Chapter 31
SEMYON
The scent of cinnamon and freshly baked bread gives the bakery an almost nostalgic, homey feel, hiding the tension under the surface.
It’s quiet in here, emptied for this meeting. I lean against the display case, my arm crossed and my expression neutral. Anya stands behind the counter, wiping her fingers for the hundredth time on a dishtowel.
I casually clear my throat to get her attention.
The Irish have no idea what they’re walking into. I know why she’s nervous, but she doesn’t have to be. I’ve got this. I’ve got her.
The Irish only think they have control. They don’t realize I already have them in checkmate.
“They’re in the neighborhood,” Anya murmurs, her voice low.
I nod. “It’s time.”
She pulls out her phone and sends a message. I’ve got a discreet screen mirroring app on mine, so no one knows I’m watching.
Anya to Ophelia
The big guns are coming in for a huge treaty. It’s today. Be ready.
A full hour passes before the door swings open, and Cillian O’Rourke strides in with six of his men. He’s cocky, bold, like he already knows how this will play out.
I feign surprise. “O’Rourke. Nice to see you.”
He cocks his head and gives me a grin, baring a gold tooth. Cocky prick. “Speak o’ the devil. You were always shite at lyin’, Kopolov.”
I shrug. He’s not wrong. I never saw the purpose.
I move in front of Anya to protect her. She’s wearing a bulletproof vest, but it makes me feel better knowing how easily I could strike and slit his throat.
Cillian smirks at me and places an order. To Anya’s credit, her hands are steady while she fills his teacup, and I place a cinnamon roll on a plate. “On the house,” I tell him with a nod. O’Rourke hesitates.
“Are you turning down my wife’s sweets, O’Rourke?” I shake my head. “I remember. Your mother used to bake those Irish apple tarts, didn’t she? Shame if you never got to taste them again. ”
He takes the plate with a scowl as the bell over the entryway jingles, and they walk in. Not foreign arms dealers or the force of power-hungry Bratva factions from across the world.
My family.
Dressed sharp. Silent. In disguise. They take their seats, the atmosphere shifting. I walk to the entryway, slide the lock into place, and, just for dramatic effect, turn the Open sign around to say Closed.
The Irish realize they’re surrounded a second too late.
Cillian twitches, reaching for his weapon. Fucking amateur.
I move first.
My gun is pointed at him before he takes another breath. The shot cracks through the air, hitting his knee. Bullseye. He drops to the floor, screaming.
The fight is fast. Efficient. I promised Anya it would be, that we wouldn’t mar the pretty new floor in the bakery or spill blood on the new tile.
Rafail sheds his coat, rolling his shoulders like he’s warming up for a workout, then grabs a chair and smashes it across an Irish bastard’s face. The sound of splintering wood barely registers before Matvei moves, muscle and steel, as he takes two down swiftly before they have a chance to react.
Yana and Zoya turn what could’ve been an ambush into immediate submission. A wrist is snapped, a jaw shattered, and Zoya’s blade pressed into the vulnerable flesh beneath an eye. The Irish kneel before us, disarmed and bleeding. Cillian O’Rourke’s cocky smirk has vanished .
No more blood. No one dies. We planned it this way: a show of power that leads to negotiation, not flat-out war.
When it’s over, the Irish are on their knees. Cillian stares at Anya. “You set us up, you little?—”
“Disrespect my wife, and you’ll lose that tongue,” I warn. I reach for a butcher knife and wield it. Ready. “Hard to eat pussy without a tongue, O’Rourke, mmm?”
He clamps his mouth shut. I don’t bluff.
“This isn’t a pissing contest, boys.” I shake my head. “Now,” I say in a conversational tone. “ We talk. Keenan McCarthy won’t be too happy your work was so sloppy, will he?”
Their patriarch is well known for his ruthlessness and fastidious methods.
“You were the ones who came into Moscow. You blackmailed my wife and tried to take what wasn’t yours.” I shake my head. “We do this my way, or not one of you leaves here alive.”
Silence.
Then the sound of slow, deliberate clapping.
I know who it is before I see him. The Undertaker steps from the back in his signature black bespoke suit. His presence shifts the energy in the room. Even his men are terrified.
“You won this time, Kopolov.”
Motherfucker was here the whole time. He wanted to see what his men would do. I watch him cross an ankle over a knee and sip from a cup of tea. “Efficient,” he murmurs, swirling his tea. “But not as clean as I’d have expected, Kopolov.”
I give him a wry smile and nod.
His lips curl, amused, his voice a low drawl tinged with steel. “But I hope you know I’m coming for your sister.”
Yana’s married, and even he wouldn’t tread on Bratva law. Zoya’s barely an adult. Rage coils in my chest. I don’t react. “We’ll see about that.”
He winks. “Aye. That we will. Now why are we all here, lads?”
Rafail barks, “Weapons down.”
The Undertaker nods. They obey.
I turn back at Cillian. His face is contorted in pain. “This isn’t just about bloodshed anymore. It’s about power. You have your territory, and we have ours. We could keep fighting, but we don’t need to keep bleeding each other dry.”
The Undertaker nods, regarding his injured man with interest. “Whatever did you do to earn this punishment, O’Rourke?”
O’Rourke’s face is mottled red as he seethes, “Nothing, I?—”
“Tried to pull a weapon on our property,” I finish, shaking my head like a disappointed parent.
“Aye.” His boss nods before he bends to his man and cuffs him. “What’d I tell you about drawing weapons on the Russians, lad?” He slaps the man’s cheek hard enough to leave a mark. “You walked in here. Did you expect a welcome party? I ought to shoot out the other kneecap to teach you a lesson, mmm?” With a sigh, he straightens, giving me a “kids these days” shake of his head.
Anya stands stoically beside me, her arms crossed on her chest. My beautiful, fearless wife.
“Let’s hear your proposal, Kopolov.”
I clear my throat. “We form an unbreakable alliance. A new order. A new way. The heads of each of the most powerful factions vow not to end each other. We fight our enemies together.”
He tips his head. Thinking. “And we gain?”
I tip my head. “Survival. A seat at the table.”
Nodding slowly, he assesses his men. “This could work in our favor, yes, but only under the grounds of a temporary truce.” He finally nods. “Granted.”
The Undertaker’s lip curls as if amused. Lifting a hand, his men pull O’Rourke to his feet.
“We’ll take this deal. For now.” He opens the door but turns and winks at Zoya before he leaves. “See you soon, love.”
I let him go, but I already know the next time we meet, only one of us will walk away.
I draw her to me. She’s still breathing. We’re safe… for now.
We’ll draw up negotiations and present them to the Irish. We have our work cut out for us, but a temporary truce gives us time.
Anya stares at me. “So that went…well?”