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33

ERIK

Six months of carefully laundered income is gone. Insurance won't cover arson, and the message was clear: Igor Lebedev wants his daughter back, and he'll burn our entire operation to get her—or at least he'll try.

The study door opens without a knock. Only my brothers would dare.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I don't look up as Dmitri enters. His footsteps are measured and controlled—the walk of a man calculating angles.

“Drinking.” I tip the glass toward him in a mock salute. “Want some?”

“Why aren't you celebrating with your girl?” He settles into the leather chair across from my desk. “You got her out. Mission accomplished.”

“Did I?” The words taste bitter. “Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like I started a war.”

Dmitri's silence stretches between us. He knows as well as I do what this means. The Lebedevs haven't moved against us directly in over a decade. We've maintained an uneasy peace through careful boundaries and mutual respect for territory.

I shattered that the moment I kicked down Katarina's bedroom door.

“Igor's not going to stop,” I continue, downing the rest of my whiskey. “He'll keep hitting our businesses until we give her back or until one of us is dead.”

“So?” Dmitri leans forward, his ice-blue eyes sharp with interest. “We've handled worse.”

“Have we?” I set the glass down harder than necessary. “When was the last time we had open warfare? When was the last time someone torched our operations?”

“2018.”

“That was different. That was about territory, about business.” I gesture vaguely toward the window, toward whatever's left of our laundromat. “This is personal.”

“Even better.” Dmitri's smile doesn't reach his eyes. “Personal means predictable. Igor's rage will make him sloppy.”

I pour another drink, watching the liquid catch the lamplight. “And if it doesn't? If he's smart about this? We could lose everything.”

“For her?” Dmitri's voice carries genuine curiosity, not judgment. “Is she worth it?”

The question hangs between us like a cloud of smoke. Outside, somewhere in the city, Igor Lebedev is probably planning his next move. Another strike against our family. Another escalation in a war I started because I couldn't bear the thought of Katarina marrying anyone else.

“I don't know,” I admit finally.

Dmitri sits back, studying me with the same intensity he brings to hostile takeovers. “You rescued her from an arranged marriage. Risked all our lives to get her out. And now you're sitting here drinking alone instead of...”

He doesn't finish the sentence, but I know what he means. Instead of celebrating. Instead of claiming what I fought for.

“She's not a prize to be won,” I say quietly.

“No,” Dmitri agrees. “But she's also not your prisoner anymore.”

“If Tash was in a room down the hall,” Dmitri says, his voice dropping to something almost vulnerable, “I wouldn't be drinking. I'd be with her.”

I've watched my brother perfect his public mask for years—the charming philanthropist, the brilliant businessman. But underneath, he's as fucked up as the rest of us.

“But she's not,” he continues, fingers drumming against the chair's arm. “She made it clear that what I am, what we do—it's unforgivable. Too much blood on my hands for her pristine moral compass.”

I study his face, noting the cracks in his usual composure. “You tried to explain?”

“Explain what?” His laugh carries no humor. “That I've ordered men killed? That I've pulled triggers myself when necessary? That every dollar funding herart gallery came from enterprises she'd find revolting?”