Chapter 4
Dmitri Markov
There were very few things in this world that surprised me anymore.
Men lied, money corrupted, and power always came with a body count, but when Roman’s name showed up on my phone at four in the morning—preceded by the words ‘Incident Report: Dubai’—I felt the beginnings of the kind of headache that promised to ruin my week.
I leaned back in my chair, the skyline of Dubai glinting cold through the floor-to-ceiling glass behind me. The message header was short, clinical, and written by one of our security officers stationed here in the city.
Subject: Roman Markov.
Condition: Alive. Unharmed. Mostly.
Circumstances: Found nude outside a hotel in the marina district. Mild narcotic influence. No memory of events.
I reread the rest of the details twice, then dropped the phone onto the desk and pressed my fingers against my temple.
“Buck ass naked,” I muttered. “In the middle of Dubai.”
I didn’t bother to censor myself. The only person in the room was Anton Sidorov, my closest advisor, and the only man who’d seen me shoot a rival in the knee without blinking. In another life, he would have been called my consigliere, but that was an Italian word. We didn’t use Italian words.
Anton stood by the bar, stirring sugar into his espresso with the focus of a man who’d already accepted that the morning was going to be long. He wore his usual uniform: dark suit, darker eyes, and a smirk that didn’t quite reach them.
“He was naked, boss,” Anton said, confirming the worst of it as if repetition might soften the absurdity. “In the middle of the Marina Walk. Security footage shows him wandering out of the hotel around three fifty-five a.m. No shoes, no wallet, and entirely no sense of shame.”
“Christ.”
“One more thing.”
“Of course there is.”
Anton hesitated, clearly enjoying himself. “He was… well, let’s just say he was not entirely at ease. The medics described the condition as—”
I held up a hand. “Spare me the poetry.”
“—throbbingly erect,” Anton finished anyway, grinning over his cup of coffee.
I stared at him. “You find this amusing?”
“I find it human, boss.”
I dragged a hand down my face. “And he claims not to remember?”
“So he says. Blames the drink. Possibly a woman.” Anton set the cup down and folded his hands behind his back. “Though not one who’s come forward yet.”
I let out a slow breath and turned my chair toward the window. From here, the city looked orderly, silent, obedient. It was an illusion, of course. Beneath the glass and concrete, the world was always rotting. The trick was to make the decay look like design.
Roman’s stunt, however accidental, was not by design.
Our family’s business depended on precision, quiet transactions, and invisible alliances.
We sold what governments pretended not to need: advanced AI chips, drone prototypes, untraceable logistics networks.
Not to back-alley militias or petty warlords.
No, our clients wore suits and attended summits.
They toasted us with champagne and paid in billions. Discretion was our only religion.
A scandal in Dubai, especially one involving a naked Markov, could light fires in all the wrong places.
“There’s something else you’re going to want to know, boss,” Anton said after a beat.
“Please,” I muttered. “Surprise me further.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice even though the office was soundproofed. “Before the incident, Roman was seen with a woman. Security picked her up on camera entering the Eclipse Tower with him around midnight.”
I turned my chair slowly. “Eclipse Tower,” I repeated. “His penthouse?”
“Yes.” Anton continued. “No trace of her leaving the building. The next time he’s seen, he’s… well, unclothed.”
“Of course,” I said dryly. “My brotherly Casanova meets a ghost and wakes up without pants.”
“What do you want me to do?” Anton asked.
“Find her. Quietly. If she’s still in Dubai, she’ll try to vanish within twenty-four hours. Have our man at the consulate monitor the airport logs. Check private hangars, yacht manifests, everything.”
He nodded once. “And Roman?”
I hesitated. Family loyalty was a curse we were born into. Roman was a Markov, and that meant I’d clean up his messes until the day one of them buried me.
“Keep him under watch. Discreetly. He doesn’t need to know I’m involved.”
“Understood.” Anton started for the door, but I stopped him with a hand gesture.
“And Anton?”
He looked back.
“If this woman took something from him, I want to know before anyone else. Understand?”
He gave a thin smile. “Of course, boss. I’ll handle it personally.”
When the door closed behind him, I sat in the silence, staring at the faint reflection of my own face in the window. The city still glittered, unbothered, its wealth shining like freshly whitened teeth.
Roman always did have a talent for chaos, but this felt different. With a sigh, I leaned back in my chair and the door to my office burst open without a knock, because of course it did.
My older brother strolled in like he was arriving at a gala, not a reckoning.
Wearing a perfectly pressed navy suit, a smirk that belonged on magazine covers, and not a trace of shame in sight.
It was impressive, really, considering that less than six hours ago, he’d been found strolling Dubai completely naked.
“Hey, idiot,” I said flatly, not looking up from the report on my desk. “I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at, but you’ve outdone yourself this time.”
“Ah, good morning to you too, brother.” Roman’s voice carried that lazy, velvet drawl that made women forget what they were saying mid-sentence. “You seem angry. Should I be flattered?”
I lifted my gaze. “Angry? No. Furious, maybe. Disappointed, absolutely. Concerned that you’ve lost what’s left of your brain? Without question.”
He grinned like it was a compliment. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m quoting,” I replied. “Security footage, witness statements, medical assessments. Shall I continue, or will you save me the trouble and explain why you were found naked and throbbingly erect outside a five-star hotel at the butt-crack of dawn?”
Roman chuckled softly, tugging at his cufflinks. “It’s not as dramatic as it sounds.”
“Do enlighten me,” I said dryly.
Before he could answer, the door opened again, but this time a bit more slowly and quietly. My younger brother Lev stepped in.
He didn’t speak at first. He never did; it wasn’t his way.
Lev was a study in silence, all sharp lines and understated menace.
His dark blond hair looked like spun gold in certain light, but it was his icy cold blue eyes that made most people stop short.
His suit was black on black, his tie perfectly straight.
A gold signet ring gleamed on his finger, identical to mine and Roman’s, though his somehow looked more dangerous.
Lev closed the door behind him and leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “Is this about Roman’s little streaking incident?” he asked, his tone as dry as ash.
Roman sighed. “Really? ‘Streaking’? You make it sound like I was pledging a fraternity.”
“Were you?” Lev arched a brow. “Because that would explain a lot.”
I looked between them, exhaling through my nose. “I sometimes wonder how I ended up the adult in this family.”
“You like control too much to let anyone else have it,” Lev said smoothly.
Roman grinned. “He’s not wrong.”
“Enough,” I snapped. The word came out like a gunshot, echoing against the glass walls. Silence followed as Lev raised an eyebrow again. “Roman. Sit.”
He did, sprawling into the chair opposite my desk, legs crossed like we were discussing the weather.
“Lev, close the blinds.”
He obeyed without question, pulling them shut until the city disappeared behind us. The room darkened, cocooned in muted gray.
I slid a dossier across the desk toward Roman. Inside were photographs, all grainy security stills, timestamped from the night before. Roman entering the Eclipse Tower with a woman in red. Roman stumbling out of the hotel lobby, barefoot and completely naked.
“Recognize her?” I asked.
He frowned, staring at the image. “Should I?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t,” he said finally.
“Convenient.”
“It’s not convenient, Dmitri. It’s the truth.”
Lev circled behind him, looking over his shoulder. “She’s beautiful,” he remarked, almost idly. “And not the kind that picks up strangers.”
“Thank you, little brother,” I said. “Your taste in women is noted, but not helpful.”
Lev’s lips curved. “I’m just saying, she looks like trouble. Exactly Roman’s type.”
Roman ignored him, eyes still on the photo. “I remember going to the bar. Having a scotch. Then… nothing. Like someone flipped a switch in my brain.”
I studied him. Roman was many things—a liar, a manipulator, a hedonist—but he’d never been a fool. The confusion etched across his face wasn’t performative. His pupils flickered, his jaw clenched once, hard.
Lev met my eyes across the desk. “He’s not faking it.”
I inclined my head slightly. “No. He isn’t.”
Roman looked between us. “So what are you saying? I was drugged?”
“Yes,” I said. “And not by accident. Whatever was in your system, it wasn’t recreational. According to the tox screen, there were traces of benzodiazepine derivatives, high grade, designed to induce short-term amnesia. You didn’t just pass out, Roman. Someone wanted you to forget.”
He leaned back in the chair, a humorless laugh escaping him. “Well, that’s a first. Usually, people want me to remember them. Especially the ladies.”
Lev smirked faintly. “Not this one.”
“Who is she?” Roman asked, looking up.
“No idea,” I said, watching the way he blinked at the photo. Nothing. No recognition, not even a flicker. “But we know she’s good.”
Lev crossed the room, plucking the image from my hand and studying it under the lamplight. “We don’t have a name?”