Chapter 2
ANDREI
Alexei Romanov is fifteen minutes late to this morning’s briefing. I can feel the eyes on me from my other men, including Viktor Zemov, my second-in-command, waiting to see how I’ll handle it when he finally shows up.
They're always watching now. Always waiting to see what I'll do.
The door finally opens, and Alexei walks in like he has all the time in the world. There’s no apology in his posture, no acknowledgment that he's kept his Pakhan waiting. He slides into his chair with a casual arrogance that makes my jaw tighten.
I wasn’t in a killing mood when I woke up this morning, but I’m quickly getting there.
"Traffic," he says, not quite meeting my eyes. "You know how it is."
I can feel the silence in the room thicken. Alexei shifts in his seat. The others don't move.
“Traffic,” I repeat, finally. “That’s your reasoning?”
Alexei shrugs. "What can I say? Bad luck."
It's not an apology. It's barely even an excuse. He’s testing my patience, my authority. The other men are looking at me, waiting to see what I’ll do to him.
It’s been like this for months, ever since I took over for my father, who passed less than a year ago.
The former Pakhan of the Petrov crime family.
Every late arrival, every questioned order, every suggestion phrased as concern when it’s actually doubt—they’re all tests to see if I can handle this.
If someone else were more capable. My father didn’t give me the hard work when he was alive, didn’t test me in front of the others, and now, because he couldn’t relinquish any part of his power to the son who was meant to inherit, no one here knows if I’m worth following.
Power in families like ours comes from fear and respect, not whether or not a leader is liked. I don’t think anyone liked my father, but no one would dare cross him. I don’t know if they like me, either, but they certainly seem more willing to push my boundaries.
A lot of these men are older than me. They’ve certainly spilled more blood. And they think youth equals weakness. They think my calculation and patience are hesitation and uncertainty.
They want to know if I have what it takes… if I can hold this position. If I'm willing to do what's necessary to keep it.
I know exactly what's necessary. Power requires brutality. Survival requires being willing to do things other men won't.
I'm willing.
I leave the head of the table and go to stand next to Alexei.
“Hand me your keys,” I say flatly. I see his face pale slightly, and I wonder if he’s going to refuse.
His eyes dart quickly around the table, as if to gauge if anyone else is going to speak for him.
When no one does, he reaches into his pocket and takes out his car keys.
I hold out my hand, and he drops them into my palm.
Then, quick as a striking snake, I grab his wrist and yank his arm out, flattening his hand against the table. I drive one of the keys down, into the meat just above his knuckles, and into the wood of the table beneath.
His scream pierces the air. His face has gone white and bloodless, and he’s panting, staring at the metal in his skin and the blood leaking out onto the table beneath.
“Stay like that.” My voice is hard. “Don’t move. Don’t pull it out until the meeting is over.”
The room is still completely silent, but I see a flicker of approval in the eyes of a few of the men, particularly Viktor. Alexei gasps, but he doesn’t move, his eyes fixed on his hand.
I return to the head of the table, looking over the assembled men. “Now, let’s begin.”
It’s all ordinary business, for our line of work, at least—shipment routes, dealing with crews from other families testing the boundaries of our territories, paying off cops and dockworkers.
I can see the body language of some of the men, though, and how it radiates disapproval.
Arms are crossed, jaws are tight. I can see disagreement in some of their faces.
I can feel the anger building inside of me, as it has been for months, day by day. They think I don't see what they're doing, the game they're playing. Or maybe they do, and they’re daring me to do something about it. Something more than what I just did to Alexei.
They’re going to push me further and further. I can feel it. They want me hard, brutal, violent, and with every day that passes, I’m more inclined to give them what they want. To spill blood until they’re all too afraid to do anything but obey, so I can have some fucking peace.
The meeting breaks up an hour later. The men file out, some of them exchanging glances that they think I don't notice. I notice everything. Every look, every hesitation that betrays what they're really thinking.
Alexei is still sitting in place, a pool of blood around his hand, white-faced. I look at him evenly.
“Pull it out and you can go.”
Viktor hasn’t left yet. He sits impassively next to me, and I stare at Alexei. “The staff needs to come in and clean this room. Pull it out.”
He lets out a small whimper of pain, and I slide the gun resting at the small of my back free of its holster. I level it at him.
“Alexei.” Viktor’s voice is a low warning.
I can see him looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
I don’t know if he thinks I’m taking this too far, but I’m fucking sick of it.
I’m sick of seeing their shifty glances and hearing their excuses.
I’m the goddamn Pakhan, my father’s heir, and I have done everything within my power to earn their respect over the past year.
It’s past time they gave it.
“Pull it out,” I repeat.
Alexei looks as if he’s going to vomit. He cries out the moment his hand touches the car key, his fingers shaking as they close around it. His lips press tightly together as he lets out another whimper, right before he jerks the key free.
A wail of pain escapes him, and he clenches his fist around the keys. I lower my gun.
“Get out,” I tell him flatly. “Now.”
He scrambles up from the chair, clutching his hand, and flees.
"They're pushing," Viktor says quietly once the others are gone.
“Da,” I snap. Yes.
"You know what needs to happen."
I blow out a sharp breath. You need to be tougher. Harder. Crueler. I’ve heard this from Viktor, from others, again and again. I’ve known it every time men question me or make excuses for failures, lateness, or slip-ups.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, glance at the screen, and feel my jaw tighten further.
The text is from one of the men I sent on a simple job this morning—a kidnapping.
The Volkov family has been pushing their boundaries, and I made a call to change that.
Katya Volkov, the eldest daughter, is being brought to me.
I’ll hold her hostage until her father makes the agreements necessary to release her, and then Dmitri Volkov will know to toe the line in the future.
It will have the added benefit of being the kind of response that my men will respect, which can always help me.
We have her. In the office.
Good. One thing is going right today, at least.
"I need to handle something," I tell Viktor. "Keep an eye on Alexei. I want to know everywhere he goes, everyone he talks to."
Viktor nods sharply and stands as I do, following me out.
—
I walk down the hallways to my office in another wing of the mansion.
My shoes click sharply against the hardwood floor, and I exhale with each stride, calming myself.
I need to be cool and unflappable when I see Katya, the kind of man who inspires fear with his confidence.
She needs to believe that if her father doesn’t cooperate, things will go very badly for her, even if I would never actually harm a woman.
I push open the door and step inside. I smell a hint of a woman’s perfume, a salty, floral scent, and I realize that the salt is sweat.
From fear, I think at first, and then I look at her and see that she’s wearing workout clothes.
Grey leggings with hot pink netting up the sides are molded to long, shapely legs and a perfectly curved ass, and a tight mint-colored tank top is glued to her flat stomach, narrow waist, and perfectly sized tits.
Honey-blonde hair is piled up in a ponytail that’s come half loose, spilling a lot of it around her face, and for some inexplicable reason, the sight of this gorgeous woman tied to a chair in my office with the scent of her sweat in my nose sends a jolt of pure lust through my body.
It feels like an electric shock, my cock twitching and swelling instantly against my thigh, so abruptly that I have to bite back a groan of desire.
And then, the last detail of her hair cuts through the sudden fog of arousal, and I blink.
Honey-blonde hair. Katya Volkov has platinum blonde hair, nearly ice-white. And it’s short, not long and bouncy like this woman’s.
They grabbed the wrong woman. A simple job, a straightforward kidnapping, and somehow my men managed to fuck it up.
The anger that's been simmering all morning flares hotter. I stare at the woman tied to the chair for a moment longer, staying just out of her line of sight. She’s moving slightly in the chair, tugging at the restraints a little as if she can’t help herself, but she’s not actively fighting.
Either they’ve tired her out, or she’s trying to stay calm.
If it’s the latter, that’s impressive. Most people would be panicking by now.
But that thought is quickly overridden by the growing anger at the realization that my men grabbed the wrong fucking woman.
I turn back toward them. “This isn’t the right woman.”
The two men standing near the door shift nervously. Good. They should be afraid. I’ve lost my patience for fuckups, and after Alexei this morning, I have none for these men.
I switch to Russian, not bothering to hide my anger now. "How did this happen?"