2. The Exiled Prince
The Exiled Prince
Roman
The city still lowers its voice when it says my name.
Not out of respect.
Out of memory.
I step out of the car without waiting for Viktor to open the door. The cemetery gates creak in protest, iron grinding against iron, as if even the metal knows who walks through it.
It’s colder here than it should be.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Luka’s grave is exactly where I left it three years ago. Polished black stone. Clean lines. No theatrics. My aunt insisted on marble angels. I had them removed.
He wouldn’t have wanted decoration.
He would have wanted change.
I kneel without brushing dirt from the knees of my trousers.
The grass is damp. It seeps through the fabric. I don’t move.
“Everything is in place,” Viktor says quietly from behind me. He always stands two steps back. Always watches the perimeter first.
“Good.”
He fades into silence again.
I study my brother’s name carved into stone.
Luka Koval.
Beloved son. Visionary heir.
Trusting fool.
He believed we could modernize without bleeding for it. Believed we could partner instead of dominating. Believed loyalty meant something when spoken out loud.
He trusted the wrong people.
He died for it.
The official story was a warehouse explosion. Faulty wiring. Industrial negligence.
The truth was cleaner.
Someone leaked coordinates.
Someone handed our enemies the map to Luka’s last meeting.
By the time we found him, there wasn’t enough left to close the coffin without assistance.
I rest my hand against the stone.
“I’m home,” I tell him.
The word tastes foreign.
Exile wasn’t punishment.
It was strategy.
When our father fell ill, the board thought I was too volatile to lead. Too sharp. Too unwilling to negotiate weakness. They sent me east, gave me subsidiaries and distance.
I built something there.
Legal. Ruthless. Profitable.
Billionaire in daylight.
But this—this city—has always belonged to us.
And now it belongs to me.
“I’ll find him,” I say to the grave. “Whoever it was.”
My jaw tightens.
“And I won’t make the mistake you did.”
Trust no one inside the walls.
Not even allies.
Especially not allies.
I stand, brushing moisture from my coat sleeve.
The vow settles into me like a blade sliding home.
Irreversible.
The penthouse boardroom smells like leather and ambition.
Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooks a city that pretends it isn’t afraid. Lights flicker across the skyline. Traffic pulses like a living vein.
Maksim Orlov stands near the window when I enter.
He turns with a measured smile.
“Welcome home, Roman.”
His suit is impeccable. Navy, silk tie, no flash. He looks like he belongs in a financial district, not a war council.
That’s his strength.
“Report,” I say.
He slides a folder across the table.
“We’ve narrowed the leak.”
I don’t sit yet.
“Source?”
“Bellini channels.”
The name lands exactly where he intends it to.
Don Salvatore Bellini. Diplomat. Smiling serpent. My father’s occasional partner in uneasy truces.
“Explain.”
Orlov opens the folder, revealing transaction logs, intercepted messages, routing diagrams.
“The coordinates for Luka’s meeting were transmitted through an encrypted relay used by Bellini shipping operations. Not directly. Indirectly. Enough obfuscation to deny involvement.”
“Enough to justify pressure,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Not enough to declare war.”
“Correct.”
He watches me carefully.
Orlov is very good at reading rooms.
He built his value on it.
“If Bellini sanctioned the leak,” he continues, “he did so with plausible deniability. If someone inside his circle acted independently, he may not even know.”
I tap the table once.
“Either way, he’s responsible.”
“In this world,” Orlov says smoothly, “proximity is guilt.”
I finally take my seat.
“What leverage do we have?”
“Trade routes. Two municipal contracts. Several public-facing charities that would suffer under scrutiny.”
Not enough.
Bellini built his empire on relationships.
He can absorb pressure.
He cannot absorb humiliation.
“What about his daughter?” I ask.
Orlov pauses only a fraction too long.
“Vera.”
“Yes.”
“She’s… well-liked.”
“I’m not asking about her personality.”
“She volunteers at a clinic. Keeps distance from operations. No known scandals. No romantic attachments.”
Untouched.
Guarded.
A symbol.
“Public perception?” I press.
“Soft,” Orlov says. “Beloved. The image of innocence in a family otherwise… pragmatic.”
Good.
Symbols matter.
“If she were threatened,” he adds carefully, “Bellini would respond.”
“Exactly.”
Orlov tilts his head slightly. “A kidnapping risks escalation.”
“A measured one doesn’t.”
Silence stretches.
Then he nods once.
“I’ll prepare the team.”
The alley smells like rain and cordite when we arrive.
Rizzi’s courier is already on his knees.
I don’t enjoy executions.
I value them.
Precision eliminates chaos.
The shot echoes cleanly.
The body drops.
And then she steps forward.
Barefoot.
Carrying a medic bag like a shield.
For a moment, I think I imagined her.
But she speaks.
Roll him.
Her voice doesn’t tremble.
That surprises me.
Most people freeze when they see blood spread like that.
She calculates.
Assesses.
Even now, her eyes track the wound.
Professional.
And then she looks at me.
Recognition flickers across her face.
I watch it sharpen.
Vera Bellini.
Up close, she looks younger than in photographs. Not fragile—but luminous. Steady gaze. Chin lifted even when pressed against brick.
There’s fear in her pulse—I can see it at her throat.
But she doesn’t run.
Interesting.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I tell her.
She answers without hesitation.
“I work here.”
Defiance without theatrics.
That surprises me more than anything.
I notice the red cross stitched onto her bag.
A healer in a predator’s den.
For a brief, unwelcome second, I think of Luka.
He would have liked her.
Which is precisely why she’s useful.
I step closer.
She doesn’t flinch until the gun touches her ribs.
Her breath hitches—but she holds my gaze.
Steel spine.
Soft hands.
Bellini’s weakness wrapped in composure.
If the leak came from inside his house, this will shake it loose.
If he’s guilty, he’ll reveal himself trying to retrieve her.
Either way, I get movement.
And I need movement.
“Quiet, princess,” I murmur.
Not mocking.
Warning.
Her jaw tightens.
She hates me already.
Good.
Hate is clean.
It doesn’t blur judgment.
I nod once to my men.
Restraint is efficient. No unnecessary bruising. No spectacle.
She fights—not wildly, but deliberately. Elbow aimed for ribs. Heel for a shin.
One of my men grunts.
I almost smile.
“Careful,” I say calmly. “She’s valuable.”
She glares at me like I’m something she’d scrub from surgical steel.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she says.
I meet her stare.
“Oh, I do.”
We guide her toward the SUV.
She twists once more, eyes scanning exits, memorizing faces.
She’s cataloging us.
Another surprise.
When the door shuts and the engine hums to life, I pull out my phone.
Viktor’s name sits at the top of my messages.
I type without hesitation.
Penthouse. Alive. Unmarked.
I hit send.
And watch the city lights blur as we drive.