Chapter 1 – Drew
Kirill’s voice was still echoing in my skull like a fucking migraine that wouldn’t quit. I could hear every word of our conversation from three hours ago, each syllable digging deeper under my skin like shrapnel.
“Rafael needs someone reliable,” he’d said, leaning back in his chair like he wasn’t about to ruin my entire fucking life. “Maxim’s going to Italy for two months. Family business.”
I should’ve hung up right then. Should’ve told him to find someone else to play babysitter for Rafael’s American operation. But Kirill knew me too well, knew exactly which buttons to push to get what he wanted. “I recommended you.”
Those three words. Three simple fucking words that had just derailed everything I had built there in Russia.
My office, with its bulletproof windows overlooking the Moscow skyline.
My rules. My space. My life exactly the way I wanted it; no attachments, no complications, no weaknesses for enemies to exploit.
“Сука,” I muttered under my breath, the Russian rolling off my tongue like a prayer. Bitch. “Ублюдок.” Bastard. “Предатель.” Traitor.
But even as I cursed Kirill’s name in every language I knew, the reality sat in my chest like a lead weight.
I couldn’t say no to Rafael. Blood was blood, and in the Bratva, family trumped personal preference every goddamn time.
He was my cousin, which meant his request was really a command wrapped in politeness.
I had two days to pack up my life and pretend I wanted to spend two months in Chicago, playing house with Americans who probably thought vodka came in flavored varieties.
***
The duffel bag hit the plane seat with a dull thud that sounded final. Everything I needed for the next sixty days was crammed into black leather—suits, weapons, electronics, and enough surveillance equipment to monitor a small country. The necessities of a life I never wanted to live.
I ran my hand along the wing of my Cessna, feeling the familiar smoothness of metal that had carried me through more flights than I could count. She wasn’t the biggest bird in the sky, but she was mine. Reliable. Predictable. Unlike people.
The cockpit welcomed me like an old lover—every switch and gauge was exactly where I had left them, every instrument calibrated to perfection.
I flipped switches by pure instinct, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed.
The engines roared to life, and for the first time in three days, something inside my chest loosened.
I taxied slowly at first, then faster, the ground blurring beneath me until I pulled back on the controls and lifted off into the empty sky. Up there, thirty thousand feet above the world’s problems, I could almost forget that I was flying toward a prison sentence disguised as a family obligation.
The clouds stretched endlessly in every direction, white and clean and infinite.
This was where I thought clearest, where the noise in my head finally quieted enough for me to plan.
Two months in Chicago. Two months working with Rafael’s people, learning their rhythms, keeping their secrets.
Two months pretending I gave a shit about American Bratva politics when all I wanted was to be back in Russia, in my office, with my rules governing every aspect of my existence.
But family was family, and Rafael Kamarov didn’t ask twice.
***
O’Hare Airport smelled like recycled air and broken dreams, but at least the customs line moved quickly when your passport had the right stamps.
I collected my bag and made my way through the terminal, scanning faces automatically—a habit that had kept me alive longer than most people in this business deserved to be.
That’s when I saw him.
Damir stood near the curb holding a handwritten sign that read “Welcome, Asshole” in block letters, his trademark smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
My brother looked good, broader through the shoulders than when I had seen him last, but still carrying himself like he could take on half of Chicago if the mood struck him.
“Real fucking professional,” I said by way of greeting, nodding at the sign.
“You want professional, hire a car service.” He crushed me in a hug that would have broken the ribs of a smaller man. “Good to see you, брат.”
Brother. The word carried weight in Russian, especially between us. We had been through hell together—first growing up in the aftermath of our father’s business decisions, then carving out our own territories in different countries. Damir chose Chicago. I chose Moscow. We both chose survival.
“How pissed are you?” he asked as we walked toward his car, a black BMW that screamed expensive without being flashy.
“Scale of one to ten?” I tossed my bag in the trunk, considering. “About a fifteen.”
“That’s what I figured.” He started the engine, and the sound was as smooth as silk. “Wait until you see what I set up for you.”
***
The apartment Damir had arranged was everything I hadn’t known I needed—a high floor, a corner unit, windows that showed me three different escape routes and a clear view of anyone approaching the building.
The fridge was stocked with food I actually ate, not the American processed shit that passed for cuisine.
The closet held perfectly tailored suits in charcoal and black, cut exactly the way I preferred them.
And there was a gym. Full weights, a heavy bag, everything necessary to maintain the kind of conditioning that keeps you alive when diplomacy fails.
“All the comforts of home,” Damir said, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Except girls. You’ll have to handle that yourself because I don’t know what kind of freaky shit you’re into these days.”
I poured myself three fingers of vodka—the good stuff, not the swill Americans drank—and considered his words. “Women are complications I ’don’t need right now.”
“Jesus, Drew. When was the last time you got laid?”
The question hung in the air like smoke, and I realized I didn’t have a good answer. Six months? Eight? Time blurred together when you were focused on work, on staying alive, on maintaining the careful balance that kept your enemies guessing and your allies loyal.
“Mind your own business,” I told him, which was answer enough.
“All I’m saying is two months is a long time to go without.” He shrugged, grabbing his keys from the counter. “Try not to scare Rafael’s people on your first day. They’re not used to our particular brand of Russian charm.”
After he left, I stood at the window looking out over Chicago’s skyline. The city spread beneath me like a map of possibilities and problems, each light representing someone with their own agenda, their own secrets, their own reasons for breathing.
Two months. I could survive two months of anything.
***
I arrived at Rafael’s building before dawn, which was my preference for getting the lay of new territory.
Security was decent—cameras, keycard access, and guards who looked like they might actually know which end of a gun to hold.
The elevator rose silently to the fifteenth floor, and I used my temporary access card to enter what would be my temporary office.
It was smaller than what I was used to in Moscow, but functional.
The windows faced east, giving me morning light and a view of anyone approaching the building.
The desk was solid wood, expensive but not flashy.
Rafael understood that in our business, you never wanted to appear too successful to the wrong people.
I was setting up my laptop when I heard footsteps in the hallway—quick, efficient steps that suggested someone who knew exactly where they were going and didn’t have time for delays. The door opened without a knock, which immediately put me on alert.
She was smaller than I had expected, but there was something in the way she moved that screamed danger.
Black hair was pulled back severely, her brown eyes missed nothing, and her body was built for speed rather than curves.
She wore all black—slacks, a fitted shirt, and ankle boots, like she was dressed for either a business meeting or a funeral.
“Who the fuck are you?” she demanded, stopping just inside the doorway with her hand resting near her hip where she probably kept a blade, judging by the slight bulge in the fabric.
I didn’t move from behind the desk, didn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me react to her attitude. “Drew Kamarov. Rafael’s cousin.”
Her eyes narrowed, calculating. She was scanning me like I was a threat assessment, cataloging exits, weapons, and weak points with the kind of efficiency that only came from serious training. “Nobody told me Rafael had a cousin coming in.”
“Nobody tells you everything.” I leaned back in the chair, letting my gaze travel over her slowly enough to make a point. “You must be the assistant I’ve heard about.”
Something flickered across her face—annoyance, maybe, or the recognition that I wasn’t going to be as easy to manage as whoever was here before. “Cassandra Miller. And I run Rafael’s world, so if you’re planning to be here for more than five minutes, you’ll want to stay out of my way.”
“How long am I planning to be here?” I asked, genuinely curious about how much Rafael had told his people about this arrangement.
“Two months, covering for Maxim while he handles family business in Italy.” She stepped further into the office, and I caught a hint of her scent—something clean and sharp, like steel wrapped in silk. “Try not to break anything while you’re playing office, flyboy.”
Flyboy. I almost smiled at that. She had done her homework, knew I had flown myself in instead of taking commercial transport. She had filed that information away for later use, no doubt.
“I’ll do my best, kitten,” I told her, deliberately using the kind of diminutive that I knew would piss her off. “Try not to bite.”
Her jaw tightened, and for a second, I thought she might actually reach for whatever weapon she was carrying. But then she smiled, and it was the kind of expression that would make smart men run for cover.
“Biting is the least of your worries, cousin.” She turned toward the door, then paused to look back over her shoulder. “Rafael wants to see you at nine. Don’t be late.”
She was gone before I could respond, leaving behind only the faint echo of her footsteps and the distinct impression that my next two months had just become significantly more complicated.
I checked my watch. Seven-thirty. Enough time to finish setting up my equipment and mentally prepare for whatever political minefield Rafael was about to drop me into. But first, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found Kirill’s number.
When he answered on the second ring, I didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You didn’t mention Rafael’s assistant.”
“Cassandra?” There was amusement in his voice, the bastard. “What about her?”
“You could have warned me.”
“Warned you about what? That she’s smarter than most of the men you’ve worked with? That she’s probably armed and definitely dangerous? That she runs Rafael’s operation more efficiently than anyone has a right to?”
All of those things, I thought but didn’t say. Instead, I asked, “How long has she been with him?”
“A couple of years, maybe three. Rafael pulled her out of some club in Seattle, saw potential where everyone else just saw another pretty face serving drinks.” Kirill paused, and I could practically hear him thinking. “Why? Is she giving you trouble already?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Famous last words, брат. Famous last words.”
He hung up, leaving me alone with the morning sun streaming through unfamiliar windows and the growing certainty that Cassandra Miller was going to be either the most interesting part of this assignment or the thing that got me killed. Possibly both.
I finished setting up my workspace, testing connections and security protocols with the methodical precision that had kept me alive this long.
Every piece of equipment had its place, every file its proper encryption, every contingency plan its backup scenario.
By the time I was finished, it was eight-forty-five.
Time to meet with Rafael and figure out exactly what I had gotten myself into.
But first, I allowed myself one last look out the window at Chicago spreading beneath me like a chessboard waiting for the next move.
Somewhere in this city, Cassandra Miller was probably planning ways to make my life difficult.
Somewhere else, enemies I hadn’t met yet were planning ways to make my life short.
Two months suddenly felt like a very long time.
I straightened my tie, checked my weapons, and headed for the elevator. Time to find out what Rafael Kamarov needed badly enough to import family from halfway around the world.
And time to discover what Cassandra Miller was really hiding behind those calculating brown eyes.