Chapter 1 – Dimitri
New York looks better when it’s beneath me.
From the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Manhattan office, the skyline glitters—cold steel, endless ambition, a city built on hunger. My kind of place. My kind of altitude. Power feels different when it’s measured in stories above the ground.
I’m finishing an encrypted message on my laptop when the door opens without a knock.
Only one person is allowed to do that.
Sylvester Marco steps in—broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, dressed in a tailored black suit that hides his weapons but not his purpose. He says nothing as he approaches. He simply sets a thick file onto my desk and steps back, gloved hands folding neatly behind him.
He’s my second-in-command. My most lethal blade.
I push my laptop aside and take the file.
The first thing I notice is the weight. The second—the stamp.
Laurent Banking & Holdings. Confidential Quarterly Report Restricted Access.
My fingers drum once along the edge.
“This is internal,” I say, though I’m not surprised. “Very internal.”
Sylvester’s chin dips. “Acquired this morning. Their systems aren’t as impressive as their reputation.”
Translation: He breached one of Europe’s oldest banking empires before breakfast.
I open the file.
Charts.
Balance sheets.
Cash flow statements.
And then—the third-quarter losses. Significant ones.
“Laurent is bleeding,” Sylvester says, lowering his voice as if the city itself might be listening.
I skim another page.
He’s right.
The numbers are worse than the whispers circulating across Europe.
I feel a slow, dark smile pull at the corner of my mouth.
Interesting.
“Henri Laurent has been covering this for months,” Sylvester continues. “Market projections say he can’t do it much longer. If the wrong investor pulls out, the entire structure collapses.”
I lean back in my chair, gaze drifting to the skyline. Manhattan reflects in the glass—razor-sharp, merciless, honest.
Unlike most men.
“Laurent built an empire on old money and older pride.” I flip another page. “The pride is the part that kills them.”
Sylvester shifts slightly. “You want the full acquisition plan drafted?”
Not yet.
I flip to the next page, and then the next—until something makes my hand still.
At the back of the file is a photograph.
Vivian Laurent.
The heiress I never forgot.
The one who looked at me like temptation wrapped in silk…and then left claw marks across the last shred of control I possessed.
The stables.
The dark corridor.
Her breath on my throat.
Her body trembling beneath mine.
The way she cracked open under my hands, soft and desperate and perfect.
A year later, and it still hits me like violence.
My fingers tighten around the file, hard enough that the cardboard gives, edges bending under the pressure.
“Laurent’s desperate for investors,” Sylvester continues, unaware or pretending not to notice the shift in my posture. “There’s talk of selling assets quietly. And—”
“And?” I say, voice too calm.
“To prevent scandal, they’re arranging a strategic marriage alliance with a European business house. Someone prominent enough to stabilize their reputation.”
For a moment, nothing moves in the room.
Not the air.
Not me.
Then I laugh. Slow. Sharp. Precise.
“A Laurent bride up for sale?” I say, leaning back in my chair. “How poetic.”
Sylvester doesn’t respond, but I catch the brief flicker in his expression—the quick tightening around his eyes.
Suspicion. Curiosity. Concern.
Good.
He should be concerned.
I close the file, still smiling—a smile that feels more like a blade than an expression. Another laugh slips out of me, low and cold, because the irony is too perfect.
Vivian Laurent.
The one woman who burned herself into my memory without trying.
The daughter Henri plans to auction off like a pretty liability.
And the best part? He has no idea she’s the only weakness he has worth exploiting.
Sylvester shifts his stance, the air in the room thick with unspoken questions. I look up at him, smile widening.
“What is it?” he asks carefully.
I shake my head slowly, amusement cutting through me like a fresh blade. They have no idea who they’re playing with.
I’ve spent years moving through their world—old-money elites in tailored suits and inherited arrogance. The ones who sneer at the Bratva from behind crystal glasses and trust funds. Who pretend their bloodlines make them untouchable.
Idiots.
If they knew the truth behind the silk, the champagne, the accent I polished like a weapon, they’d choke on their caviar.
I hid my lineage for a reason.
So that when I finally chose to move—when I decided to take something from their precious world—they wouldn’t see it coming.
But now? Now I’m done pretending. Now I’ll make them kneel. Especially her.
Vivian Laurent—the daughter of the empire that once laughed at men like me. The daughter of the empire that almost crushed me.
The girl who melted against me in a Monaco stable, then looked at me afterward like she didn’t understand what she’d awakened.
The heiress her father is about to sell to the “right bidder.”
The thought makes my mouth curve into something dark.
I turn to Sylvester. “Make the calls.”
His brows lift. “To whom?”
“To Laurent’s lawyers. To the shell companies handling their quiet sell-off. To the social circles that whisper gossip into the ears of the men who think they run Europe.”
My voice is low, precise. Danger tightened into syllables.
Sylvester waits, expression unreadable.
“The marriage alliance,” I continue, tapping the file, “will go through channels I own. Not theirs.”
Sylvester’s jaw tightens slightly. “You intend to place a bid.”
“No.” I stand, fastening my cufflinks with deliberate calm. “I intend to win the bid.”
He stares at me for a beat too long. Realization settling. Understanding sharpening.
“By the end of the week,” I say, voice dipping into a cold certainty that tastes like victory, “the highest bidder for the Laurent heiress…will be me.”
“Oh.”
“Weak men hide their problems,” I murmur. “Henri Laurent will gift me his.”
Sylvester inclines his head, but something flickers across his face—hesitation, maybe even disbelief.
“Are you sure?” he asks quietly. “You’re…you’re talking about marriage?”
I grin. Sharp. Predatory. Amused. “Why do you look so shocked?”
He blinks. “It’s marriage, Dimitri.”
“Marriage is good,” I answer, shrugging into my chair. “All my brothers are married, aren’t they? And they’re happy.”
Sylvester doesn’t smile. He never indulges my wicked humor.
“Because they all married women they love,” he reminds me, stepping closer to the desk. His voice drops. “Is this business or personal?”
I hold his gaze for a long moment. Then I smile, cold and without warmth.
“It’s revenge,” I say softly. “Personal is the point.”
Sylvester exhales once, steady and resigned, and nods. “I’ll make the calls.”
He leaves the room with a purposeful stride, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.
Silence settles.
I pull the file closer, flipping it open one more time.
Her picture stares back at me—Vivian Laurent, the girl who came apart in my hands like she’d been waiting her whole life to be touched like that.
The corner of my mouth lifts. I run a thumb over her photograph, tracing the soft line of her jaw.
“Oh, Princess,” I murmur. “You have no idea who you’re about to marry.”
And I smile—wide, feral.
Because the game has finally begun.
I have a meeting with Lev and Niko in less than an hour, but I can’t bring myself to leave this table.
Not when she’s staring up at me from the glossy page.
Vivian Laurent. The daughter of the man who thinks his blood is too pure to mix with mine.
I should close the file. I should get up, straighten my jacket, and go to that meeting like a responsible brother, a responsible ally, a responsible Bratva member.
But I don’t move.
My fingers rest against the edge of her photograph, and for a moment I indulge myself—just a moment—letting my mind drag back to Monaco.
She doesn’t know it, but she marked me.
And now she’s the piece I’m taking from her father.
I exhale slowly, leaning back in my chair.
I should tell my brothers what I intend to do.
Lev would warn me.
Niko would laugh.
Roman would probably curse me.
They would ask why the hell I’m going after a Laurent heiress like she’s a prize in a game.
But I’m not telling them.
Not yet.
I’ll hold this close until everything is sealed—until the papers are signed, until every Laurent avenue is cut off, until there’s no escape for her or her father. Words travel fast in our world.
Too fast.
If Henri Laurent learns I’m entering the bid, he’ll shut the doors and lock them tight. They may be desperate, but they’re not desperate enough to willingly hand their daughter to a Rusnak.
Not without being cornered.
The Laurents think their lineage is untouched by the world’s dirt. They think their blood is cleaner, higher, holier than anyone in the Bratva. They turn their noses up at us like their wealth makes them gods. But gods fall. And old dynasties rot faster than street empires.
I drag my thumb across Vivian’s picture again, a slow, possessive motion I don’t bother to hide from myself.
I’ll show them that I’m better. Stronger. Always a step ahead.