quickly. “My condolences.”
“It gets worse,” I mutter. “But thanks.”
“You okay?”
“Fine,” I grit out.
“You have to call a meeting.”
“I know. I’m currently occupied with something. I’ll get around to it.”
“Sooner rather than later, hmm.”
“I said, I’ll get around to it.”
“Kade—”
“Shut it. I don’t want to hear it.”
Silence descends, and I know he is recalibrating the situation.
“You need backup?” he asks, his tone shifting from familial to operational.
Seva is many things—reckless, a pain in my arse since we were children—but he’s also one of the few people I trust not to put a knife in my back while pretending to hug me.
Blood means something to him. It means something to me too, even if I’d rather swallow glass than say it out loud.
“Not yet. I need information first. What are you hearing?”
“Rumours. The usual vultures are circling. Kozlov’s people are making noise about territory. Petrov’s been suspiciously quiet, which is worse. And there’s chatter from the old guard that you’re too young to hold the seat.”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“And Nik was sixty-one with forty years of bodies behind him. They don’t care about your age, Kade. They care about your count.”
“My count is fine.”
“Your count is excellent. But they don’t know that, do they? You operated in the shadows for Nik. His blade, not his face. Now you’re the face, and half the brigadiers have never even heard you speak, let alone raise a glass.”
“Then they’ll learn.” I say it the way I say everything—like it’s already decided.
Because it is. The brigadiers will fall in line, or they’ll fall.
There is no third option. “Set up a meeting. Forty-eight hours. Every brigadier, every captain. My house. Anyone who doesn’t show is making a statement. Make sure they understand that.”
“Understood. Anything else?”
“No.” I look up as Alina’s voice rings out through the house, making it very clear she expected someone to come to her a lot sooner than they did. “I have to go. I’ll see you later.” I hang up and shove the phone into my pocket, heading for the dining room.
Her voice carries down the hallway, sharp and demanding, and I hear Dima’s measured responses, which amounts to single syllables designed to give her nothing.
I enter the dining room and find her standing near the table, flanked by Vik and another guard, arms folded, barefoot, wearing her hoodie over the joggers, hair loose and wild around her face. She looks like she’s been pacing for the last hour.
“You took your sweet time,” she snaps the second she sees me.
“I was busy.”
“Busy ignoring me.”
“Busy keeping us all alive. There’s a difference. Sit. It’s dinner time.”
The twelve-seater table is set for two. White linen, heavy silverware, candles that Dima has lit because he has a bizarre sense of occasion even in the middle of chaos.
The food is already laid out—roast chicken, potatoes, greens, gravy and a basket of rolls.
Simple. Hearty. The kind of meal that says someone in this house can actually cook, and it isn’t me.
Alina sits and immediately reaches for a roll, tearing off a chunk and shoving it in her mouth like she hasn’t eaten in a week. The sandwich was hours ago. She’s running on adrenaline and spite, and both burn calories.
I sit opposite her and pour out a deep red wine.
She eyes it with caution.
“Still feeling rough?” I say with a smirk.
She narrows her eyes and grabs the glass. “I can hold my alcohol. Had years of practice.”
“Party girl. I can appreciate that, when it doesn’t get you nearly killed.”
She chews the inside of her lip and takes a sip of the wine, contemplating something profound. “Thank you,” she says after a beat.
“You’re welcome,” I reply, assuming she means for dinner.
“I should’ve said it before, but all I’ve been doing is reacting instead of focusing on the bigger picture. I’m sorry, and thank you for rescuing me,” she continues.
I pause, replacing my fork as I study her. She is deadly serious. “You’re welcome. Again. Does this mean you aren’t going to fight me anymore?”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” she scoffs. “You are an overbearing, Bratva man who cuts people’s fingers off before lunch.”
Smiling, I pick up my fork again. “Just say yes, so we can eat in peace.”
She huffs as I tell her what to do, but she does it anyway. She isn’t stupid. She knows her attitude stinks, and it’s getting her nowhere except locked in a room and under guard when she is let out.
But that’s the play.
She isn’t stupid.
More flies with honey and all that. I’m going to have to watch her even more closely. I glance at Dima in question, and he nods, letting me know Kosta is at work installing the cam.
We eat in relative silence for a few minutes.
“I want to talk about your father,” she says, setting down her fork.
“No.”
“Arkady—”
“I said no.” The word lands between us like a dropped blade. She flinches but doesn’t retreat.
“Fine. Then I want to talk about whoever killed him, because I’ve had nothing to do for the last three hours except think, and I have thoughts.”
Leaning back, I sip my wine and let the silence stretch, watching her over the rim. She holds my gaze without blinking. “Go on, then.”
She straightens in her chair, and I see it—the shift from captive to something sharper.
Valery’s daughter, whether she likes it or not.
“It was someone he knew. Someone who had the alarm code, or was let in by someone who did. Probably your dad. He didn’t see it coming, which means the shortlist is… short. Insider. Family.”
“Family,” I murmur. “Are you accusing a Saranov of treachery, Alina?”
She swallows and considers her answer for all of a second before she looks me dead in the eyes and says, “Yes.”
“I see. And do you have a name?”
She rolls her eyes. “Obviously not. But I don’t think this is random. I don’t think this was about me at all. It’s about you. They weren’t after me. They were after you in that club. This is connected. Somehow. It’s too much of a coincidence, and my dad always told me there are no such things.”
I take that in and put my glass down. “I tracked the stalker’s gaze to you, which means he was after you. Secondly, he admitted it downstairs.”
“What about him caught your attention?” she says.
“I saw him prowling,” I say, carefully. She might be onto something here. If he was watching me, watching her…
“How?” She gives me a look that borders on smug.
“I was watching you,” I admit, and it costs me.
Her mouth curves, and I hate how much I like it. “So you were distracted by me. The big bad Saranov, distracted by a girl in a silver dress.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I notice everything. You happened to be the most interesting thing in the room.”
“And the man following me? You said he was prowling. But what if he wasn’t prowling towards me? What if he was following your line of sight and adjusted?”
The thought settles into my chest like a cold stone.
I don’t let it show. But she’s not wrong.
The sequence of events could read differently if I tilt the frame.
I was in VIP. Visible. Anyone who knew what they were looking for would have spotted me.
And if someone were already tracking my movements, my sudden interest in a blonde on the dancefloor would’ve painted a target on her back that had nothing to do with the Belova ink on her spine.
“You’re suggesting I put you in danger,” I say, testing the words.
“I’m suggesting the timeline works both ways.”
“And what about the admission downstairs?”