Chapter 1
DOMINIC'S DESIRE: CHAPTER ONE
The hum of the engines is a low, constant thrum beneath my feet, steady enough that it sinks into my bones.
First class suits us—quiet, private, insulated from the rest of the plane by more than a curtain.
It’s a buffer I appreciate. I always like to know who’s around us, and here, the answer is simple: no one who matters.
Anya has the window seat, her forehead tilted toward the glass as clouds slide past in endless white folds.
Vladimir sits beside her, his shoulder angled protectively toward hers, his hand resting loosely on her thigh as if it belongs there.
Because it does. Because she does. The sight of them together pulls something warm and unfamiliar into my chest.
My seat is directly in front of Vladimir’s, but I’ve swiveled it around so I can face them.
Officially, it’s so we can talk. Unofficially, it’s so I can keep watching him.
Old habits die hard. Vladimir Zoloth is my responsibility as much as he is my friend, and I doubt that will ever change.
He took me out of poverty to become his right hand, and I’ll never forget how much I owe him.
Anya laughs softly at something Vladimir murmurs to her, and the sound lights him up from the inside. He smiles—really smiles, not the sharp, dangerous curve he shows the world, but something softer. Real. I’m pleased she’s coming home with us. Pleased in a way that surprises me with its intensity.
He deserves this.
The wedding flashes through my mind uninvited.
The small chapel, the candlelight, the way the air had seemed to hold its breath as Anya walked toward him.
She’d been radiant—no, that’s not strong enough.
She’d been luminous, like she carried her own gravity.
Vladimir hadn’t taken his eyes off her once.
Not when she reached him. Not when they spoke their vows.
Not even afterward, when congratulations closed in around them like a tide.
I remember thinking then that I would kill anyone who tried to take that look off his face.
They plan to have a second ceremony back in the States.
Something larger. Something public. So Hex can attend.
So Delphine can be there to see her son get married with her own eyes.
The thought of Delphine smiling through tears brings a faint curve to my mouth.
She’ll love Anya. That much is inevitable.
Hex will be unbearable about it, of course. Vladimir’s twin brother has always had a talent for turning any emotional moment into something loud and chaotic. I can already hear his laugh, see the way he’ll clap Vladimir on the back like this hasn’t changed everything and nothing all at once.
And with that thought comes another. Unwelcome. Dangerous.
Sasha.
I shift slightly in my seat, forcing my attention back to the present.
The leather creaks softly under the movement.
I focus on the steady rise and fall of Anya’s chest, the way Vladimir’s thumb traces absentminded circles against her leg.
I do not think about the last time I saw Sasha.
I do not think about her eyes—too sharp, too knowing—or the way her mouth curves when she thinks she has the upper hand.
I can’t afford that kind of weakness.
Falling for Vladimir’s half-sister would be more than foolish.
It would be catastrophic. My loyalty to him isn’t negotiable.
My position at his side—earned in blood and bone and years of unflinching obedience—isn’t something I would risk for anyone.
No matter how tempting the distraction. No matter how alive she made me feel in the brief moment when our paths crossed.
I clamp down on the thought before it can take root.
Vladimir glances up and catches me watching them. His expression shifts instantly, a silent question. I give him a brief nod, the old signal. All clear. Safe. He relaxes, just a fraction, and turns back to Anya, pressing a kiss to her temple.
That trust—unquestioning, absolute—settles the matter in my mind once and for all.
I look away, turning my attention to the aisle, to the flight attendant moving quietly between rows, to anything that isn’t the future waiting for us back in New Orleans.
Home will bring its own battles. Power never transfers cleanly, and blood spilled in Russia has a way of staining everything it touches.
Vladimir will need me sharp. Focused. Uncompromised.
Sasha is a luxury I cannot afford.
Anya shifts, finally pulling her gaze from the window. She smiles at me, open and warm, and for a moment I see why Vladimir fought so hard to bring her into this world rather than leave her safely outside it. She reaches forward and squeezes the top of my arm.
“Are you happy to be going home? To see your sister?” she asks.
I grin. “It will be nice to be back in NOLA. Dina has been blowing up my phone asking questions about you. She can’t wait to meet you.”
She laughs again, and Vladimir’s eyes meet mine over her head. There’s gratitude there. Trust. Brotherhood.
The plane carries us onward, suspended between what we’ve left behind and what waits ahead. I square my shoulders and settle back into my seat, already bracing for impact.
Some lines I will not cross. Some desires I will bury deep enough that they never see the light.
For Vladimir, for the Bratva, for everything we’re about to build—I will hold the line.
Anya’s breathing evens out, soft and slow, her head tipped toward Vladimir’s shoulder.
Sleep takes her gently, like it knows better than to startle her.
Vladimir stills, instinctively, barely daring to move as if any shift might wake her.
He glances at me, then down at her again, and carefully eases his arm so her weight is supported without jostling her.
Only when he’s sure she’s settled does he look back at me.
Now we can talk.
I swivel my seat fully toward him, keeping my voice low. The hum of the engines gives us cover, a constant white noise that swallows secrets whole.
“Tomorrow,” Vladimir says quietly. “I’ve scheduled a meeting with my father’s lieutenants.”
My jaw tightens, though I keep my expression neutral. “All five?”
He nods. “They believe I’m dead. Officially, Maxim has been running things through emails and intermediaries for the past month. Orders. Transfers. Adjustments.”
“And none of them questioned it?” I ask.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “They questioned it. But not enough to refuse money.”
That tracks. Fear and profit have always been Maxim’s preferred tools. Death delivered by inbox is still death, as far as men like that are concerned.
“I made changes while they thought they were answering to him,” Vladimir continues. “Personnel shifts. Quiet ones. Each lieutenant now commands a crew seeded with soldiers loyal to me. Men who know who actually signs their future.”
I feel a flicker of satisfaction. Clean. Elegant. Ruthless in its patience. “So if one of them decides to rise up and challenge you—”
“They’ll be surrounded by men who are loyal to me,” he finishes.
I lean back slightly, studying him. He’s calm. Too calm, maybe. That’s the danger with Vladimir—he plans ten moves ahead and forgets that other men are not as predictable as he is.
“You know they might still try to take you out,” I say. “Shock, confusion, a play for control. You walking into that meeting alive will be enough to push some of them over the edge.”
“I’m not a fool, Dominic.”
“I know,” I say evenly. “That’s why I’m saying it out loud.”
His gaze sharpens, but there’s no anger there. Only consideration. He respects this part of our relationship—the fact that I will always say the thing others are too afraid to voice.
“We’re ready,” I continue. “Security is tight. The room is controlled. Routes are secured. If anyone makes a move, we end it before it starts.”
He nods once. “Good.”
I hesitate, then add, “There’s another option.”
He waits.
“We eliminate the lieutenants,” I say. “All five. Clean slate. Replace them with men we trust completely. No divided loyalties. No waiting to see who blinks first.”
It’s the most efficient path. The safest. Blood now to prevent a river later.
Vladimir exhales slowly through his nose. “No.”
I expected that. I don’t agree with it.
“They’ve held power too long,” I press. “They learned brutality from Maxim. They know only one way to rule. Leaving them in place invites trouble.”
“I’m aware of exactly what they are,” he says quietly. “But killing them outright turns them into martyrs. Their crews fracture. Alliances form in the shadows. Violence spills outward.”
“And letting them live doesn’t?”
“Not if enough of them choose me.”
I study his face, the set of his jaw. This isn’t na?veté. This is intention.
“You want to see who stands with you,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And who doesn’t.”
His eyes flick to Anya, still sleeping peacefully beside him. “Power taken by fear never lasts,” he says. “I need loyalty that survives daylight.”
I understand the philosophy. I just don’t trust it.
“There’s something else,” I say. “Once they realize your end-game, that loyalty may evaporate.”
He looks back to me. “Say it.”
“You plan to pull the Bratva out of human trafficking,” I say flatly. “That’s one of the most profitable arms of the operation. Some of those men built their empires on it. They won’t give that up quietly.”
The silence stretches between us, filled only by the drone of the plane.
“They don’t know yet,” Vladimir says.
“They’ll figure it out,” I reply. “And when they do, even the ones who smile tomorrow might revolt later. Money like that doesn’t disappear without consequences.”
His expression hardens—not with doubt, but resolve. “I’m prepared for that.”
“Prepared how?” I ask.
“By proving they don’t need it,” he says. “By shifting focus. Expanding other revenue streams. By making it clear that anyone who clings to that business is standing in my way.”
“And if they choose profit over you?”
His gaze locks onto mine, cold and unflinching. “Then they choose their own deaths.”
There it is. The line drawn in blood.
I nod slowly. “Then we make sure they don’t get the chance to surprise you.”
A faint smile touches his mouth. “That’s why you’re here.”
Anya stirs, murmuring something soft and unintelligible, and Vladimir immediately turns his attention back to her, adjusting the blanket over her shoulders. The contrast is stark—this man who speaks so calmly of death and power, now gentle as he tucks his wife closer.
I look away, my instincts already shifting into forward motion. Tomorrow will tell us everything. Who kneels. Who plots. Who dies.
Whatever happens, I’ll be ready.
For Vladimir, I always am.