Chapter 1
SAMUIL
Iwatch as blood runs down the marble sink, disappearing down the drain.
The longer I scrub my hands, the pinker the water becomes.
Finally, when I’m sure I’ve gotten all the blood off, I towel my hands dry and slip out of my ruined shirt.
Hopefully, Rosalina will be able to get the stains out.
I know better than to wear white when I’m dealing with a problem, but this scuffle came up unexpectedly.
It doesn’t matter. I’m used to blood, and so is she. Good help is everything in a job like this.
I grab a new shirt from the small linen closet.
This is what I mean about good help. Rosalina keeps my office closet well-stocked at all times.
She knows better than anyone that I often have to change quickly like this.
I take great pride in my appearance, so tailored, designer suits are a must. If only I could stop ruining them with blood.
I walk out of the marble washroom and step back into my office. The lights are low to help Davyd with his headache. When it’s dark in here like this, it’s easier to see the sprawling city below my window.
Davyd sits in one of the leather chairs facing my desk, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
Blood marks his shirt in a rough smear down the front, and more darkens his collar.
His lip is split. The gash above his eye is swollen so badly that his lid has completely closed. He hasn’t bothered with ice.
I open the small stainless-steel fridge behind my desk and take out one of the ice packs I keep stocked for nights like this. I toss it to him. It lands in his palm with a soft thud. He groans and presses it to the side of his head, hissing at the sting.
“You need to work on your defensive stance,” I say, turning away from him. It’s half-truth, half-reproach. Davyd can win in a fight against just about anyone, but sometimes he forgets he’s not invincible.
He doesn’t laugh at the joke. He hasn’t laughed much in the last few months.
I move to the window and rest my hands on the polished wood sill, staring at the city below. From here, all our problems seem so small and insignificant, but they’ve clearly followed us home. My ruined shirt and Davyd’s face are proof of that. At least the blood isn’t mine.
“They’re not going to stop coming at you,” Davyd mutters behind me. His voice is low, strained, and tired. He’s been tired a lot lately.
I turn my head enough to see him.
“No,” I say. “They won’t, which is why I need to stop them for good.”
He lifts his head enough to peer at me with his one good eye. He looks like he wants to argue, to caution me, but he knows better. There’s a line between brother and subordinate, and he never tests it when my mind is already set.
“You want to hit Lebedev where it hurts,” he says instead, settling back in the chair. It isn’t a question. He knows me too well.
“Whether he claims the attack or not, you and I both know he’s not going to stop hitting until his hands are broken.”
Davyd’s jaw tightens as he considers this.
“Lebedev is unpredictable. He’s drunk half the time, and paranoid the rest. You take him out and his men scatter without a leader, but the fallout will be messy.”
“The fallout doesn’t concern me,” I say nonchalantly. “My main concern is cutting off the head of the beast.”
He snorts softly, winces at the pain from his cracked lip, then adjusts the ice against his brow.
“All right.” He sighs. “Then tell me what your next move is, and what you need me to do.”
I look away from the city and back at him, at his battered face, at the fatigue in his shoulders. He’s loyal in a way most men can’t even imagine. He has bled for me too many times to count. I walk back toward him and stop beside the desk.
“I need you to take a team to the warehouse on Ninth,” I say. “Call the men in shifts. I want eyes on Lebedev’s shipments at all times, and I want confirmation on who he’s been meeting. I suspect he’s got someone else funding his operation, and I need to know who that person is.”
Davyd nods easily, accepting the order despite the fact that his face is still swollen and he can barely see out of his good eye.
“Do you have someone to watch Anya tonight?” I ask quietly.
His shoulders stiffen and he lowers the ice pack to look up at me fully. “I can manage Anya on my own,” he says. “She’ll stay with me.”
“You don’t want her anywhere near this shit,” I remind him. “How’s it been with her?”
The silence between us stretches heavily.
He’s a single father now, and it’s still so recent.
He’s barely had the time to process the death of his wife, and still he shows up to work without complaint.
Like his life hasn’t been turned inside out.
He has always been a stubborn one, but the stubbornness has sharpened since his wife’s death. Pain has a way of doing that.
He shifts, running a hand over his beard. “It’s been fine,” he says at last. “We’re both just tired. She hasn’t been sleeping well. I think she’s having nightmares, but I can’t tell. She lies awake most nights staring at the ceiling. Some mornings she won’t even look at me.”
He doesn’t like admitting weakness, not even to me. Especially not to me. But he says it anyway, as if the words have been waiting to escape.
I lower myself into the chair opposite him and study the depth of exhaustion etched into his face.
“It’s been rough on you since Lena’s death,” I say. “Anyone can see that.”
He looks away, his jaw tightening. He presses the ice pack back to his temple as if hiding behind it.
“Anya is a child,” I continue. “She needs rest. And so do you.”
He shakes his head. “I’m getting by just fine.”
I reach forward and press the intercom button on my desk. My assistant answers immediately, her voice crisp and professional.
“Yes, Mr. Volkov?”
“Send a night nanny to Davyd’s house by seven this evening,” I say.
Davyd groans quietly and drops his head into his hand.
“Of course,” my assistant says. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Good,” I answer, then release the button.
Davyd pushes himself to his feet as if ready to argue, but the moment he meets my eyes he stops. He’s known me since we were boys. He knows exactly what that look means. It says I’m done discussing it.
“Samuil,” he says. “It’s too much. I don’t need all this help. I can handle Anya on my own.”
“You’re already handling everything else,” I say. “Let someone else take care of her bedtime. At least this once.”
He opens his mouth, searching for words that won’t offend me. Apparently, he finds nothing that works, so instead, he stays quiet.
“This isn’t about pride,” I say. “She deserves some normalcy and stability. So do you. Accept that this is happening. It’s all I can offer you. It’s the least I can offer you.”
He lets out a breath, long and defeated, and sinks back into the chair. He holds the ice pack more gently now, no longer pretending he doesn’t need it. He closes his good eye and leans his head against the back of the chair.
“You don’t have to carry every burden alone,” I tell him. “Not as long as I’m around. This is what brotherhood is all about.”
“All right,” he murmurs. “All right. Send the nanny.”
I lean back in my own chair. The leather creaks softly beneath me. For a moment the room feels quieter, almost peaceful, though peace isn’t something that visits us often.
“How is she doing?” I ask after a moment.
His eyes remain closed.
“She’s completely silent,” he says. “She hasn’t spoken a word to me in months. Not since the night her mother… not since then. The doctors say it’s trauma, but no one knows how to reach her.”
As long as I live, I’ll never forget the image of the small girl staring up at me with wide, terrified eyes as her mother’s blood soaked the pavement. I push it away. Some things are too difficult to dwell on.
“She’s young,” I say. “Children are resilient. She’ll get through this and be okay.”
He lets out a broken sound, perhaps a sob or a scoff of disbelief.
“I hope you’re right,” he says quietly. “I feel like I’m failing her. I don’t know how to get her through this. I’m barely getting through it myself.”
“Keep showing up for her,” I tell him. “Show her that you’re not going anywhere. She knows how much you love her. She’ll come around.”
He takes a long breath, gathering himself, then opens his eyes and looks at me again.
“And what about you?” he asks. “How are you doing?”
I almost laugh. What are my troubles compared to the loss of a wife and mother?
“I’m fine,” I answer with a casual shrug.
“You say that,” he says. “But every time someone comes after you, I see it in your face. You’re getting tired of this.”
“I’m not tired,” I lie. “I’m just focused.”
He studies me silently, then nods once. He knows better than to argue.
“Go home,” I tell him. “Keep ice on that eye. Let the nanny put Anya to bed. And be ready for my call.”
He stands slowly, careful of his ribs, careful of the swelling above his eye. He hesitates before speaking again.
“They’re not going to stop coming for you until you’re dead,” he says.
“I know,” I reply.
“Then you better kill them first.”
“I will,” I agree.
“You’re closer than a brother to me,” he says quietly. “You know I’ll walk through hell for you. Just give the order.”
“You already have,” I remind him. “Get some rest.”
He leaves the office without another word, closing the door softly behind him.
In his absence, the silence feels loaded. I walk back to the window, watching as day starts to melt into night. Lights are popping up all over the city, but the activity never stops.
Somewhere on the other side of town, Lebedev’s men are planning their next move. They’re going to keep trying bring my empire crumbling down.
I will end them before they can ever touch what is mine.