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I slam my palm on the conference table the instant the last man enters the room. “Sit.” My tone leaves no room for argument. Everyone in the room knows why they’re here—and they know better than to test my patience right now.

They shuffle into chairs arranged around a long, imposing table. Each one of these men has a role in the Bratva—some are my own captains, others enforce territory control for my brothers. Overseeing them all is my job tonight, whether they like it or not. Aleksei, our Pakhan and my brother, placed me in charge of this meeting while he’s away.

A few of them keep their eyes and heads down. Others meet my stare, bristling with barely hidden opinions. The tension is, in part, because of the way we lost Pavel. No one has the right words for that, but they’re waiting for me to address it.

I stand at the head of the table. “Pavel is gone,” I say, not bothering with a preamble. “One of our most reliable allies, executed in an alley without warning. We have evidence pointing toward Evan Thorne—or at least suggesting he’s involved.”

A chorus of unsettled chatter fills the space. For years, Thorne’s relationship with the Bratva has been precarious. Officially, we cut ties a while back. Still, more than one man in this room wonders if we should have eliminated him a long time ago.

I hold my hand up until they quiet down. “We found a piece of cloth marked with Thorne’s crest near Pavel’s body. Might be a frame job, or it might be Thorne flaunting his nerve. I don’t care which. Pavel is still dead, and we need to respond.”

I flick my gaze around the table. Maksim is seated on my left, and Dmitri has taken a seat on my right. My brothers are silent but attentive. Two men—Leonid and Fyodor—exchange looks that set my teeth on edge. They’ve had issues with me taking the lead before. I’m sure they think I’m only in this position because Aleksei is my brother, but the smart ones at this table know that’s not the case. I’ve earned my position as second-in-command.

Maksim speaks first. “What’s the plan, Grigor? An attack on Thorne? We can’t let this stand.”

A few men nod in agreement, but another voice breaks in. “We should be sure before we declare open war,” Leonid suggests. “Thorne’s got resources. We don’t need more complications.”

I point a finger at him. “What’s more complicated is letting Pavel’s murder go unanswered. The streets will see that as weakness, and the Bratva doesn’t show weakness.”

Fyodor shifts in his chair, letting out a low snort. “And what do you propose we do about it? Aleksei should be the one who calls the shots on a matter of alliances.”

I lock eyes with him. “Aleksei handed me this responsibility while he’s occupied. That should be enough.”

He doesn’t mask his disdain. “I’d rather hear it from Aleksei himself.”

My temper stirs. This isn’t the time for a pissing contest. “We can hash it out together, but I’m leading this meeting. Get on board or get out.”

Fyodor lets the chair scrape against the floor, like he’s ready to stand. “Might as well get out, then. I’m not here to take orders from second best.”

A hush falls. Even Leonid looks uneasy. Half the men glance at me, waiting to see if I’ll let that disrespect slide. I stare Fyodor down. “You think you can walk away from this? Go ahead.”

He pushes himself up, and the outline of a sidearm is visible beneath his jacket. The guard at the door tenses, but I raise a hand—my signal to remain still.

Fyodor’s mouth twists into a sneer, and he heads for the exit. The men nearest the door shift in their seats, glancing between me and him.

With one fluid motion, I draw my pistol and fire a single shot. The sound ricochets off every surface. Fyodor’s leg gives out, and he collapses with blood trickling onto the polished floor. He bellows a curse and clutches his thigh.

I lower the gun. “Anyone else feel like leaving?”

Silence hangs in the air, broken only by Fyodor’s ragged groans. I motion to two of my enforcers. “Take him to get stitched up. He’ll live. Maybe next time he’ll think before he mouths off.”

They drag him out, leaving a crimson trail that sends a message to every man in this room: I don’t have time for insubordination.

When the door closes, I press my palm flat on the table. “We’re done with power plays. We have a real threat: Thorne. If he’s behind Pavel’s death, we settle it. If it’s a setup, we need to find out who’s trying to pit us against him. Either way, Pavel’s murder can’t go unpunished, but we’re not declaring full war on Thorne without hearing him out. The plan is to confront him. If he’s guilty, we settle it by force. If he convinces us he’s innocent, we look for the bastard who framed him. Simple.”

Dmitri folds his arms. “Thorne said he’d show up tonight, right?”

Sergei, a wiry captain, taps the table with his fingertips. “He’s late.”

My jaw ticks. “I noticed.”

Hushed comments circle the table. Thorne’s tardiness feels like a direct insult. He knows how serious this is. Maksim fiddles with the corner of a file, Dmitri stares at the clock on the wall, and Leonid glances repeatedly at the spot where Fyodor fell.

I clench my teeth. He’d better show soon, or this might get ugly fast.

Right on cue, footsteps sound in the hallway. Then the door opens, revealing Evan Thorne flanked by two of his own guards. He saunters in, scanning the room like he’s making a grand entrance at a party. My soldiers stationed near the walls grip their weapons, prepared to draw if he tries anything.

He lifts his hands to shoulder level, palms out in a mock gesture of peace. “Gentlemen, apologies for the delay. Urgent matters demanded my attention.”

That smug voice grates on my nerves. He’s wearing a tailored suit in dark gray, unbuttoned at the front, exuding a confidence that’s almost insulting. I rest one hand on my pistol, which is still set on the table. “You’re late.”

A faint shrug. “Sometimes unavoidable. But I’m here now, ready to talk.”

Maksim looks ready to snap. I send him a warning glance. Let me handle this .

Thorne steps forward, not bothering to hide the slight curl of his lips as he addresses the others at my table. “I heard about Pavel. A tragedy, truly.”

I slam my fist on the table. “Cut the act. You’re either guilty or being set up.”

He stops just short of the table, eyeing the empty chair across from me. “Mind if I sit?”

I motion toward it. “Make it quick. We’re not in a forgiving mood.”

He settles, crossing one leg over the other. His men remain by the door. He arches a brow at the darkened patch on the floor where Fyodor’s blood is still smeared. “Busy night?”

“You have no idea. Tell us how you plan to explain your name being tied to Pavel’s murder.”

Thorne exhales like he’s indulging a group of small children. “I can’t fathom why I’d kill him. It gains me nothing but the risk of angering the Barkovs. You’re not exactly a bunch I want as enemies.”

“Then how do you explain your crest at the scene?” Dmitri demands.

Thorne spreads his hands. “I can’t. Perhaps I was framed. Perhaps one of my men went rogue. You know how big organizations are—someone might want to set me up for reasons unknown.”

Maksim grimaces. “We’re not fools. If you’re lying, we’ll find out.”

Thorne’s gaze sweeps across the table. “I’d expect nothing less.” Then his eyes land on me. “But I didn’t come here just to offer half-baked denials. I’m fully aware your trust is broken. So, I’ve brought you an option. One that might mend the rift.”

My teeth grind. “Speak.”

He gives a small nod, as though we’re in a friendly negotiation. “Since we parted ways, I’ve always thought that we should solidify our alliance again—under the right circumstances, of course. But recent events have made that more pressing. I want to assure the Barkovs that I’m not the threat you think.”

Leonid snorts. “You think we’d welcome you with open arms just because you say so?”

Thorne smirks. “Hardly. That’s why I’m offering something substantial.”

“Get to the point,” I snap.

He sits up straighter, spreading his coat so we can see he’s not reaching for a weapon. “A marriage alliance.”

A sudden silence grips the room, as if everyone stopped breathing at once. Across the table, Leonid’s lips part, but no sound comes out. Sergei’s jaw drops. Even Dmitri’s expression betrays his shock.

I blink, making sure I heard correctly. “A marriage alliance? Are you out of your mind?”

He lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Sometimes the old ways hold power. If I bind my family to yours through marriage, you’ll have a reason to trust my intentions. I’ll be placing one of my own blood under your care, effectively ensuring I can’t afford to cross you.”

This is beyond anything I expected him to say. Arranged marriages in our world aren’t unheard of, but they’re usually between families that already trust each other or want to merge resources. With Thorne, we barely have a civil relationship.

Maksim recovers first. “Why would we agree to that? You show up late running your smart mouth, and then drop this nonsense?”

“Because it’s the best way to quell the suspicion that I orchestrated Pavel’s murder. If I intended to spark a war, I wouldn’t sacrifice one of my daughters to the Barkov Bratva. No father would risk that. This offer is proof of my sincerity.”

A stunned wave ripples through the men. His daughter ? The man is offering his offspring like she’s a bargaining chip. I knew Thorne was heartless, but this takes it to a new level.

I stand, pushing my chair back as I do. “You think a marriage is going to erase the fact Pavel was killed? You’re out of line.”

“I lost contact with the Barkovs once. I’d rather not see that fracture grow. The city’s got bigger problems, which demand that we move as one if we’re to remain strong. Let’s be honest: I might be your prime suspect, but what if I’m telling the truth? This could be an opportunity to reunite our families. To stand against whoever really wants to see us destroy each other.”

Leonid rumbles under his breath, “We don’t make alliances lightly.”

Thorne nods. “Nor do I. And I don’t expect a decision this minute. But if you’re serious about finding the truth, you’ll consider my proposal.”

Maksim looks at me, tension evident in his posture. Dmitri’s stare flicks between Thorne and me, waiting to see how I’ll respond. Marriage alliances in the underworld are potent. They tie families together in a binding way that’s difficult to sever.

I grit my teeth and lean forward, pointing at Thorne. “You come in here, late, with Pavel’s blood on your reputation, and your best solution is to offer a daughter to the Bratva? Seems to me you’re either desperate or you’re scheming.”

His calm smirk remains. “Call it what you like. Desperate times, desperate measures. If it wins me the chance to prove I’m not your enemy, then I’ll do it.”

I want to hurl the table aside. This is madness. But if he’s innocent, the alliance might be beneficial—wealth, connections, a show of unity. If he’s guilty, this might be a twisted way to get inside our circle. My blood boils at how cunning he is, and how he wields that cunning as if we’re all pawns on his chessboard.

Leonid cuts in, “Which daughter? Everybody knows you have one with a… reputation for being difficult.”

Thorne sniffs. “The details can be arranged later. Let’s keep it simple for now: an engagement. If you accept, I’ll prove my loyalty. If you discover I’m truly behind Pavel’s murder, you can tear me apart before the wedding day. That’s fair, no?”

Sergei mutters a curse. My guess is everyone in this room is torn between wanting to shoot Thorne on the spot or at least giving him a chance to explain further. I sense the roiling discontent in the men around the table but also the spark of intrigue.

I meet Thorne’s gaze, aware that every second drags us deeper into this conversation. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

He arches a brow. “I wouldn’t come here with an offer like this if I didn’t believe it could work. I have too much pride for empty theatrics.”

Silence falls again. Blood pounds in my temples, fueled by thoughts of Pavel’s final moments. I hate the thought of forging a bond with Thorne of all people, yet I also know the men want a solution—some path forward that doesn’t plunge us into an immediate war we might regret.

Thorne stands and adjusts his jacket. “I’ve made my offer. I’ll leave it at that.”

A few of my men look toward me, waiting for my response, as though I might push back or throw him out. I can’t bring myself to utter a word. My mind is a storm of conflicting impulses: fury over Pavel’s murder, suspicion of Thorne’s role, and curiosity about why he’d propose something so drastic.

Thorne skims the room, lingering on the stain of Fyodor’s blood for a moment before lifting his eyes. “I trust you’ll make the right decision. Perhaps we can move forward without more losses.”

He slides his hands into his pockets, and my men tense, but he doesn’t reach for a weapon. He gives a final glance my way, and his expression stays maddeningly calm.

“Marriage,” he repeats, voice echoing in the meeting space. “Consider it a token of my willingness to stand by your side against whoever truly killed Pavel.”

There, he’s laid it out. A bizarre, old-world solution that might chain our families together or drag us all into deeper conflict. My pulse still races with the gun resting by my side as I weigh whether to shoot him and end this conversation forever.

No matter what we decide, I have a feeling his offer will leave a scar.