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OLEG

I’m stuck waist-deep in a quagmire of shit and it’s not even nine in the fucking morning.

The headlines have been coming in hot ever since Sydney decided to go all kill-bill on Drew’s ass. Each is worse than the last.

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“Fuck all you media vultures,” I snarl to no one, slamming the papers shut and hurling them away from me, just as my phone beeps with a reminder from Sutton’s pregnancy app.

We have another ultrasound coming up in a few days. It’s the one bright spot in my shit storm of a life and I can’t even enjoy it properly.

The cops are circling like sharks.

The entire fucking Bratva is breathing dragon fire down my neck.

And on top of it all, my fiancée refuses to engage with me, apart from a sour look here or an angry grunt there.

I’m still fuming when Oksana walks in, her heels striking the floor like ice cracking right before I fall in the frozen lake beneath. She’s wearing a blindingly white suit and a nude scarf tied delicately around her neck.

“Son,” she greets, stopping in front of my desk, her eyes combing over the headlines splayed across the floor.

“Remind me to fire the person who put these gossip rags on my desk.”

She doesn’t smile. The crow’s feet stamped in the corners of her eyes look carved deeper than ever. Like she’s aged several years all of a sudden.

I tense, rising to my feet slowly. “What’s happened?”

“It’s Boris.” She sighs. “He passed away early this morning.”

I gawk. Boris is… dead? It feels strange to even contemplate the reality of what that would mean.

I try to shape the words in my head, in my mouth, but they fail to compute.

Boris is dead.

Boris… is dead.

He’s gone. He isn’t coming back.

“Fuck me,” I breathe, falling into my chair and leaning back. “Leave it to Boris to kick the bucket and leave another mess for me to sort out. His timing couldn’t be better.”

Oksana seems to appreciate exactly what I mean. She walks to the bar and pours out two glasses of the strongest vodka I have on offer. Then she hands me one of them.

“We will have to make a show of it,” she says, caustic yet detached. “We’ll have to give him a large funeral, a proper sendoff.”

“Excellent. One more circus to plan on top of all the rest. Not to mention every vodka-soaked relative will be descending on us from the motherland.”

“It isn’t great,” Oksana agrees. “But you will need to consolidate your power, Oleg. You’ll need the support of those vodka-soaked relatives in order to achieve it. You are the pakhan now.”

Fuck me.

I am the pakhan now.

I’ve waited half a lifetime for this moment.

And yet, now that it’s here, it feels so meek and hollow.

“Just so you know,” she adds, “there were reporters sniffing around at the hospital this morning when I left. The news of Boris’s death is probably circulating as we speak.”

“Beautiful. More gasoline for the dumpster fire.”

Literal fucking seconds later, my phone starts lighting up like a damn Christmas tree. I pick it up and stare at the first couple of messages on my screen.

Some are from declared allies.

Some are from cloaked enemies.

Others are straddling the line between the two.

“The news has broken,” I tell Oksana, reaching for my vodka glass and downing it in one shot. “The world has learned that Boris is dead.”

“What do they want to know?” Oksana asks, one eyebrow arching with disgust.

“What you would want to know in their place,” I answer grimly. “What happens next?”

“Jesus,” she mutters, refilling my glass. “His body isn’t even cold yet. Can’t the hyenas wait one damn day before they start circling? Everyone deserves a mourning period.”

Unlike her to be so sentimental. Perhaps she’s softening in her old age.

Although I value my life too much to say it out loud.

“This is the Bratva, Maman,” I remind her. “There is no mourning period. Just moves and countermoves.”

“I can handle his funeral,” Oksana says smoothly. “I’ve been working on arrangements for the last few days anyway.”

“Before he died? Scandalous.”

“I’m a realist. And I don’t believe in wasting time.” To illustrate that point, she pulls out her phone and starts typing fast. “Speaking of not wasting any time, your fiancée should be present.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

Oksana’s eyes narrow as she glances at me over the top of her phone. “She is going to be your wife, son. She is the mother of your child. Having her there is important. It will show strength and unity.”

“Sutton stays at home,” I growl. “Safe and out of sight.”

Her lips purse, but she says nothing. She doesn’t have to—she clearly thinks that’s a mistake and, fuck, I’m inclined to agree.

But the thought of exposing Sutton in such a big way, so soon after Sydney’s little gun show, feels too uncomfortable to bear.

Before she can launch into an offensive, my mother’s phone vibrates, drawing her attention to the screen. She stares for a long while, her eyes scanning back and forth, back and forth.

As the seconds tick by, her mouth tightens until it’s the thinnest slash imaginable.

“Fucking assholes,” she spits fiercely, sliding down to the chair at her side.

“What is it now?”

Her gold-brown eyes rise to mine. “The Martineks are going for your jugular. Their hands are behind the op-ed I just read.”

I round the table and pluck the cell phone out of Oksana’s hand.

It takes me two readthroughs to fully process what I’m seeing.

Because what I’m seeing is ugly fucking bullshit.

The “anonymous sources” quoted in the article make several damning accusations.

One—that I murdered my uncle in cold blood in a bid for power.

Two—that I’m a failed businessman with a crumbling empire that doesn’t stand a chance now that my uncle is dead.

Three—that I am controlled and manipulated by the women in my life. Sutton is named. Sydney is named. Oksana is named, too.

I’m on the verge of flinging the phone clean across the room. Oksana probably senses the same thing, because she grabs it back before I can make good on the urge.

“Their intent is simple. The subtext of that article is painfully obvious,” she declares. “Anyone loyal to us is an enemy of the Martineks.”

I nod. “I got the subtext. Loud and clear.”

“This is your empire now, son,” she reminds me, tapping her fingers against the desk. “What do you intend to do?”

Fists clenched, I don’t hesitate before I answer. “I’m going to destroy them all.”

Oksana’s red lips curve into a predator’s smile. “War it is then.”